Where the hell is my mom manual?
So I’m walking down the upstairs hallway with the intent of heading to my computer to work some more on IO3. I hear my oldest son singing and stop dead in my tracks. It was one of those moments that you think about how old you are now, how old your children are and you wonder where the years went. You then realize your child is singing lyrics to a Green Day song that would make even you blush (even though you adore Green Day). It’s then you rush in, grab the Ipod shuffle from its speaker base and run like hell for the nearest computer to delete it. You stop in mid-motion and realize that he already knows all the words and while they’re not exactly what you’d want him to be listening to, he’s at least home, safe in his room, drawing comics and laughing. He’s not out getting into trouble or doing drugs. Ah, yes, the concessions you make when it’s your turn to be mom.
I’ll be checking for gray hairs later.
