Motherhood Uncensored

What's your life playlist?

Last night I spent way too long trying to make a playlist on Spotify, which is sort of like the 2011 version of a mixtape.

After an hour, I only had about five songs, four of which I had to Google because the only songs I could actually remember were cheesy dance songs and kids music.

May I never be judged soley on my music taste because even I admit that it's embarrassing.

Perhaps it's because I spent the better part of my life knee deep in music - playing it, analyzing it, even writing it.

In fact, as a music therapist, I often asked my patients to create their life playlist.

[Think about that one for a minute. Heavy shit].

You can tell a lot about someone by their music.

And so, after I had kids and found myself shedding that skin for a new one, I needed a break from all that. And so I chose what I liked based on whether I could dance to it. Or if it would shut my kids up.

Both of which are not the greatest indicators of "quality" music.

But the wonderful thing about music is that "quality" is indeed relative. Even if some fancypants music critic says something is crap, if it speaks to you - makes you laugh, cry, or shake your ass like there's no tomorrow - then it's worthwhile.

Yes, even Britney Spears. (My go-to Karaoke Artist, by the way).

I try to tell myself the same thing about my television choices. I'm not quite sure where Real Housewives would fall on the music scale.

Oh right. Milli Vanilli.

As I painfully tried to construct this playlist without putting one bad 90's dance song on it, I realized that I also left my music behind because of its deep emotional connection to my life. 

The pounding house beats and silly kids songs are light and easy. On my head. And on my heart. As good as gifts when you're dealing with the heavy challenges of 24-hour caregiving.

We all have our bastard iPod song. The one that we blast in our car when no one's in it.

But then there are the songs. Those songs. They speak volumes, the memories made with them still vivid in your mind.

Like a treasure box kept under a floor board.

Open at your own risk.

Just don't ask me about the weather

Last month, our babysitter offered to take the kids to her church's Vacation Bible School. And since I wasn't about to turn down three hours of free daycare provided by the Lord himself, I agreed.

On the second night, there was a huge thunderstorm, which knocked the power out and apparently sent my son into an anxiety-fueled tizzy that we've been paying the price for ever since. 

Nothing is ever free. Ever.

My middle two kids have always been a little nervous with thunder and lightning, but the combination of him being without us, the loud boom of the power box popping, and the teachers insisting on singing a loud praise song through the outage did him in.

So he came home fairly traumatized, telling us "the angels are bowling" nonsense and reciting ritualistic prayers begging God to make the rain stop, even after the babysitter attempted to medicate him with Chick-Fil-A ice cream.

He now jumps at any and all loud noises, which wouldn't be such a big deal if we weren't directly under the take-off route of the extremely busy Atlanta Airport.

I'll take "Is that Thunder or a Jet? for $200, Alex!"

But worse is that someone must have mentioned the word "tornado" to him, which has spiraled (heh) into an obsession with rain clouds, tornado sirens, and shelters ("Dear Jesus, Thank you for our basement, Amen!), not to mention earthquakes and tsunamis, and yes, even hurricanes, to which I (and my husband, the pilot and weather expert) spend a large portion of my day reassuring him of the rarity of those occurrences in our world, but especially in Atlanta, Georgia.

Just don't tell him about the earthquake that hit here in 2003. Damn Internet.

I'm just waiting for him to discover floods so he can start constructing an ark out of legoes in our basement. On second thought, that might keep him busy for a couple of years.

Just the other day, we were having our daily "What are you thankful for?" discussion at dinner, which he generally turns into some massively heavy conversation about cumulo-nimbus clouds, but had astonishingly been devoid of all things atmospheric when we got to Margot, who said, without even batting an eyelash:

"I'm fankful we're not talking about the weather!"

We all tried hard not to laugh, but we couldn't help ourselves. I think even Drew cracked a smile.

Amen to that, kid. A-freaking-men.