Fruit Inspection

Last week I was making dinner and the kids were playing in my bedroom. I actually marveled at the length of time they were playing nicely together. And as any mom knows, that could only mean one of two things. Either one of them has tied the other one up in a chair with duct tape on their mouth, or they have joined together to do doing something they probably shouldn’t be!

After setting the table I went to tell them it was time to wash up. I walked into the room and Savannah is jumping up and down saying, “Mommy Mommy!!! We found the Cow Song. You HAVE TO hear the Cow Song!!!!!”

I’m thinking, “Cow Song? In my room? What Cow Song?”

She heads over to my iPod docking thingy that has speakers on it. Ya know, the thing that I’ve never actually shown them how to use. Because, ummmm…I don’t actually want them playing with my iPod.

I’m not trying to sound selfish, but that’s MY TOY dad-gummit! And not only that, but there are some choice songs on there that I don’t particularly want them to run across. I know, I know. Sounds hypocritical doesn’t it? It’s okay for me to listen but not them. Well, those…those are my treadmill songs. Those are the ones that push me past the 3 mile mark. Ever tried to walk to “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy”? Can’t be done. What about “Hollaback Girl”, or “Hit Me with Your Best Shot”? Those keep my legs pumping right along.

But back to my story…

Now Emery is jumping around too. “Dance wif me Mommy! Dance wif me!!!” I’d love to son but my back is still sore from the crackling sound that occured when I tried to show Savannah how Mommy used to be able to do a backbend like those tiny little Chinese girls in the Olympics. (What? I didn’t blog about that? Hmmm, not sure how that slipped my mind. Anyways….)

I am still wondering what the cow song is and as Savannah hits the “back” button on the iPod the screen lights up. I see a picture of this:

I start laughing. The Cow Song, huh? And the Cow Song they were listening to in particular was “Fever”. Luckily, Aerosmith lyrics are a little hard to decipher. Which was evident when Emery came to the table that night for dinner singing, “I got da beaver.”