Thursday, April 24, 2008

Ree-box With the Stress

Riding up the road the other day with the three older Shorties in the backseat of my car, I'm flipping through the radio dial channels (a habit that drives The Husband insane out of his mind, but I find rather relaxing), and I pass a song that is the kind of music that you usually hear via a beat from three cars over while parked in traffic.

I hit the seek button quickly again to move on, surely there's some Captain and Tennielle or Abba on this thing somewhere, and from the back seat I heard three little voices in unison yell out, "HEY, MOM!" meaning go-back-quickly-or-we-will-stage-a-riot-and-possible-hostile-takeover-from-the-backseat. (This sound is usually reserved to when I accidentally pass over a Miley Cyrus song.)

I hit the back button, and the car filled with the sounds of singing, um, rapping, or maybe sort of the yelling of a song (you can clearly see how cool I am). Then my kids start singing the song that's playing on the radio word for word. (Well, word for word according to what they think the words are. Thank you God they only knew the chorus and got most of that wrong.)

Because the LAST thing I want to hear my five-year-old fabulous son and seven-year-old precious angels singing along with is "Shortie got low, low, low, low, low" and something about some inappropriate club behavior and spankings and boots with fur on them. As my children were dancing and singing along in unison from the backseat, I let them finish (because what's the point of a freak out, they already know the song), then I set about the difficult task of discussing the song.

First, we discussed where they heard that song and where they heard that song enough times to know the words to the chorus by heart. (Hey thanks, all you helpful Cousins.)

I tried to explain that the song lyrics were inappropriate and that we probably shouldn't be listening to that or singing along with that. Everyone listened patiently while I explained that we have to honor God with our thoughts and our mouths. I felt pretty good about my parenting skills before the question and answer portion of the deal started.

Carter logically asked, "It's about shorties Mom, and that's what you call us. It's cool. It's like a song about us."

Me: "Um, okay, that's sort of true because I do call you 'Shorties', but I'm pretty sure it means something different in that song."

Carter: "Like what?"

Me: "I think it's slang for a good looking girl." (Not having been clubbing in oh, like 50 years, I'm not up on my hipster jive slang.)

Carter: "No, it says 'shorties'. I can hear that part clearly. And WE are the Shorties."

Elise: "But why was the good looking shortie girl in trouble?"

(Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask, just shut it down right now, but no, I can't help myself...)

Me: "I don't know what you mean. What kind of trouble?"

Elise: "Well he says that he smacked her bottom."

Elaina: "Yeah, but he didn't say 'bottom'."

(Lots of giggling.)

Carter: "And what are ree-box with the stress? How are they stressed?"

Elaina: "Can we sing it but leave out that bad sentence with the bad word? I think I'll sing this one at the next talent night at church."

Okay then. (Note to self: tell music minister to preview Elaina's songs for talent night.)

We get home, finish dinner, homework, and baths, and tune in as a family to one of our (my) favorite shows (which could be an entire discussion on its own about why we are watching people who are not married to each other sling around the dance floor half naked, but Dancing With the Stars is just fun), and what does the first chick dance to?

Ahem. You got it.

So you know my four Shorties jumped up laughing and dancing around wildly, arms in the air, heads slinging to and fro and got low, low, low, low, low...

(Note to self: Repent in altar Sunday for every bad CD I ever owned or currently own.)

This is all of that AC/DC and Whitesnake and all of those concerts I went to in the 80's coming back to bite me in the apple bottom jeans. I get the point, God. And all of you out there reading this in Parental Smugville can shut it. Half of you sang along to the tune, so there. :-)

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