“Where’s my iPod?” Pillows are flying, cushions are being tossed, and I’m growing increasingly annoyed.

“Frac!! Fric!! Where the hell is my iPod?”

The silence was ringing in my ears. I was expecting a chorus of “Not me’s and I Don’t Know’s.” Hmmm. Could it be? Could my children be ignoring me?

I stopped ransacking my house for a moment and walked into the kitchen where they were both sitting looking remarkably angelic. (They sure didn’t get that trait from me…)

“Hey! TweedleDee and TweedleDum! What did you do with my iPod?”

I find it’s not so easy for my darling children to avoid you if you stick your sharp, pointy nose in their faces.

There were definite signs of squirming. I knew it. They knew where my music machine was.

“Fess up and I promise not to hang you by your toes from the ceiling fan. But the offer of clemency only lasts for thirty seconds. The first one who rolls on the other wins. I shall not be so merciless to the other…” I warned, using my scary policewoman voice.

Fric and Frac eyeballed each other, their solidarity wavering as the ceiling fan silently swooshes up above them.

“Dad told us to hide it!” They both cried in unison. (It was impressive, really. They should become sychronized swimmers. I’d make a fortune. Bwhaahahahah!)

“What do you mean ‘Dad told you to hide it?’ I don’t think so. He loves you. He wouldn’t knowingly put you in harm’s way.” And anyone who stands between me and my fix of B.B. King deserves harm.

“He told us to put it away until he came home. He said that it wouldn’t hurt you to listen to the radio like he has to every day.” My poor kids. They looked miserable. But who’s scarier? A dad who is out of town or a momma who’s eyes are starting to bug out of her head while her skin goes a scary red shade?

“He’s just jealous that he doesn’t have a cool toy like I do.” I say, in a sing song voice.

Very mature. Both of us.

“Um, Mom,” Fric reluctantly starts, while trying to avoid eye contact with the foaming beast of a mother standing in front of her, “I don’t think it’s that. He says he’s trying to protect us.”

“PROTECT YOU? FROM MY IPOD?” I screech. “What in blue blazes for?” That’s it. I don’t care if he’s some fancy bigwig on the site up there. Screw professionalism. I’m gonna call him and give him a piece of my mind….

“Not from your iPod, silly,” she continues, “from YOU.”

“Me?” Now I’m totally mystified. After all, I am the parent model of decorum, grace and dignity. Why would my children need protection from me? I make sure to place pillows beneath them every time I have to string them by their toes to the fan. Just in case the duct tape slips. I am thoughtful like that.

“He says you have inappropriate music taste and-”

“If he thinks I’m going to listen to an hour worth of radio commercials every time I have to travel to the city, he is out of is ever-loving mind,” I mutter as I’m hunting for the phone.

Suddenly, it hits me. “Innappropriate musical taste? What is he talking about? What is he, my mother?”

Frac had scampered to his room by this time, happy that Fric was taking the heat. He’s a pansy like his daddy. Fric rolled her eyes and starts explaining to me like I am like her mentally challenged sibling. “He thinks some of the music we listen to in your car is not for kid’s ears and he told me to hide your iPod and tell you that.”

“How would your father know what we listen to in my car when he’s out of town? Hmmm?” Who’s ratting on who here?

Suddenly, Fric looked guilty as hell.

“He overheard me singing Crazy Bitch the other day while I was in the pool, playing with Frac.” Her angelic look was starting to be shadowed by the horns she started growing out of her head.

“Oh.” Shit. Bad mommy, bad.

“Well one song isn’t the end of the world. Right?” I can see the silver lining in every cloud. It’s a gift.

“Um, it wasn’t just one song. When he heard me singing that song he asked about all the other music I have heard. I couldn’t remember all the names but I did remember Nickelback, Bif Naked and uncle’s band…Spawned Something.”

The colour drained out of my face. My daughter just told my husband that not only do I allow her to listen to sexually inappropriate songs and music by angry, sexually frustrated lesbians, but that I on RARE occasion play my brother’s death metal rantings while my virgin-earred children are trapped in a vehicle with me.

Fuck me.

“Well, next time remind him that I also shove B.B and Aretha down your throats, will ya kid?”

Later that day, while in my car to drive to the city, I looked in the rear view mirror and asked Fric and Frac if there are any requests. I am D.J. Mom after all.

In unison, while their devil horns grew proportionately, they both yelled “CRAZY BITCH!!”

Ya, that’s what their dad thinks too.

—– —– —– —– —– —- —–

I’m off to my first trip to the U.S, and leaving the kids in their Christian-music-loving grandparent’s capable hands to reverse all the musical damage I have subjected my children to. I will see you all Monday.

Until then, be good. Or be naughty. Just make sure to tell me about it.