Michael Jackson Sang Vocals, While Angus Played the Guitar

The boy has been on a Michael Jackson kick lately.

Or, as he likes to call him, “That guy who sings Thriller.”

The boy has also been on a kick lately in which he enjoys setting his alarm for unholy hours on school mornings, so that he has time to get ready for school AND play. It’s a sad fact that his idea of playing involves dumping his entire collection of seven billion Lego pieces onto the bedroom floor. Hearing the crash that this act creates is enough to make me grit my teeth in irritation, and chant one simple phrase over and over to myself.

“In ten years, he will be heading off to college at Harvard, and he will no longer be home to dump his seven billion Lego pieces onto his bedroom floor, so I must cherish this time. Cherish this time. Cherish this time.”

Honestly, I sound like a broken record.

You know, the big, black circles that we used to put on record players? And they made music? Back in the day?

Having the alarm clock go off at the unholy hour which it has been going off means one thing: The boy is totally on his own for a bit, because I can’t quite bring myself to crawl out of bed at that time of the day (night?!) and set a Pop Tart on the kitchen counter for him to eat.

I know! Pop Tarts! For breakfast! I probably need to be horsewhipped for not getting up and making the boy homemade French toast and sausage, but honestly, he loves the Pop Tarts. He begs for the Pop Tarts. He tells me that I’m the world’s best mother when I buy new boxes of Pop Tarts. Why would I mess this up by slopping slices of bread into an egg mixture, frying it up and browning sausage?

While the boy is scooting around the house in the pre-dawn hours, it has become his habit to turn his iPod on. Quietly.

Or not so quietly, as is really the case. The boy takes after my baby’s daddy, in the sense that they both are not content until they have blown the speakers completely out of their stereos. Only when there is smoke billowing out of the speakers do Hubs and the boy sigh in contentment and whisper, “It is finally loud enough.” Because of this, Hubs and I are now facing Michael Jackson in the middle of the night. Or the pre-dawn hours. Or whatever you’d like to call it.

And, rest assured, hearing “Bad” and “PYT” and “Beat It” that early is not my favorite thing. This morning, in fact, Hubs rolled over in bed, threw a pillow over his head and snarled out, “I never really liked Michael Jackson back in the ’80s, when these songs were on the charts, and I especially hate him now that he’s singing to me when I could still be sleeping! He is getting on my nerves.”

“That’s how I feel every single morning, while AC/DC is playing in the kitchen as you make your coffee.”

Do y’all know what a house sounds like with Angus Young wailing on the guitar at one end of the house, and Michael Jackson shouting out that Billie Jean is not his lover at the other end of the house?

And the kicker?

Yesterday morning, the boy asked, “Don’t you just love some of these really old songs that Michael Jackson sings?”

My, but aren’t they just really old, Son.

This afternoon, we ventured off to see Diary of a Wimpy Kid, and one of the previews before the movie started was for the new Karate Kid movie. At home tonight, while we were eating dinner, the boy commented that he can hardly wait for The Karate Kid to make it to the big screen. I told him, “Do you know, when Mom and Dad were in high school, that was a movie that was popular. It just had different actors in it.”

Ah. Ralph…

Hubs replied, “Can you believe that you’re old enough to have officially seen a movie of your childhood remade?” And then he laughed.

I have to remind myself — chant it over and over, actually — that in a few years, Hubs will be over at the nursing home, suffering from the hearing loss and the dementia. I tell myself, “Cherish this moment. Cherish this moment.”

But really? I’m sort of looking forward to the moment when Angus and Michael are done having band practice at my house.

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