It’s no secret that Hubs’ taste in music is very questionable, and that’s mainly because he has no appreciation for Rick Springfield’s and Richard Marx’s great ballads from the ’80s. What he blasts through the iPod is AC/DC, in all their screaming, nails-on-the-chalkboard, I’m-getting-a-migraine-now glory, until I feel like I’m going to keel over from a nervous tic.
And that, people, is when Hubs will switch from AC/DC to Waylon Jennings.
Apparently his tastes run from one side of the BAD MUSIC spectrum to the other.
One of Hubs’ favorite songs is Copperhead Road, by Steve Earle. It’s a little ditty about a fellow’s granddad, who dedicated his entire life to making his own whiskey in the woods, which he ran across the state line to sell in Tennessee, while the local sheriff was hot on his tail.
Naturally, this made Mama cry, because what’s a woman to do when her man may be shot at in his car, which only sports a coat of primer, right before The Law sets his entire cargo on fire?
Because we are fantastic parents, Thing 2 gets to enjoy this song in Hubs’ car all. of. the. time. Don’t judge us. We feed him a lot of fruit and make him take his vitamins, so we’re nailing the better part of this parenting gig. This morning, as our toddler was pushing one of his John Deere tractors around the living room, he looked up at me and — in direct reference to Steve Earle’s song — he said, “Hey, Mom. I’m heading down to Knoxville with the weekly load.”
It’s never too late to teach them how to run moonshine across a state line.
I have no doubt that we are THE FAMILY that is whispered about in the teachers’ lounge at the boys’ schools.
In other, non-moonshine-related topics… Hubs and I packed the boy up this morning and sent him to church camp on the mountain for an entire week. And, with applause aimed right at my helicopter parenting, I more than likely packed entirely too many T-shirts and too many pairs of socks for that teenager of mine, but I feel like it’s always best to have plenty of options for clean and dry clothes, over I JUST FELL INTO THE CREEK IN THIS OUTFIT, AND MY MOM DIDN’T PACK ANYTHING ELSE. The boy’s entire cabin of friends could fall into the creek, and the boy could loan them all something to wear.
He’s at camp this week with a few of his good buddies. We got them all settled into their cabin, with their bunks made up and their bags of extra-EXTRA clothes tucked away beneath the beds. We hugged them all goodbye, even though they’re teenagers and visibly rolled their eyes at the public displays of YOUR MAMAS LOVE YOU. We mothers know that SECRETLY they all WANTED hugs goodbye, but they had to put on shows for one another about how manly they were, and how they could survive a week without a kiss on the cheek from the women who pushed them out after hours of hard labor.
Don’t put your wet towel into your suitcase.
Brush your teeth every night.
Clean underwear all week, my friend!
Use your very best manners.
Don’t wear the orange gym shorts with the red T-shirt. (When I told the boy this, he sighed and said, “Oh, Mom. Ciara will set me straight, if I wear anything that doesn’t match. She’s dedicating her life to helping me not wear stripes and plaids together, or oranges and reds together.” And THAT, people, is why I love our fourteen-year-old friend, Ciara!)
I know they’re going to have a great week in the mountains together. They’re going to laugh like crazy and hardly sleep. They’re going to study their Bibles intently and play vicious games of dodgeball. They’re going to eat hearty dinners made from scratch and practice their archery and rock climbing skills. They’re going to strengthen their relationships with Jesus and fish the nearby lake. They’re going to get to know one another even better than they already do and spend all of their extra cash at the camp store on candy bars and Mountain Dews, which they know their mothers don’t approve of.
And I honestly miss that kid already. I can’t wait to collect him next weekend and hear all about his adventures.