I recently had a significant mom moment. If you aren't familiar with a mom moment, it is an instance in which the words that flow out of a mother's mouth not only sound especially mom-ish, but the words clearly draw the line that separates the generation gap between a mother and a child.
Joe has taken a sudden interest in a style of music called dubstep. I have googled "dubstep" several times, and I am still a bit uncertain of what it means exactly. All I know is that 1) it is European, and 2) it sounds like music that has been put into a blender, perhaps on the "ice crush" setting, and 3) Joe doesn't like it when "dubstep" is called "techno".
Well, one morning last week, while still in California, Joe took his iPod downstairs to eat breakfast and thought it was a good idea to play some *cough cough* music without headphones while he crunched his cereal.
From upstairs I yelled down, "JOE! JOE! What is THAT NOISE?" See, super mom-ish, right?
His response? "What? My music?" See? A generation divided. I hear noise, he hears music. I am old, he is young.
Skip to this morning...
I was sitting on our sofa, and Max was playing quietly at my feet, and Lucy was playing quietly in the other room, and Joe was in his room directly above where I sat. Sometimes, when Max and Lucy are content as they were in this moment, I don't dare move a muscle as I relish in the peace. I let them entertain themselves without fighting with each other or needing me to fetch a toy or make a snack or escort one of them upstairs because God forbid that they travel upstairs alone! I just know that as soon as I get up to go to the bathroom or even speak to one of them, the moment will pass and the regular chaos will continue. The problem was that Joe was listening to
his music and his window was open. I could hear every ice-crushing-beat and I wanted to take an ice pick to my eardrums. Not to mention, we have neighbors who could also hear the noise. Our innocent neighbors were being subjected to the torture!
I weighed my options, and I tip-toed out of the room, past Max, and up the stairs to kindly ask Joe to use headphones, turn down his music, or close the window. Please.
I returned downstairs to find that Max had gone into the other room where Lucy was playing, picked a fight, and punched her "3- no- 55 times!". Let's assume that it was a number somewhere between 3 and 55. Several mom-ish phrases and actions ensued. That darn dubstep.
