Editor’s Note: Scroll down to enter our Mother’s Day giveaway today: a scrumptious Scentsy wickless candle and warmer!

My husband, son and I were just back from running errands the other day and as we pulled into the driveway, the song “Walk On The Wild Side” by Lou Reed came on. Whoof. I had not heard that song in *forever* and I commented on how much I liked it. Declan says “Let’s stay and listen to it, Mama!”

Without thinking, I cheerily said - “sure!” He crawled up into Bryan’s lap and we sat there listening to it and I was FRUH-EAKING OUT as Lou refreshed my memory to the lyrics. I’ll save you some of the rougher parts, but just to refresh your memory:

Little Joe never once gave it away
Everybody had to pay and pay

Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side
I said, hey Joe, take a walk on the wild side

Now I know why Bryan looked at me like I had three heads as I said “sure!” in such a chipper voice.

And when Declan starts making dirty little deals on the bad side of town, you can totally blame me.

What accidental faux pas have you made as a parent?

Declan: “Daddy! Mama and I just made smoothies!”

Bryan: “Really?! What is in ‘em?”

Declan: “Oranges, Grape, Strawberries, Yogurt, Ice and Milk.”

Bryan: “Cool! What do you call it? You should come up with some fun, funky name.”

Declan: “Orange Grape Strawberry Yogurt Milk Ice Smoothie”

Bryan: {Pause} “Well. That is descriptive. And looong.”

Rejection always has been a hot button issue for me. It wounds more than anything could, twisting my heart like a dishrag and dripping all the dirty sudsy water right into my stomach, giving me a very queasy feeling. Oddly enough, I actually think rejection is one of the things that led me to having this blog, because I’ve trained myself to tell people all sorts of things about myself quickly in our relationship. I’d much rather them leave me early, rather than later, when it will hurt so much more.

What’s unfortunate is I have so many examples in my life of why I feel rejection so deeply. Here’s just a few.

====================

Exhibit A:
When I was around 8 years old, I was invited over to a friend’s house to play. Frankly I don’t even remember the girl’s name. But I do remember how thrilled I was because I had been wanting to become better friends with this girl for ages. When I got there, she informed me in no uncertain terms that I had been the 6th choice for the playdate, but no one else had been available.

====================

Exhibit B:
When I was in high school, I had been very close with two girlfriends. You know where this is going, Read on …

No disrespect to my mother, but growing up, we didn’t have much music in the house. Unless you count German oom-pah music, of course. It just was never something that was all that important to her. Still isn’t.

For whatever reason, it was important to me. My first job was working in a record store (granted, a record store in the mall not the cool indie shop like where my husband worked) and I quickly learned to appreciate all kinds of music styles (well, except maybe old school country). I saw my first concert at 15 and steadily pumped all my hard-earned record store earnings into live shows all around Maryland and that love (and expense) continued through my college years in Florida.

When we moved to Colorado, we discovered the granddaddy of all places to see a show (insert angelic choir sounds): R-E-D R-O-C-K-S. This is what U2 what talking about, baby. We have seen so many shows at Red Rocks, and other venues around the state, that when people ask for a concert count, I don’t have near enough body parts to count them on anymore.

When my son Declan came along, we decided a few things early. First, NO KIDDIE MUSIC IN THE CAR. Yes, I appreciate the music and grammar basics these songs will teach him, but my car is my sanctuary, OK? A girl needs her sanctuary. The last thing I want is to be stuck driving around in July with some Kiddie Winter Wonderland CD stuck in the radio because Declan insists on hearing Jingle Bells over and over. I’m sorry, kid. I love you but not that much. Read on …

Hubby and I had lunch at The Yard House recently. (OK, more like *every* day, but who’s counting?) The Yard House, with 50 zillion beers on tap, none of which we can have over lunch, also blasts classic rock incessantly over their loud speakers. And while I have nothing intrinsically against classic rock, and there certainly are many AWESOME classic rock songs out there - let’s face it… there are also some REALLY cruddy classic rock songs that somehow co-exist in the same universe with Led Zeppelin and The Who.

That day was no exception. One crappy song after the other played throughout our burger-and-salad meal, till finally we hit the motherload.

Amie by Pure Prairie League.

I nearly fainted. “Argh! I hate this song. The only ‘Amy’ song in the whole entire world and I am forced to listen to THIS garbage over and over my whole entire life.”

Bryan totally agreed. “This song belongs on The Soundtrack of My Own Personal Hell.” Read on …

Declan: Dada, my tummy hurt at school yesterday.

Bryan: It did?

Declan: Yes. A lot. Then I went to the bathroom and pooped.

Bryan: Well, that’s good.

Declan: But I pooped so much the toilet wouldn’t flush.

Bryan: {trying not to laugh} Oh really? Did you go get a teacher?

Declan: Yes.

Bryan: And what did he do?

Declan: He went and got the cus.. cus..

Bryan: The custodian?

Declan: Yeah. And he fixed it. {pause} And my tummy felt a lot better.

Bryan: Well, that’s good. {pause} And I am highly impressed you managed to clog up an industrial strength sewer system.

Declan: *I* didn’t do it! My poop did!

Carrying on a tradition from Bryan’s grandmother, Declan’s Grandma has been sending him cards with bits of cash in them for the past year or so. Lately, it’s been 5 dollars since Declan is, well, 5 years old. The only problem with this is now every time Declan gets anything in the mail - he holds it up in the air and shakes it, expecting money to whimsically float past his eyes like a capitalist’s dream.

At first, I will admit we approached the problem the wrong way. We asked Grandma to slow down the money train. Not only did that hurt her feelings, but hello. It stopped the money train.

A few weeks ago, I noticed an article about teaching your child to be money-savvy. And since Bryan and are the furthest thing in the world from money-savvy, I figured we could teach Declan, and in turn he could teach us. Read on …