That's my jam!

I have been known to listen to my music loudly. Much louder than one should listen to Celine Dion...a more acceptable level for some heavy metal or non-understandable rap groove (of which I cannot list specific artists, I apologize).

In fact, I have convinced Jon that there is a volume fairy that gets into my car (ahem, minivan) after I get home and turns up the volume so that when he gets in it is really loud. This has worked in making him realize it is not my fault. Sort of.

Today, on our way to a church even, KLove was playing an extremely great set of music. No calming church tunes here, they were ROCKIN' church tunes (haha). Last, but certainly not least for reasons that will soon be clear, was a classic by Toby Mac.

Now, those who know me well, know that I love all things Toby Mac. Odd, given my typical preference in music, but true nonetheless.

This caused even more volume, definite head bobbing, arm waving, Jair wiggling in his car seat and JD clapping (a little off beat).

We sang our hearts out. Yes, my children know Toby Mac.

We pulled into the church parking lot, listened to the rest of the song (still jammin' by the way) and enjoyed ourselves. When done I turned to JD and said, "That's my JAM!"

I know. That is an odd thing for me to say. I don't typically speak in such language with my children. But in interest of exposing them to multiple dialects I feel it is my responsibility to already give them reasons to roll their eyes at me.

I thought it was only fair to share the moment further by asking my almost-three-year-old if it was, in fact, his jam.

He thoughtfully looked at me and replied, "No."

"Oh?" I questioned. "What is your jam?"

"Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

You can't make this stuff up.