the love song i won’t ever write

Sometimes I want to be a cool mom, so I listen to pop radio. Some of it’s not that bad and I kind of like it. Every once in a while I hear somebody I watched on American Idol, so that’s kind of fun when I actually know who’s singing the songs.
I’m not picking on these people, because I’m sure they all have very genuine, real romantic relationships. (?) But I do get the feeling listening to the “love songs” on these stations that they and I live in very different worlds. I mean, I guess it would be nice to be someone’s “soul sister,” to have someone watch my dance moves across a smoky club, and make someone so crazy in love they can’t breathe/sleep/be with their other woman (?!?!) without thinking of me, etc. etc.
But seriously people. seriously. Maybe it’s just me and my lame married love. Maybe we’re boring. But I don’t remember the last time I felt overwhelmed with millions of fireflies because of love, or drugged with love, or heart-broken when Todd leaves for work. Maybe it’s just me.
I guess that’s why I like country music. Say what you may about rednecks and lost dogs and trucks. At least in their world it’s okay to mention coffee and gas stations and laundry and – I don’t know – things I actually see in my day-to-day life.
That’s more along the lines with what I’d write if I wrote a song. Which I won’t because no one would ever buy it. And this is why. If I wrote a love song these would be some of the words:
~Thanks, baby. For not mentioning it when my eyebrows need plucked, my mascara is gloppy, and my hair is greasy. Thanks for always putting the toilet seat down. I didn’t even need to train you. Thanks for greeting me every morning with the same chipper kiss and “Good morning, baby,” no matter what bratty thing I’ve said to you the night before. Thanks for remembering birthdays and mother’s days and all the important days, and forgetting my PMS days, all the things I’ve said to you when you’re late, and how hard the first year of marriage was. Thanks for happily eating the same boring turkey cheese tomato sandwich 365 days a year without getting sick of it, and for gushing over store bought meatballs and canned tomato soup like they’re culinary art. Thanks that I’ve never had to switch a light bulb, read an instruction manual for anything, or replace an air filter. I think it’s so sexy when you dry dishes, sing in church, and put away the baby toys. I promise to love you forever even though you don’t always brush your teeth when you go to bed, even though fifteen minutes is thirty, and even though you’re lame on Friday nights, because we all know you put up with way worse. I look forward to more romantic moments in our future, like the three times we had dinner this month together after Sam was in bed, and when we fell asleep watching the NASCAR race. Yes, Todd, I love you, and our lame, boring, old people married life.
~So there’s my song. But that’s not very “hot” now, is it. Oh well… who needs smoky clubs and firefly feelings anyways..:)

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