Let me set the record straight right here at the outset, I am not a goodie-two-shoes. I like loud music, I like beer. And when it comes to addiction, I have a long and sordid history with chocolate.

But I am not a national champion. I am not a role model to millions of children, and even if I were, I doubt my indulgence in Corona and Dove Bars would bring my image crashing down. Though, I would probably get some flack for Cadbury Creme Eggs and the occasional Schlitz.

When is it going to be okay for me to tell my children they can look up to an athlete? Ever? Performance enhancing drugs (also widely known as cheating), recreational drugs, infidelity, outlandish salaries and yet always asking for more money…the greed, corruption and excess is not okay.

It is not okay, because Billy down at swim club is watching you, Michael Phelps. And, now? Billy’s mom is not real pleased. “What, Billy? Oh, him? That’s your idol, and that there is his bong.”

I can keep my kids from watching trash television, I can keep my daughter from listening to Britney Spears, but now am I supposed to ban them from the Olympics too? For those of you who say Michael Phelps is just a regular guy having fun, that’s bunk. He is not a pop-star, he’s an athlete. He’s an American superstar. If he didn’t want kids to look up to him, he shouldn’t have gone and won eight gold medals.

Which is why this guy has been, and will always be, my hero. This guy, all his teammates, and especially his coach. This is the person I will tell my children to look up to. Someone who never complains, someone who gives it his all, and someone who probably won’t be passing a peace pipe anytime soon.

Watch the whole thing. It will make your day. Warning: Tissues required.

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I get the impression that my daughter has developed an aversion to closing her dresser drawers. Don’t ask me how I know this. I just do.

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I work at my children’s school as a second grade teacher’s aide. I took the job to earn a little money, but another benefit is being near my six year old son. He is in kindergarten and could function without me there, but there are still things I help him with because the school allows it.

My son gets sick a lot, sometimes with weird bacterial infections and one of those was antibiotic resistant. It seems it takes longer courses of more potent drugs to make his illnesses go away, so in order to keep him as healthy as possible we take some precautions.

He is the only one in his class who keeps hand sanitizer in his cubby, he takes a bottle of water to school instead of using the drinking fountain, and I help him when he has to go to the bathroom.

My son is the size of a three year old, which means that when he has to use the facilities it entails climbing and clambering all over said facilities. Being that elementary school children aren’t the most hygienic, it’s much better for me to hoist him on the toilet in the nurse’s office and make sure he gets a proper hand washing because he can barely reach the sink.

Yesterday, I was leading a group of students downstairs when we ran into my boy in the hallway where he announced to the whole lot of us, “I need to go poop!”

I said, “Well I can’t take you right now, because I can’t leave these students. You’ll have to go by yourself.”

Just then, I looked up and saw the school nurse and asked her if she would help him, which she was happy to do.

After school, we were driving home and I asked him, “Hey, did Mrs. C help you in the bathroom?”

He said, “Yes.”

Knowing he had pooped, I wondered if he had been bold enough to ask her to wipe him, so I further questioned, “Did she just help you wash your hands? What did you ask her to do?”

But instead I found he was bold in a totally guy kind of way when he replied, “I asked her to get me a book.”

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I normally don’t touch on anything too deep around here, but I am about to reveal some very troubling information from my past. Really, really bad music choices.

It all started when I was five years old and would lock myself in our bathroom where the acoustics were best. I would take my handy-dandy tape recorder and belt out “The Way We Were”, and my childhood theme song, “Rhinestone Cowboy”. Also, whenever Donny and Marie were on you couldn’t peel me away from the television.

When I was seven, I got an 8-track player. One with a shoulder strap so I could walk down the street, looking cool, while The Village People, Olivia Newton-John, and The Bee Gees blasted from the speaker.

After that, I moved on to Journey, Loverboy, Prince, and Pat Benatar. Wait. I was Pat Benatar. Then Night Ranger, Van Halen, and Bon Jovi.

In high school, I was all over the place. I listened to pop music, like U2, but obscure bands played on the sound-system at my very contemporary, retail sales job and I liked that music too.

This is also when I developed my love for Led Zeppelin, Joni Mitchell, and what my best friend refers to as “hippie music”. My husband calls this my tree-hugger period. Whatever, dude. If that’s the case, I will forever be hugging trees. Trees are groovy and Stephen Stills rules.

My husband is also a Zeppelin fan and he’s more than fond of Metallica, my son likes classical music, and my daughter gets her kicks from country. We have learned to get along. We have learned to appreciate each other’s music. Well, except for my daughter’s taste in country tunes. Unless, of course, it’s “Rhinestone Cowboy.”

Tell me, boys and girls, what do you listen to?

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