So there we were, finishing up Sunday dinner, when, as usual, LB finished long before anyone else and excused himself (ok, left the table saying “I’m done”, (I’m working on it)).  The rule in our house is that the boys can’t have dessert until mr. jolt and I have finished dinner.  This achieves two things: (1) sometimes they eat a little more healthy stuff while waiting for us; and (2) prevents us from jumping up and down several times more than we already do while trying to enjoy our meal while it’s still hot.

Anyway, LB decided to serenade us while we ate.  He grabbed the long-handled dustpan and began singing, in style and form similar to Dave Grohl,

I’m a Foo Fighter
I’m a Foo Fighter
Go Kim Possible
You have to love your heart
You have to love your heart. . . .

I’m telling you, the kid has a future in rock and roll. He had that deathgrip on the ‘mic’, the intensity of your baddest VH1 rockstar, the semi-dancing while rocking the mic one way and another. If I owned a lighter, I would’ve lit it.