It must have been temporary insanity.  The scene:  Logan's room.  Logan, 15, and his buddy, 14, playing Rock Band (ask a teenager); the friend is on drums and Logan is the vocalist.

The incident was so unnerving that I forgot which song they were jamming to -- I think it was the Stones -- and I don't know what came over me, but I ran into the room, plopped onto the bed next to my youngest son and joined him on the chorus of the forgotten classic rock tune.  My head next to his, belting out the words...until I noticed I was singing solo.

If looks could kill, I'd have been splattered all over that room.  Logan muttered under his breath in a scary gutteral-like tone something I didn't quite get; the spooky sounds weren't meant for Ringo's ears, only mine.  I did pick up on the word "go," however, and slinked out of there.

Apparently, the Stones song isn't the only thing I've forgotten.  After surviving my oldest children's adolescences without any obvious scars, I should know that it will be another couple of years before my every move stops mortifying my third child.  My bad.