The other night my husband came home from work singing/chanting “Oh my MOMMA, oh my HOOD, I look FLY, I look GOOD, I look FLY, I look GOOD….”

I stared at him for a minute while he continued his rap revelry and then I said, “Now … what was that?”

“That's my anthem, yo!” he declared tossing his hands into the air. And then he strutted off down the hall throwing imaginary gang signs and chanting under his breath, “Cuz I look FLY and I look GOOD….”

And I thought, if “I Look Good” is my husband's anthem, then what is mine?

The first songs that popped to mind were nursery rhymes, but even as a full-time mom, I can't have my anthem be “This Little Pigge” or “I'm a Little Teapot” even if I look a lot more like a little piggie or a teapot than I did a few years ago.

But amidst the haze of my sleep-deprived brain, I just couldn't focus. So maybe my anthem should be the song “Sleep Deprivation”? That seems appropriate and fitting. I sat down on the couch to let that one sink in, but as I did I caught a look at myself in the mirror and noticed I was still wearing my pajamas though it was almost dinnertime. Not exactly classy, but maybe my anthem should be “Pajama Time” by the Philadelphia Chickens since that's what I spend 90% of my life in these days.

Hmmmm … this was beginning to get tricky. I could also choose “I Feel Crazy So I Jump in the Soup,” by Laurie Berkner since living with young children tends to make me feel semi-psychotic at least some of the time. Or I could choose, “I'm Gonna Catch You,” since that's what I find myself chanting repeatedly as I race around after a naked Diego wielding a pair of pants in one hand and a crumpled diaper in the other.

“Nasty” by Janet Jackson might be another good option, since that would be the ideal description of the state of my house, and most especially after Diego has decided to potty train himself directly on the living room carpet.

But “Losing My Religion” might be even more germane, since each day I manage to toss to the compost pile more and more of my pre-motherhood parenting ideals and succumb to the enormous lake of Cool Whip my life has actually become.

I surveyed the living room. It was a minefield of plastic toys, dirty clothes, drifts of sand from the backyard, discarded bananas and yogurt containers … is it just me or was this scene “Supernatural”? How had I let it get this bad? Or rather, who was I kidding? How did I live in this kind of disaster from day to day? Didn't I ever “Think of the Children?”

Just as I got down on my hands and knees to begin to unload the pre-chewed grapes that had been carefully stowed away in the furthest reaches beneath my couch, my boys ran into the room singing “Let's Get It Started.” They were dancing and singing their hearts out, whipping around and posing like mini-gangsters, hats cocked to the side, arms crossed in front of them, doing their own toddler versions of the latest hip-hop dance moves. Rock yo hips, scuba hop, head back, booty shake. They were smiling and laughing and looking at me for affirmation as they stomped, hopped, and jumped through the air.

And while they circled me, I could feel it rising like an engine, the rumbling motor, the thick smoke and slick grease. Their perfect love pounding like a heartbeat, a drumbeat, orbiting like the pulse of infinite space. And that's when I realized, I don't need an anthem, or a chant, or a jingle, or a cheesy soundtrack for my life. I just need “My Adidas” so I can at least try and keep up.