Kids these days

I must start this little ditty with an education in current teenage lingo. For those you who do not currently have a pre-teen or teenagers schlepping and moping around your abode, there is a current trend amongst their species to shorten words that don’t need to be shortened as there were perfectly effective and useful in their original state.  The latest causality to their assault on the English language is the affectionate term of endearment, babe.

If you’ve been anywhere near an Instagram account or tweeting on Twitter (Don’t dig around on Facebook. No self-respecting teenager would be caught dead there anymore. That’s where all the ‘old’ people are), you may have seen this pop up from time to time.

‘My two Bae’

‘Me and my Bae’

‘I love my Bae’

Kill me.

I was driving just the other day with my (deep breaths Kerry) 9th grader, when she made a statement about her ‘Bae’

Me – “Your what!?!”

Ridiculous 9th grader – “My Bae. It’s like Boo, Babe, Baby.”

Me – (Imagine me with a dumbfounded and confused look on my face.) – “Um, you don’t have any of those.”

Annoyed 9th grader – “Ugh. Mom, this just a thing people call their best friends, they are your Bae.”

Me – “Why would you call your best friend a large body of water? Sounds a little mean to me.”

Irritated by my obviously not being hip enough for her 9th grader – “Not B-A-Y, B-A-E. Bae, babe minus the second B.”

Me – “Well that’s dum, D-U-M, dum.”

Condescending 9th grader – “Um, dumb with spelled D-U-M-B. Your forgot the B.”

Me – “So did you.”

For this round….

Mom – 1

Put in her place 9th grader – 0

The solution!

It’s a common experience.  You’re sitting in some location of your house, minding your own business, doing whatever to darn well please, because it’s your house and you can, when you start to feel the inner workings of nature calling you.  A quick scan of the area shows that all the little people you have brought into this world are actively engaged, maybe it’s in Frozen for the 800th time or they are texting that drama queen from school you’ve told them to stay away from, but it doesn’t matter at the moment. Screen time be damned!  They’re busy and the coast is clear for you.

Or so you think.

The minute you steal yourself away to take care of business, they find you.  They always find you.

I’ve experienced it. I’m sure many of you’ve experienced it. Heck, I’ve even blogged about it before.

Super Radar

What I present for you today friends, is a sure fire way to earn some peace and quiet and take back the sanctity of your thrown!

Warning:  The use of this method will require to leave your modesty and inhibitions at the door as you are about to intentionally embarrass yourself and mortify your children.  P.S. – You might also want to make sure those little rugrats don’t have a camera running, as no one will want to see this in replay.

Step on – Take off to the bathroom to do your business.

Step two – Complete said business.

Step three – Wait for the interrupting knock on the bathroom door from a child needing to ask you a completely useless question that didn’t need asking 30 seconds ago but is now a matter of life and death.  (Step three is slightly unnecessary as we all know there was no need to wait.  Said child knocked on the door the minute your cheeks hit the seat.)

Step Four – Tell child you will be out in just one minute.  (Use that sweet, singsongy, mommy voice.  It really lays the trap for what’s coming.)

Step Five – Emerge from the bathroom pants less and barrel towards your offspring at full speed in your underwear while loudly announcing, “I went poopy!  I went poopy!”

I have yet to have them bother me again while I’m in the bathroom.  Of course they don’t quite look me in the eyes anymore and might have to use some of their college money for therapy, but whatever….  All I know is, the bathroom it all mine right now!

 

 

 

 

Words

That’s one way

To me, it seems like God created the little webbed space between my pointer finger and my thumb as a perfect natural note pad.  On any given day, you can find me with little notes or reminders wrote there.

Bank

Mail

Store

I’ve actually joked about getting a ‘To Do:’ tattoo in the area just to give it a more cleaned up and formalized look.  But that would be silly…….

I’m always curious, as I watch my children grow, which of my obsessions idiosyncrasies will rub off on my them.

Apparently T-Dog is received my list making gene.

I guess that’s one way to do it!

 

#toofar

For the longest time, I just didn’t get Twitter.  I mean, I had one.  I’d been on it a few times, but I was a solid Facebook junkie.  I’d done the MySpace thing.  Then I jumped ship to Facebook.  I wasn’t about to leave my friendly news feed and pointless poking just for this sure-to-be, flash-in-the-pan tweeting whatever.  Plus, I didn’t really understand it.

Then I got a teenager and learned that Facebook is where all the “old people” are.  What?!?!?  Well I am definitely not “old” (at least not in my mind), so it was time to get hip again and figure out what all these hashtags and retweets were all about.

(Plus I’m nosey as hell.  If the kids are all moving to Twitter, I will just have to learn some new tricks and stalk them there.)

Full disclosure, the more I’m on Twitter, the more I really enjoy it.  I’m not stuck with just my feed and my tenth grade Chemistry lab partner.  If no one on my list of besties is making witty comments about the latest Bachelor jaw-dropper, I’m one #Bachelortrainwreck away from finding my people.

As will all new and fun things, someone has to take it  too far.  Hashtags on Twitter.  Excellent.  Shows you’re creative, plus helpful when searching.  Hashtags on Facebook.  Ok.  I mean they are unnecessary, but I get it, you’re letting us know you are hip to the new scene.  Hashtags in talking.  Completely unnecessary.  Go punch yourself before I do it for you.

And then there’s this….

Now what good does a Hashtag do for me here in this text?  I mean props to Mini Me for the creative usage, but come on.  I can’t even tell if it’s trending.

What’s wrong with this picture?

I walked into the mini me’s bedroom today and found this.

What’s the big deal you ask?

That is a dirty lunch box. 

Today is January 4, 2014.

The last day she was at school was December 20, 2013, but it was a half day.

The last day she took her lunch to school was December 19, 2013.

Did I mention how much fun teenagers are???

I guess you’re forgiven

I said no.  I repeatedly said no.  I even screamed it.  It sounded something like this.

“NNNNNOOOOOO!”

To what am I referring you ask?  Well to the repeated begging and pleading from the smaller humans in my house to let a xbox 360 darken my door.  And all was going pretty well in my house until my sneaky little male offspring decided to call an audible at the line of scrimmage, messing up my whole game plan.

You see my little man decided to ignore the calls from this sideline coach and take his request to the big man.  No, not God.  I don’t think he really has a dog in the dreaded xbox fight.  No I mean the big, fat man.  The one with the red nose and jelly belly.  The man who grants all the ridiculous wishes of children when their mean, fun-killing parents say, ‘No.  I mean No.  NNNOOOOO!’

And do you know what that jolly ol’ elf had the nerve to do?  He brought those blasted games made from videos into my house.  Wrapping it in pretty, shiny paper and leaving it under my tree.

And do you know what happens when your kids open said banned item and scream with elation?  Well you are forced to open the darn thing and hook it up.  (I guess I could have refused to let them have it and sent it back up north, but my Grinch suit was out at the cleaners, so I, well, I caved.)

I was enjoying my sixth day off of work today (Did I mention how much I LOVE working for a school?), when I heard screams coming from the basement.  I ran downstairs and found this.

The blackmail evidence I am going to collect far outweighs my anger.  I guess you are forgiven fat man.

 

 

Is it that hard

As I was buzzing around the house this morning collecting stray clothing for the laundry, I was stopped in my track by this sight in the bathroom.

(Before you stop reading, no, it is not an addition of “Who’s Poop is this?”  Surprisingly, the potential shame of a blog post has been highly effective in motivating my family to flush it down when it’s brown.)

Apparently, there is some genetic mutation in the 18th chromosome pair that inhibits my offspring from being able to effectively exchange the empty, useless toilet paper remains for a brand new roll of 2-ply.

I blame their father’s alleles.

Not to be left out

I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating, I’m a Packers Fan.  Just looking at those words, they don’t seem like…enough.

I’m a gigantic, fanatic, don’t you dare call me during a game because I’m not going to talk to you on the freaking phone because THE GAME IS ON, fan!  I have a game day routine.  I have game day food.  I have game day attire that may or may not include game day underwear.  I have a problem and I’m proud of it.

Me on my birthday.  (It’s in September, so I’m always rewarding by aging with new gear for the season!  Thank you everyone for feeding my obsession!)

 

Me at a baseball game.  (Yes, that is the game I am listening too.  Hey, at least I came to the game instead of staying home!)

My Halloween Pumpkin

My M&Ms

Our Christmas card photo.  (We crushed both the Bills and the Cowboys on our way to a Superbowl Victory that year!)

Me in my Kerry Cave  (Where you’ll find me on game day, but, remember, you’re not allowed to talk to me.)

You get the idea.

So, it came as no surprise to me when my beautiful, kind, caring, sensitive, and smart daughter decided to draw this for me on our driveway.

Awww….. My three loves…. The Pack, Aaron and Clay.

Not wanting to be left out , my son, who for some reason decided he was a Cowboys fan, (Despite this, I allowed him to remain my child anyway), added his own two cents.

Anyhoo…..

Go Pack Go!

 

 

All I wanted….

Eight hours of sleep, that’s all I wanted.  Eight measly, puny, ridiculously short eight hours of sleep.

The media is always yammering about these eight hours of glorious sleep that I’m supposed to be getting every night.  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Where? and How?

Maybe I can add together all the times I fall asleep at red lights or catch a quick snooze in a parking lot waiting to pick up a child.

But NOOOOO, they say these minutes don’t count towards my eight hours.  I’m supposed to get ALL of them together, in a row, uninterrupted.

Seriously?

I mean, who does this?

Do these illusive human beings really exist?

Or all they all made up like the illusion that adulthood will be this awesome phase in your life when you finally get to do what you want.

I set out to get the answers once and for all.

After a week being dragged around like a pink teddy bear stuck to a bumper, Friday night was the night for me.  I set out to cross ‘Eight hours of sleep’ off my bucket list and boy, was I ready for it.

I arrived home from night out with friends at 12:10 am.  Ok, so I’m off to a bad start.  Technically, it’s already Saturday, but I can still do this.  I set a land speed record changing in the PJs, washing and brushing what needed washing and brushing, and was under the covers by 12:15am.

A quick check of the phone and calendar verified that #1 that alarm was indeed off and #2 there was nothing looming on the schedule I had to be up for.

Oh man, THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN!  Commence sleep time!

I’m out like a light.

Usual dream about needing to go to the bathroom with no where to take care of said duties.  Check.  (Don’t ask.  I don’t know what it means either.)

Unexpectedly pleasant dream where I battle Jenny McCarthy to a dual and win the affections of Donnie Wahlberg all for myself.  (Hey, in the words of Miley.  ‘It’s my dream, I can dream what I want.)

Rain, thunder, and tornado warning that I slept through.  Check.  (Sidebar ~ Pet Peeve, asking me if I heard that thunder last night.  No, no I did not.  I was sleep.)

Zzzzzzzzzz

Zzzzzzzzzz

Zzzzzzzzzz

I’m doing it.  This is happening.  I’m going to make it!

Suddenly, my eyes snap open to the vision of T-Dog staring down at me.

“Mom!?!?  Are you awake?  Are we going to have breakfast?”

I look at the clock.  7:57 am

NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO

That was it.  That was my one chance, my Halley’s Comet moment to grasp for the gold ring, and I’ve missed it.  Gone forever.

Or at least another 75 years.

 

Nope, this is why

To carry on the family name

To mold the next generation

To pass on my wit and sense of humor

Nope.

This is why I had children.

His face is priceless.

I love motherhood!