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

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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.

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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….

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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.

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.)

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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.

Yep, it’s time for you to go back

The other day, I was playing a friendly little game of HORSE with T-Dog.

Many of you may not know this, but I enjoy shooting hoops.  I never played on a team and would probably really suck in an actual competitive situation, but I used to spend hours of time as a kid just shooting around on my own.  My parents live on top of a steep hill, with the basketball hoops right at the crest of the hill.  If I missed a shot poorly, the ball could get away from me in a hurry and be houses away before I could blink.  After a few treks down the hill, I learned to aim better and save myself from running the hill!

Our little game was going fairly well.  After each of us earning an H, we matched each other shot for shot for a number of rounds.  They T-Dog got a few on me.

He made a beautiful outside shot.  I missed

“O,”  he yelled.

Immediately after, she swished a shot from the other side.  I missed again!

“U!”  he screamed.

I burst out laughing.

“What?”  he asked.

“U?  Um, I think it’s time for you to go back to school!”

(For all those interested.  After fixing my awarded ‘U’ to it’s proper ‘R’, I held firm at my H-O-R status.  After sticking him on two inside shots, the little man earned his O and R.  Then I sank two outside 45 degreers that he missed, getting him a S and a final E.  Suck it T-Dog.  This is Mama’s court!)

Not quite what I was thinking buddy

Wednesday is my grocery shopping day.  I’m one of those price checking chicks.  The new ads come out Wednesday morning, so I rake over the sale prices, matching up the discounts with my necessities, then head out for the hunt.

One might think, with all the preparation, I actually enjoy this experience.

Wrong.

I loathe grocery shopping.   The squeaky, wobbly carts, the slow, aisle blocking shoppers, moving the same item six times just to get it in your kitchen cabinet.   And yet, the people I live with keep eating, so I have to go out week after week.

So, every week, I have a competition with myself to see how fast I can get in and out.  I time myself from parking lot entry to parking lot exit.  My goal yesterday was 1 hour.   The sun was out and I had a pool lounger calling my name.

I entered the lot at 2:19.  Start the clock.  Short list, minimal fellow shoppers impeding my path, open and quick-moving check outs.  As I started the ignition to leave the lot, my clock time read 3:05.  I WIN!  (Nothing, but I win, so there!)

All that stood between me and the pool was getting this stuff in the cabinets.  As I quickly unloaded the goods, I chucked the package of TP at T-Dog, asking him to put it away.

“Ok Mom.”

3:34 Groceries are away.  Here I come pool!

I rounded the hallway corner, I saw this.

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Well I could have thrown it down the hallway, plus I clearly remember asking him to put it away and him answering in the affirmative.  Instead of nagging, I simply stepped over the tissue, got into my suit, grabbed my towel, and walked out the door.

I’ve decided I’m starting a silent wait-and-see protest a la Ray/Deborah/and the stinky cheese suitcase.  My question now is, how long will it be there before someone puts it away, because I’m not touching it.

Not even technically

Everyday I require that my children each fruit with breakfast and lunch and veggies with lunch and dinner.  Trust me.  I do not live under any delusion that my children will come close to the FDA government daily maximum requirements, but my hope is, with all the nagging, they will at least cross the minimum finish line.  Does anyone hit the maximum?  And, if they do, do they own stock in toilet paper?  I mean, come on.  That’s a lot of fiber in one day.

Nearly every meal resembles some form of this conversation…

“I’m done.”

“Did you have fruit?”

Silence from the child.

The Look‘ (you know the one) from me.

“Fine,” the child grumbles as their drag their feet across the kitchen.

Today was no different.  About an hour after he had eaten lunch, T-Dog announced that he was hungry and made a beeline for the chips.  I stopped him mid stride, asking him if he had eaten his fruit at lunch.  He replied ‘no,’ mumbled something under his breath, then decided he wasn’t so hungry after all.

Not even ten minutes later, my super-duper mom radar picked up the distinct sound of a bag opening.  I came around the kitchen corner to find T-Dog guiltily reaching into a cabinet.

“I told you to have fruit.”

“I am.  I’m having strawberries.”

“Nice try buddy, but strawberry Twizzlers are not a fruit.”

Mom- 1

T-Dog – 0

Daily Fruit Servings – 0