Sister Act Steals Mom's Heart

Sister Act Steals Mom’s Heart

I love the circus, and I even volunteered to be in a skit with a clown once. I didn’t know what I was getting into—kind of like motherhood. My three kids built a three-ring theater of chaos, creating a whirlwind of mayhem and magic. I’m Bozo with funny make-up and clothes, trying to force all of them and their gear into a tiny clown car, and sometimes trying to force them into my version of what the circus should look like. Both endeavors are usually unsuccessful.

greatclownportraits.com

Managing my teenagers is like herding the big cats into the main arena when they know the smell of the raw meat is not coming from anywhere near there. They know that if they remain distracted, they can make a mockery of the poor lion tamer and avoid doing any tricks in the center ring—or the laundry room.  

britannica.com

Actually, distraction is an art form they’ve perfected. Late one night I yelled upstairs and asked my exhausted, giddy girls for their soccer uniforms so I could wash them. They were lying on the floor upstairs, and from below, I could only see their bare feet kicking the bannister and hear their giggling. 

flickriver.com   shutterbug2188

Me (from below):  Go get your uniforms!  I need to wash them!

C:  Mooooommm, we’ll just wear them dirty.  I was almost asleep.

B:  Yeah, I was getting under the covers.

Me:  I want you to get your uniforms.

C:  I want a golden toilet seat. 

Me:  (laughing)  What jersey number are you? 

C to B:  Don’t make eye contact with her, you’ll turn into a (incomprehensible mumble).  Do you know what number I am?

B to C:  Why are you asking me?

C to B:  ‘Cause it’s your turn to keep me.

Me (hearing their conversation):  I'm gonna keep pestering you!

C:  Mooooom, you’re such a NAG!!

B:  Yeah,  go nag DAD!

This is the sweet stuff of my life. My kids sprinkle Gobstoppers and Gummy Bears into my single-scoop, vanilla world, and give me a delicious zest for life—and sometimes brain-freeze. They are the essence of bedlam and bliss, all wrapped up in sugar and sass and stinky cleats. 

fotocommunity.com  by Rix Weber

 I never had siblings so their relationship captivates me. Laughter and late-night whispering weave their teenage hearts together, forming a sacred sister-bond of private affairs and pinky swears. I marvel at the rhythm of their dance, an interplay in which they are as opposite as oil and water and as intimate as peanut butter and jelly.  

I love getting to watch them every day in their center-ring silliness. I don’t even mind being the clown. However, I’m pretty sure Bozo never nags.

12 Reasons Middle-aged Moms Should Stop Having Kids

12 Reasons Middle-Aged Moms Should Stop Having Kids

At a wedding shower recently, the bride’s twenty-year-old cousin from New Jersey asked me a question that ruined my day:

“Do you have any grandchildren?”  

http://www.worldofstock.com/stock-photos/woman-with-a-surprised-look/PAD1657

“Do you have a stronger pair of Spanx?  ‘Cuz you’re bulging out of yours,” I didn’t say because I didn’t think of it.  

“I’m definitely not old enough to have grandchildren!” I lied vehemently—just like I deny owning my David Hasselhoff “Knight Rider” Snuggie.

autoref.com

“Oh yes, not old enough,” she said, thinking I was, too.

I wish I could’ve shot back with a clever remark, but I have CCM (Cerebellum Crispus Mortem), which is Latin for dead, crispy brain, in my case from overtanning with baby oil and iodine in the 70’s, I mean 80’s.

I’m plenty old enough to have grandkids right now, but my girls are only teenagers.  If they had popped out a baby already, I would’ve gone all O.J. and committed “Aggravated Decapitation of a Jerkwad Boyfriend.”  That’s a new, official category for violent crimes.  

http://vicseay.hubpages.com/hub/Redneck-101How-to-be-100-Redneck

In the South, jerkwad boyfriends taking advantage of teenage daughters is considered “just cause” for decapitation. The penalty is a few hours of community service speaking to highschoolers about how heads could roll when minors mix Miller Lite with mini skirts.

My day was salvaged when I got to hold a three-month-old baby.  I smiled and reminisced as I stared down at her—and then I realized she was blurry.  

That’s why God, in His wisdom, ordained that we women should stop procreating at middle-age.  Here are a few more of His reasons.

We’ve already burned our bridges with the elementary school principal, teachers, and the lady heading the school talent show.  Our kid would be on their hit list.  

I don’t think you’re supposed to take prozac while you’re breastfeeding.

When we squat down with our toddlers to feed the ducks at the lake, the kid gets trampled by crazed mallards because our knees lock up, responding that they have better things to do.  

When we wave goodbye to our son at pre-school, our bat-wings scare his friends. 

In another fourteen years, when our teenage son says, “I’m gonna ‘hang out’ with Katie,” we’ll be too oblivious of current teen-speak to know it means “spend the weekend in Destin” with Katie.

We’re so exhausted we’d threaten our kids, “Go to sleep or you’re gonna wake up that monster under your bed.”

http://www.visualphotos.com/image/2x2022761/monster_under_my_bed

Strollers don’t come self-propelled.

Impatient with a kid’s tantrum, we’d toss him a sippy cup of Benadryl.

They don’t make arthritic diaper tabs.

When kids hit puberty, we won’t remember anything about the birds and the bees.

Kids might mistake the Viagra pills for blue M&M’s.

We won’t remember our Lamaze breathing techniques in the fitting room while our teenage daughters are trying on tiny bikinis.

I can’t wait to see the twenty-year-old at the Memphis wedding soon.  She needs to remember a few things—we’re in the South, I’ve got “just cause” for about everything, and I will jack her up, at least if my knees decide they don’t have anything better to do.  

A Sleighfull of Magic Memories

At Christmas my nostalgia rises like the aroma of Slice-n-Bake snickerdoodles wafting through the kitchen.  'Cuz I'm kinda like Peg Bundy instead of Martha Stewart.  

imasillymami.com

When my son comes home from college this month, I’ll pop a luscious Mrs. Smith’s pumpkin pie and Sister Schubert’s rolls in the oven to recreate the home-made aroma of Christmases Past, just like he remembers.  Nothing less for MY son.   

We’ll buy our live tree and decorate it together with the kids’ old handmade ornaments.  And like always, I’ll reminisce about the magic that permeated our home when little hands wrote crayon letters to “Santa Cwaus at de Nawth Po.”  

Dreaming of racetracks and toy kitchens with real sizzling sounds, my kids used to climb up on the mall Santa’s velvety lap.  One year, as I watched them there within the finger-licking scent of Cinnabon, I realized MY dreams had all come true.  

I stood in grateful silence.  Amid the chaos of scrambling elves and flashing cameras, I breathed an epiphany that grabbed my soul with both hands. It opened my heart like a sacred book, etching within its pages close-up snapshots of Dimples and Bashful in a smocked dress.  And the timid essence of a chubby little finger reaching for Santa’s beard.

thedailyjournal.com

The Jolly Guy gave them a treat as they slid from his lap.  But I didn’t realize I would turn around and their hands would clutch car keys instead of candy canes.

It seems like yesterday that three freshly-bathed kids, waiting for Rudolph, snuggled up to Dad as he read The Night Before Christmas.  My two girls with pink, chipped toenails peeking out from Barbie nightgowns.  And my son in his Star Wars t-shirt leaning in close behind Dad’s ear.  They hung on every word, and Dad paused at the end of each sentence so they could finish the rhyme.  

I never imagined listening to Dad would be so hard for them when they became teenagers.

Christmas Day meant the patter of four little feet in footy pajamas tearing down the hall and a wide-eyed, squealing baby girl toddling after the fun.  She was just happy to be puttering behind her brother and sister, learning by heart the meaning of Family and Forevers and Fa-la-la’s.  I was too.

petitlemblog.com

Toddlers in full-body fleece were long ago replaced by teenage girls in boxer shorts.  But I often stroll through photo albums and love on my sleighfull of memories wrapped in Silent Nights and Little Tikes.  

Leaping from fuzzy Polaroids, my snaggle-toothed Cindy Lou Whos bear hug me, and I forget the frustration of finding red icing smeared into the carpet and meltdowns in the toy department.  And sometimes it was the kids who melted down.

Once while Christmas shopping, I almost had a mental collapse changing a diaper under the raised tailgate of my SUV.  Unusually stressed, I fumbled with the sticky strips in drizzling rain while the other kids’ fists were flying in the backseat.  I felt a familiar twinge of bat crazy twisting from my stomach when a misguided Happy Meal toy smacked me squarely on the forehead and a Goodnight Moon book whizzed past my ear.  

Every inch of me wanted to scream, “I don’t deserve this!” but I tried to remember the awe of kneeling beside them after bedtime prayers and butterfly kisses.  That sense of wonder always washed away the spilled sippy cups of exasperation and every bit of drippy ice cream on new shoes. 

These days I am humbled when I steal into my teenagers’ rooms at night and kneel in the same holy spot I’ve knelt in for eighteen Christmases.  The sense of Extraordinary cleanses away the leaking Gatorade bottles of frustration and every ounce of dripping sarcasm on the phone.  It’s that magical moment of the day when I linger over their amazing, lumpy bodies under the covers.  My misty eyes trickle praises to the Creator and I marvel, “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

11 Excuses Teenagers Use To Get Out of Doing Chores

"Don't Make Me Come Back There" Tuesday

11 Excuses Teenagers Use To Get Out of Doing Chores

11.  I have to get something to eat!  (Moan!)  You don’t expect me to work when I’m starving, do you?  (Surveying pantry) Why do we always have the gross low-fat Oreos?  Are you trying to tell me I’m fat?  Can you go get some real ones?!   

10.  (After eating) I have to go to the bathroom. (Take a school book.  When parental unit says, “Get out of the bathroom!” I say, “I’m not done, and besides, I’m doing my homework.”)

9.   When you asked me Friday if I had homework, I forgot I have three papers due Monday.  One’s about “work ethic,” or something stupid.  I’ve really gotta get started on them after I get something to eat.  Do we have any real Oreos?

joelsartore.com

8.   Uuuuuugghhhh!  Mom, I didn’t know there was a time limit!!  You’ve got to trust me to do it after I download these songs!  I have to make a CD to play over the speaker while we warm up for our soccer game.  So I have to text everybody to see what songs they like.  

     Parental unit says, “You mean you’ve gotta text the players?”  

     “Uuuuugggghhh! No mom!  You never listen!  I’ve got to text everyone because everyone’s coming to the game and I want them to like it too.” 

freestockphotos.biz

7.   (An hour later) I had trouble with iTunes.  I’m probably going to have to download my whole library of songs again, plus some more.  I'm going to need your credit card number, m'kay?

6.   Have you seen the workout our basketball coach gave us to do in our spare time?  I don’t have ANY other spare time because I’m meeting Ashley at 4:00 to get ready for the football game.  It’s NOT my fault!

5.   I’ve got to meet Ashley, Ashley, and Heather to work on our vinegar and baking soda car for physics.  By the way, you need to take me to get some vinegar and baking soda and a plastic bottle to use for a car, some wheels, and zebra duct tape and a feather to decorate it.  Those are the parts I have to bring.

4.    I was coughing all night and I have a horrible headache. (Moan) I’m probably getting allergic because you made me pull weeds yesterday.  Do you see my eyes?  I’ve got to get some rest before Ashley picks me up.  Why don’t we have any Ranch Doritos and where’s the freaking remote?

3.   Why do I have to do it?  I did all of it by myself last week when Bella (sister) was at that soccer tournament.  That’s not my fault.  She's gonna have to cut the back yard.  Do you see my eyes?  You’re so mean. (Cough)

2.  I have to go to Mary-Alexander Margaret’s house to give back her earphones because she’s got the most important game of her life and she has to warm up listening to music. (Don’t tell parental unit the game is tomorrow)

And the #1 excuse - I have to shop online for a Homecoming dress because you won’t take me shopping for one because I have to do all these chores.

. . . Welcome to my life.

Wisdom Teeth, Then the Chicken Dance: My Empty Nest Plan

Studies claim women say about 100,000 words a day, and most men say 20,000.  My 17-year-old son says about 12—and one-fourth of those words are “What’s for dinner?”  

However, there’s nothing like a hit of Jack Daniels anesthesia to bring out the Joe Biden in people.  

Last summer my son had his wisdom teeth pulled.  We were advised to give him a “twilight” level of knockout-edness.  But, having had bad experiences, I wanted to make sure my son was dead for at least as long as a Southern Baptist funeral plus the altar call and pot luck.  Therefore, I ordered him a narcotic cocktail that could make Mitt Romney do the Chicken Dance with Nancy Pelosi at a Bruce Springstein concert and afterward ask her to go “three sheets to the wind” with him and Ann, if ya know what I mean.  

So needless to say, he was Robin Williams on speed when he woke up.

Driving home:

Him:  “Hi Mooommm.  You’re SOOO my best fwiend.  Can I have Smoothie King?  What’s in my mouf?  My wip is huge.”

Me:  “It’s gauze honey.  Bite down.”

Him:  (Oblivious. Mouth wide open)  “Why do I bite down?’

Me:  Because it stops the bleeding.

Him:  Dat makes sense.  You can get in da udder lane.”  

Me:  (Thinking) Like YOU could drive a foot-propelled Flintstone car right now.

Him:  Moooomm, what’s in my mouf?” he asks, like Dorrie in the Finding Nemo movie.

Me:  “It’s gauze.  Bite down to stop the bleeding.

Him:  “Why am I bleeding?  eeeewwww!  Mom.........MOM!  Can I have Smoothie King?”

Me:  Maybe later.

Him:  (laughing hard) How long was I asleep?”  

Me:  “Maybe 20 minutes.”

Him:  “Whad’s fuh dinner?”

Me:  “Soft things.  Maybe yogurt or jello. Do you want some mashed potatoes from KFC?”

Him:  Can I ha’ chicken?  

Me:  (belly laughing) No, sweetie. 

Him:  OK...(pause for a minute) Can I have Jimmy John’s sanwitch?” he SHOUTS.

Me:  You can have a milk shake.

Him:  (shouting) MOM........CAN I HAVE A SMOOTHIE KING?  You can get in da udder lane right ‘dere.”

Before surgery, he wisely asked me to take his cell phone away so he couldn’t act a fool and reach out to someone in a drunk-texting delirium.  I’m not gonna lie.  I’ve never been more proud of him.  

I feel certain now that he won’t publish any frat party Everclear escapades on Youtube so that no one will hire him, and he won’t have to live in my basement playing Bioshock with ten ferrets ‘til he’s 40.  

As The Parent Handbook states, now that we’ve paid for the removal of his wisdom teeth, our only remaining obligation is to get him in college.   Far away. 

After shipping three kids off to college sans wisdom teeth, all you’ll see is mine and Bobby Sue’s rear-view when we take off to the Slap-a-Ho Native American Casino in Mississippi.  That’s where all the 50-ish, botoxicated, Desperate Housewife-types in lumpy cheetah-print spandex and stilettos go.  

        I’m going early for the all-you-can-eat fresh snow crab and tater salit buffet.  After a few "Sak-a-Tonto" Sunrises and "Kumana-Wanna-Laya" Cocktails, you can find me in the lounge doing the Chicken Dance with Mo and the Navajo Funkmasters.

Sister Act Steals Mom's Heart

Sister Act Steals Mom’s Heart

I love the circus, and I even volunteered to be in a skit with a clown once. I didn’t know what I was getting into—kind of like motherhood. My three kids built a three-ring theater of chaos, creating a whirlwind of mayhem and magic. I’m Bozo with funny make-up and clothes, trying to force all of them and their gear into a tiny clown car, and sometimes trying to force them into my version of what the circus should look like. Both endeavors are usually unsuccessful.

Managing my teenagers is like herding the big cats into the main arena when they know the smell of the raw meat is not coming from anywhere near there. They know that if they remain distracted, they can make a mockery of the poor lion tamer and avoid doing any tricks in the center ring—or the laundry room.  

Actually, distraction is an art form they’ve perfected. Late one night I yelled upstairs and asked my exhausted, giddy girls for their soccer uniforms so I could wash them. They were lying on the floor upstairs, and from below, I could only see their bare feet kicking the bannister and hear their giggling. 

flickriver.com   shutterbug2188

Me:  Go get your uniforms! I need to wash them!

C:  Mooooommm, we’ll just wear them dirty.  I was almost asleep.

B:  Yeah, I was getting under the covers.

Me:  I want you to get your uniforms.

C:  I want a golden toilet seat. 

Me:  (laughing)  What jersey number are you? 

C to B:  Don’t make eye contact with her, you’ll turn into a (incomprehensible mumble).  Do you know what number I am?

B to C:  Why are you asking me?

C to B:  ‘Cause it’s your turn to keep me.

B to C:  Keep you doing what?

Me (hearing their conversation):  I am gonna keep pestering you!

C:  Mom, you’re such a NAG!!

B:  Yeah, NAG-a-ramus, NAG-a-pottamus

C:  NAGmeister, NAG me with a spoon

B:  NAG-a-delic

C:  SHAG-a-delic

Me:  Where did you hear that?

C:  The Austin Powers movie.

Me:  When did you see it?

C:  Dad let me. He’s fun.

Me:  Being fun is not my job.  Where are your uniforms?

C:  Mooooommm! Stop nagging. You nag ALL the time!

B:  Yeah, ALLLL. Dad doesn’t nag. He’s fun.

This is the sweet stuff of my life. My kids sprinkle Gobstoppers and Gummy Bears into my single-scoop, vanilla world, and give me a delicious zest for life—and sometimes brain-freeze. They are the essence of bedlam and bliss, a beautiful mess all wrapped up in sugar and sass and stinky cleats. 

fotocommunity.com  by Rix Weber

I never had siblings so their relationship captivates me. Laughter and late-night whispering weave their teenage hearts together, forming a sacred sister-bond of private affairs and pinky swears. I marvel at the rhythm of their dance, an interplay in which they are as opposite as oil and water and as intimate as peanut butter and jelly.  

I love getting to watch them every day in their center-ring silliness. I don’t even mind being the clown. However, I’m pretty sure Bozo never nags.

Kid's Bad Habit May Score Cat a Spin-off Show

“Why These Kids Can’t Be Mine” Thursday

Kid’s Bad Habit May Score Cat a Spin-off Show

Sometimes I say things I never imagined I’d need to say under any circumstance.   For example,  “Go get a mouse.  Slither needs to eat,” or “No, that is not the dog’s giblet,” or “There’s a mole on your bra.”

The last phrase comes from a situation that arose this morning.  My teenagers are extremely busy playing school soccer, acting like they’re doing homework, tweeting, not putting away clothes, texting, shopping on-line, going to social activities, and watching Gossip Girl.  

When they pack their soccer bags with practice clothes in the morning, they pull out yesterday’s school clothes and leave them on the back patio.  At night they are busy not cleaning their rooms so the school clothes remain on the patio where creatures gather at night to get high with the garden gnomes on my herbicide-laced, ‘roided-out lawn.  

I refuse to pick up the clothes so they will often stay there until some raccoon watches Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo  through our window and sees Glitzy, the pig, root around in the clothes on the beauty queen’s bed.  Because raccoons can be TV stars too, he’ll likely grab my daughter’s shirt and scamper away to negotiate a spin-off show and get his own tiara.  I bet Honey Boo-Boo’s family sometimes finds their clothes in trees too.

theclicker.today.com

This morning I walked out to the patio to feed our cat and glanced at the clothes still in the corner.  A cute, stiff little mole lay ashen on the colorful pile.  Either he had overdosed on some Ortho-licious trash can punch or the cat decided the mole was, well, a mole who tried to rat out the “funny fertilizer” backyard cartel.   

Anxious to board the cat-shaming band wagon, I ran to make a sign.  Unless they’re asleep, cats won’t cooperate like all those stupid dogs on Facebook.  

The deceased mole is on the pile on the left, 

behind her ear.

Of course, like the good journalist I am, I digitally documented the moment.  I texted my daughter, “There is a mole on your bra,” and sent her the picture.  

I’m getting ready to send this post to TLC.  Maybe they’ll give my cat her own show—Animal Cops:  Backyard Busts, Wrongly Convicted— If I Did It, Here’s How It Happened.

Embarrassing My Teens is Sweet Revenge

"Don't make me come back there!" Day

Embarrassing My Teens is Sweet Revenge

My teenagers dream of me morphing into an invisible valet that drives them around, keeps the fridge stocked with chocolate milk and, for God’s sake, doesn’t talk to their friends.  

My kids say I embarrass them.  I’m not sure why, on account of I try to be cool.  Ya’ feel me?

But that’s life.  I’m entitled to embarrass my offspring until my last breath because of all the toddler tantrums they threw and the sibling fights I had to break up in church which caused me to cuss in front of the preacher.

Parentingideas.com.au

Apologizing to store clerks used to be my full-time job.  Once, in the grocery store, I turned around for five seconds and my two-year-old dumped a whole bottle of Hersheys chocolate syrup over his head.  I figure that gives me the right to pucker my lips and throw up a few gang signs when we take group pictures before the Homecoming dance.

I don’t think a kid should complain about her mom embarrassing her unless that kid can pay the mortgage.  When I’m driving and jammin’ to Prince, my daughter should just put on her Ray-bans and silently slink down in the car like every other teen as I get my raspberry beret and my Dance Fever on.

blog.anniefox.com

When I drop my daughter off at the movies and she walks toward her friends, I like to crank up Justin Timberlake and pretend to rope the girls disco-style with my air lasso and drag them back.  You know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout if you boogied to You Dropped the Bomb on Me back in the ’80’s, word.

The other day I was horrified when one of my friends got in my car and almost barfed due to the mildew smell from a bag of wet towels my daughter brought back from camp and left under the seat for a week. 

So the next time I drove her and her friends to the mall, I decided the wet towel humiliation gave me free license to follow a teenage driver into the parking lot, pull up beside her, and scold her for incompetence and for almost hitting me.  My daughter, hyperventilating, could hear the lonely clang of my hammer nailing her coffin shut.

I’ve blocked out of my memory many occasions in which my children have embarrassed me.  That’s how moms avoid slipping off the precipice of sane into the swirling maelstrom of manic.  However, I can usually recall any incident involving law enforcement.

Years ago a state trooper pulled me over for speeding, and I assured him that I usually drove under the limit.  

Making small talk, the deputy peered through the window and asked my five-year-old son, “Is this your mom, buddy?”

He looked straight at the officer and said, “Yeah, and don’t believe her.  She speeds all the time.”

Two hundred fifty dollars later, I think I’m entitled to scream his family pet name during soccer games any time I darn well please.

thehitsradio.com

The next time my embarrassed kids wish I’d develop superhero skills and disappear into the woodwork, I’ll just use my sweet air lasso skills and drag them back to reality. 

Organizing Coach Doesn't Know MY Kids

Organizing Coach Doesn't Know MY Kids

Recently I laughed through a magazine article entitled “Coaching, Not Nagging, Motivates Teens,” written by a revered “organizing coach.”  Since nagging is my full-time job, I perused it while trying to guess who’s gonna get tossed off Redneck Island, which is my other full-time job.

The author reflected on the teenage stage with rosy nostalgia.  Studies actually show that ten out of ten moms agree raising teenagers feels like getting your eyes pecked out by a chicken.  Her kids may have been responsive to her “coaching,” or they were frightened to death of her, which in that case, gives me a new, profound respect for her.  

Her suggestions would never work in my house.  For example,

#1:  Clearly communicate to your teen what you expect.  

Oh wow.  Never thought of that.  If they don’t understand my expectations the first time I scream it, then they need to get the headphones out of their ears.

#2:  Teen won’t get up in the morning?  Put an annoying alarm clock as far from the bed as possible.   

Tried that.  He can’t even hear the fire alarm, but tinkling his car keys beside his ear and whispering, “Goodbye little Kia” usually works.  I’ll have to send that one to the “organizing coach.”

#3:  Place a laundry basket in the bedroom closet, cautioning your teen not to put damp items inside.  

For funsies, let’s assume my teen puts clothes in a hamper.  And I’m not sure anyone would even notice a mildew smell over the noxious soccer bag in the closet.  Or the hamster I suspect died in there.  At least he shouldn’t smell like mildew.

#4:  Keep bathroom time to a minimum.  Set a timer by the mirror.  

Um... really?  I would suggest doing a Facebook run into their bathroom at 7:15 every morning before school with a camera, shouting excitedly, “New profile pic!”   That could backfire though.  Their expertise in hi-tech treachery triumphs over age every time.

#5:  Help them clean out their clothes closet.  Make two piles: keep or donate.  

We need a lot more piles than that, like “friends’ clothes I am keeping,” “friends’ clothes I may give back after I try on,” “friends’ clothes I can’t wear around them because they don’t know I have them,” and “clothes I can only wear if parents leave the house before I do.”

#6:  Give encouragement by recognizing ways in which your teen is already organized.  

What???  Ok, let’s see.  

“Hon, I love the way you organize your argument when you’re trying to persuade me to buy you another shirt from Allotamoney & Fitch.”  Case in point:

Teen logic:  (Premise #1):  “You always give us kids money to buy
                                                    presents for each other at Christmas.”

                   (Premise #2):  “I remembered Sis didn’t get me anything
                                                for Christmas.”  

                              (Action):  “So I bought this cute shirt for myself 
                                                 with my own money."  

                      (Conclusion):  “You owe me $35.”

     

My kids effortlessly ignore my nagging, but I rather enjoy it.  It perpetuates my fantasy that I’m actually someone’s boss.  You know, I bet I’d be the first one to get voted off Redneck Island.