My kids never listen me. Except when I am having a curse-filled, catty private conversation on the phone. In the basement. Locked in the laundry room.
Naturally, my kids have overheard mentions about this blog and are curious what it’s all about. Especially since they are banned from it. So last night, I read a few stories from the site (skipping over some swears) and the three of us were crying from giggling so hard. They are such good sports and seemingly impervious to my constant blabbering. Like I’ve said before, they knew what they were getting into when they were born.
Aidan was laughing the hardest about the pee machine, my soggy butt, wiping his arse and Nick Jonas’ graffiti penis. But when I read the story about how I found turds under his bed, he had a complete meltdown. And not over the part about the fossils or smelling like a monkey house. He was mortified that I thought that the stench could be from urine. “Now people around the world think that I peed on my sheets!”
For the record, we have joked over this incident many times in the past. I felt horrible and assured him that it was clear that the story took place when he was really little, but he was pissed. I told him that I would delete that part — which I did.
That’s when he screamed, “This is just great! All these stories are about me getting into trouble so you can make a living on Google!”
Then Eileen piped in and said, “You know, Aidan is the star of most of those stories, so if you want to write more about how funny I am, that’s fine with me!”
So help me God, if I find a preserved, BeDazzled crap under her bed I will shut this thing down. What the hell did I get myself into?