Kathryn Leehane's Blog, page 9

Emergency Kits for Teachers

At my kids’ school, we are required to put together an emergency snack-pack for each of our children. The packs are intended to provide comfort and nourishment for the kids in the event of an emergency or natural disaster that might cause a delay in our arrival to pick them up from school.

Here’s what we need to gather for each of our kids:

1 can of juice
1 granola or energy bar
1 pack of crackers or wafers
1 fruit roll-up
1 pack of beef jerky
1 small pull-top can of fruit with a spoon
1 small pocket-sized pack of tissues
1 family photo
1 handwritten note of reassurance

Honestly, it’s a pain in my ass to find all of the right items (mostly because I’m lazy as fuck), but it’s completely worth the time and effort. I live in earthquake country, and that natural disaster is a very real possibility. I love the thought that my kids’ teachers would have the supplies readily available to take care of my kids. My picky eaters won’t eat most of the items, but they can just clutch their cans of fruit for comfort.

Assembling these emergency snack-packs for my kids got me thinking: what about the teachers? Who would take care of them? What supplies do they need in case of emergency? What would provide them with comfort and nourishment?

Clearly we can’t rely on the kids—all hopped up on juice and fruit roll-ups—to alleviate their distress. So I’ve brainstormed a list of items they would need in their own emergency kits:

1 dozen mini bottles of wine and liquor
1 box of high-end chocolate
1 set of ear plugs
1 bottle of pain relievers
1 bottle of acid/heartburn reducers
1 fully-charged iPad with videos and back-up charging devices
30 self-contained, non-messy art projects for the students
1 large bottle of deodorizer (especially important for the 5th – 8th grade teachers)
1 full-sized box of high-quality tissue
1 more box of high-end chocolate
1 photo of a tropical paradise
1 handwritten note of reassurance

Here’s what the handwritten note of reassurance would say:

Dear Teacher,

Thank you for all you do for my child. Seriously. I don’t know how you do it, and you have my utmost respect and eternal gratitude. I’m sorry for [Insert whatever my kid does that is annoying. Believe me, I’m sorry for it.]. You are amazing, and I love you. But not in a creepy stalker way.

I promise I am trying to get to the school as soon as I possibly can. In the meantime, hang in there. I won’t judge you if you break into the mini bottles of booze. Seriously, if I can still parent after a few drinks … But that’s cool if you wait for later too. Legal issues and all. 

I hope the rest of the supplies serve you well.

All the best,  Foxy  

Do you think that would work? Would they appreciate it? What did I leave out?

Photo Credit: belchonock / 123RF Stock Photo

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9 Rules of Swearing for My Children

To my sweet, innocent child,

I have heard your furious whispers. I have seen your trembling hands move quickly to hide the scribbled notes. I know — you’re experimenting with some new language.

Technically, those strong words are called profanities, and they aren’t new at all. They have been around a long time.

Did you know that the Bible mentions vulgarities like “dung” and “piss?” Yep, it does. Dirty words appear all across literature. Shakespeare, D.H. Lawrence, Mark Twain, and many other famous authors employed expletives freely and deliberately.

I don’t consider swearing inherently “bad.” Hell, some British researchers published a study stating that cussing can actually relieve pain. Those smart bastards won a Nobel Peace Prize for that report. Personally, I find profanity an effective technique for anger management.

The point being: your mom knows a lot about swear words. They can be used for good or for evil, and you need to respect their power. I’m not telling you that you should swear. (I’m fine if you never pick up the habit.) But if you decide to dabble in the profane, you need to know how to do so. Here are my rules for you.

First and foremost, learn what the swear words actually mean. Look them up in the dictionary or ask me. Each one is an alternative word for something else. Knowing the definition of every curse word is the only way to …
Use profanity correctly and in the proper context. You need to learn when and how to use the right words so you don’t look like an ass. Did you stub your toe? A boisterous “FUCK!” is appropriate, while “Oh dick!” sounds wrong. By the way, it should go without saying …
Never swear at school. NEVER. EVER. Or in front of people you don’t know. Or in front of your grandparents. Except your great-grandmother — she’ll probably laugh and teach you some new expletives. Which leads me to my next point …
Know your audience. Don’t be an asshole and curse intentionally to piss somebody off or to get attention. It’s not nice. Understand that some people get their panties in a bunch if you swear in front of them. When in doubt, keep your damn trap shut. And to become a skilled practitioner …
Appreciate the nuances of the language. There are subtleties worth noting. For example, the meaning of “fuck” changes depending upon what word you use after it: “me,” “you,” “off,” or “it.” These are important distinctions, and you need to master that shit. But please …
Don’t overdo it. A sundae is not delicious if you put too many sprinkles on it. Treat obscenities like sprinkles. They should enhance, not detract from, the message you are sending. Use the words for emphasis. And only occasionally. That way, when you do use them, people know you’re not fucking around. Oh, and, by the way …
Don’t let anyone tell you profanity is for the uneducated. You don’t have to put up with that shit. James Joyce sure didn’t, and neither do I. Sure, I could say, “Please refrain from exhibiting selfish and aggressive behavior in my presence.” But this college-educated woman knows the power and efficiency of saying, “Don’t be a dick.” That being said …
There are some words that are so offensive that you ought not utter them. For instance, let’s try not to piss off any higher power, OK? And C U Next Tuesday? NOT OKAY IN MY HOUSE. That goes for derogatory terms for any race, religion, or sexual orientation as well. For those words, you will be digitally grounded. Like, no phone or Internet for an obscene amount of time. And, Sweetie, even without these words …
Don’t be surprised when people are offended by your choice of language. Hey, you decided to use the words, now you have to stand by that decision. Not everyone is going to like it, but you can shrug off that shit. Some people just don’t have a fucking sense of humor.

© 2014 Kathryn Leehane, as first published on Scary Mommy.

Photo Credit: ccaetano / 123RF Stock Photo

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9 Vacation Tips from the Trenches

In case you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, I just got back from a slightly-over-a-week-long vacation with my family. (“Family Vacation” is the cruelest oxymoron of them all.) Spending eight days tromping around the Pacific Northwest and sharing a teeny tiny hotel room with a nine-year-old, a twelve-year-old, and my husband has given me time to grow and reflect upon how to better handle such an adventure, should it ever (or never) happen again.

Here are several lessons I learned this time around:

Determine IN ADVANCE how to handle elevator buttons. Seriously. Decide which kid will push the buttons when you go up, and which will press them when you go down. It’s so much easier to have that agreement before you get to the hotel.
SNACKS. Get their favorites. And lots of them. It’s okay if they eat chips and peanut-butter sandwiches all week long. It’s better than trying to find a restaurant that the whole family agrees upon at least two times per day.
Take your kids to the best bookstore in town. Tell them they can get whatever they want. The hundred dollars you spend in books will be the best investment everinthehistoryofallmoney.
Bring extra chargers. And portable charging devices. And make sure your hotel has free Wi-Fi.
The television is your friend. Especially if you don’t have cable at home. Although your children may be very confused at the concept of “live TV.”
Don’t pack five days worth of clothes in anticipation of getting to do laundry at the hotel. It won’t happen, and your family will all wear their underwear inside out for half the vacation.
Plan activities to do in the hotel room while your tween sleeps until noon each day. Order room service, take showers, plan your day, get a little work done.
Bring a maxi dress for the last day of vacation. It helps with the five extra pounds you put on. (Guys, you can bring sweatpants or something, although a maxi dress would probably be more comfortable.)
By the end of the trip, at least one suitcase will be designated the “dirty laundry” suitcase. Zip it up tight and leave it in the nearest incinerator before traveling home, thereby saving the extra cost of checked baggage on most airlines and the headache of the post-vacation laundry mountain.

Spending so much “quality” time with my tween (and my almost tween) reminded me that hormonally-charged tweenagers can be difficult to deal with sometimes. But it also reminded me that they aren’t all that different than hormonally-charged toddlers. In fact many of the parenting techniques I used on my toddlers work on my tweens as well. I actually wrote a piece for Scary Mommy on this exact topic. You should check it out (if you haven’t already).

If you already read it, you are awesome, and I love you. Maybe come on vacation with me next time instead of my kids?

Photo Credit: yarruta / 123RF Stock Photo

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15 Bitter Truths About Mothering a Tween Girl

 

Being the mom of a tween girl is like being on a roller coaster ride. There are highs and lows. Parts that are exhilarating and parts where you grip the handrails and hope you survive. Those parts that suck? You just need to accept them. Consider them your gigantic, foul-tasting horse pills to swallow. (I recommend washing those down with a nice Oregon pinot noir. Or vodka.)

Here are some of those bitter truths you may face:

You want everything to be better for your tween girl than it was for you at her age. But, dammit, it stings a little when her breasts suddenly become more fabulous than yours.
You never know who is going to wake up in the morning: your sweet, darling daughter or a savage beast.
Hormones are an ugly, unpredictable monster. Especially when they are aligned with your own.
You can’t complain about her bad attitude to your spouse—lest he remind you where she got it from. Right before you move his pillow to the couch.
The stink of tween girl funk rivals spoiled liver and onions. In a dirty Las Vegas taxi cab. Left out in the scorching sun.
You so desperately want your tween daughter to embrace personal hygiene, but you know that once she does, the bathroom will harder to get into than backstage at a One Direction concert.
It takes all of your restraint not to pop one of those zits. ALL OF IT.
You are relieved that she hasn’t had her first kiss yet. But then you realize you may have been a lip slut because you already had yours by this age.
Your snack food budget will go out the door. Along with your diet. Because you suddenly rediscover your love for Doritos, Double Stuf Oreos, and Peanut Butter M&Ms.
The fastest way to wake her up (in a good mood) is by FaceTiming freshly baked cinnamon rolls from the kitchen. But she’s not coming to see you.
There is no greater danger to your olfactory or visual senses than rifling through her closet. The odor! The garbage! The filth! (Stock up on disposable gloves now.)
Even if she doesn’t use them in front of you, she’s knows more swear words than you do.
The glasses and braces that made you a “geek” in junior high are now considered cool.
She simultaneously loves horror movies and her stuffed animals.
She needs to hear that you love her everyday. Even when she rolls her eyes at you and you’re not feeling very loving.

What other truths have you discovered?

Photo Credit: Dndavis / 123RF Stock Photo

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What’s Your Excuse?

I admit it. Sometimes I make up excuses to get out of social events. Sometimes my social anxiety gets the best of me. Sometimes I just don’t want to go to another feline birthday party.

Since becoming a mom, the variety and quantity of excuses I have available have increased exponentially. I put together a list of them over at Scary Mommy so more of us moms can benefit. (Some of these work for dads too.)

Read them and then tell me: what’s the best excuse you’ve ever used?

 

Photo Credit: stylephotographs / 123RF Stock Photo

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Raisins Are the Herpes of the Baked Goods World

 

There’s nothing quite so orgasmic as inserting a freshly-baked homemade cookie into my mouth. My tongue delicately caresses the firm exterior. My teeth gently penetrate the crispy butter-and-brown-sugar magic shell until the confection yields to the pressure and releases its warm, oozing delights inside of me. I moan and lick my lips with intense satisfaction.

But the moment you introduce a raisin into that delectable treat? Well, you might as well have served the cookie in a used maxi pad sandwich. Because you just turned it into crap.

Raisins have no place in baked goods. NONE. I don’t want them in my cookies or my breads or my sticky buns. (Or my non-sticky buns, for that matter.)

You can’t mask raisins with sugar and cinnamon either. They are foul and mushy—like tiny assholes in the middle of your treat. They add a distracting sweetness—like a horrible infection. As my talented, smart, beautiful friend Brooke once told me, they are “dried fruit testicles.”

YEP. AND THEY DON’T BELONG IN BAKED GOODS.

“But Foxy,” you say, “what about other dried fruits? Dried cranberries are delicious in scones.”

NO. No, they are not. Fresh blueberries are delicious in scones. But cranberries? Well cranberries aren’t delicious … anywhere. In fact, unless you have a raging urinary tract infection or vodka and a lime, I don’t know why you’re consuming anything cranberry-related—especially when shriveled up like a miniature ball sac.

Don’t get me wrong; I do like raisins and other dried fruit. Just not in my baked goods. I sprinkle them on my morning cottage cheese and fresh fruit. They add a lovely sweetness and chewiness to my chopped veggie salads. I delight in their contrasting flavor in a delicate curry dish.

But, dear god, please don’t bake with them.

Exception: My friend PJ makes the most delicious dried-cherry-white-chocolate-chip-oatmeal cookies. They are especially yummy during Cards Against Humanity. (Don’t toss them like Bobbie did though.)

As long as I’m throwing down the gauntlet on food faux pas, let’s talk about nuts. I love nuts. (That’s what she said.) I eat a handful every day. (That’s also what she said.) I slather them with hot bacon juice and serve them as appetizers.

But they don’t belong in baked goods either. Not in my cookies. Not in my sweet loaf breads. (Does anyone else think of horrible things when they hear the word loaf?) Not in my brownies. Or bread puddings. Or scones. Or doughnuts. Or fudge.

FINE. Technically fudge is a candy, but it comes on the Christmas cookie tray so I’m including it in my rant. Nothing foreign belongs in fudge. It’s fudge. Leave it be. But especially don’t fuck it up with walnuts.

In fact, walnuts are very much like cranberries. That is to say, they’re shitty. But, unlike cranberries, I can’t find one good application for them. And they have an unpleasant texture. And the skin gets all stuck in your teeth like an irritating mouth wedgy. WHY DO YOU EVEN EXIST, WALNUTS?

Here are acceptable additions to baked goods: chocolate chips (mmmm, hot chocolately slurry), toffee, caramel, peanut butter, oatmeal, fresh fruit (and only in certain recipes), and bacon (DON’T ARGUE WITH ME).

Exception: I do enjoy a smattering of sliced almonds on top of my double-baked almond croissants. But only if they’re from a real French bakery. None of these grocery store croissants.

And, although Nutella is made from nuts, it’s smooth and creamy and tastes exactly like angel jism. (Or so I imagine.) So it’s allowed on every single baked good you can name.

Of course, all this being said, after a few glasses of wine, I’ll eat anything. And that is most definitely what she said.

Photo Credit: kozzi / 123RF Stock Photo

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Has a Fart Ever Embarrassed You?

My 95-year-old Grandma farts a lot, and I have anosmia so we make a great pair. A typical conversation of ours goes like this:

Grandma: Oh, I gotta fart.

Me: No worries. I can’t smell it. You’re in great company.

Last week it happened again at her house, and it naturally sparked an in-depth conversation about farting. What?! Isn’t that what you talk to your elderly relatives about?

Grandma: You know that expression, “They think their shit don’t stink, but their farts give them away.”

Me: Yeah, I love that one. I know a few people like that.

Grandma: I once had a friend who was really prim and proper. One time I was with her, and she sneezed and farted at the same time.

Me: HAHAHAHA! It’s been known to happen. Not to me, of course.

Grandma: Yeah, well, I came home and told your Grandfather about it, and he replied, “Did you tell her that you do that ALL OF THE TIME?!”

Me: HAHAHAHA! He knew you well.

Grandma: That he did.

Me: What was your most embarrassing fart?

Grandma: I don’t think I’ve ever been embarrassed by a fart. They’re all natural.

Me: Oh, I have. I once farted in front of my boyfriend and his sister. It didn’t make a sound, but it smelled AWFUL. Like something had died inside of me.

Grandma: Oh yeah? What did you do?

Me: I blamed it on the cat, of course. They totally bought it.

Grandma: Well, don’t pull one of those around me. I can’t see, but I can still smell. And there’s no cat here.

Me: I won’t. I’ll leave the room, I promise.

Then Grandma farted again. Pretty loudly. But neither of us even flinched.

Me: Hey. I’ve got another embarrassing farting story. This one is pretty bad.

Grandma: TELL ME!

Me: Well, I farted at your mom’s funeral.

Grandma: You did?!

Me: Yeah, we were all kneeling in the church pews. The entire place was quiet. And my 8-year-old ass let one rip. I had no idea it would be that loud. My pretty pink dress may have even lifted up from the air pressure. I was mortified. No one said anything, but I heard some chuckles.

Grandma: Well, sure. Our family … we’re good farters.

That we are, Grandma. That we are. Much to my husband’s dismay…

So what about you? Have you ever been embarrassed about a fart? Tell me your worst fart horror story!

Photo Credit: atic12 / 123RF Stock Photo

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Men Are Whiners When It Comes to Oral Sex

Apparently my post on what women really think about blowjobs offended some people. People of the penis-toting variety. It seems there are a lot of men out there who don’t like to hear that giving head is not a top priority (or a top joy) for some women.

I feel the need to reiterate that I never suggested that ladies don’t or shouldn’t give oral sex; I just said that we don’t enjoy it as much as men would like to think (or as much as porn actresses would have them believe). I would also like to point out that I encouraged people to give it as much as they want to get it.

Still, a number of men were offended that I suggested that sucking the salami is not exactly pleasant for the ladies. And some were so outraged they tried to throw in my face that going downtown on their female partners wasn’t so pleasant either.

What a bunch of fucking whiners.

First of all, men are not going down as much as they say they are. I’ve long suspected that they don’t give as much oral sex as they receive, but I decided to collect some data to prove it. I couldn’t ask any guys about this because, in my experience, they will say anything to look good (presumably to get a BJ). So I turned to my friends science and asked a few simple questions:

Has every guy you’ve given a blowjob to returned the favor?
What percentage would you say has returned the favor?
Has any guy ever flat-out refused to give you oral sex or made a disparaging remark about it?

Of those I surveyed, only one told me that her partners returned the favor 100% of the time. (I now refer to her as “Sweet Kitty.”) The rest of the women either laughed at me and/or replied, “AW HELL NO!”

Turns out, the average return rate was 58%. A mere 58% of men gave their women oral sex after receiving it. And some of those guys flat-out refused to perform cunnilingus because: “That’s fucking gross” and “I don’t like anything mushy in my mouth.”

So all that bitching and moaning about a little blowjob survey and they’re not even returning the favor? That’s pretty crappy. Especially considering that they have the easier job.

Which brings me to my next point: giving a blowjob is way worse than going down on the lady.

Let’s take a closer look. (But not like with actual pictures; this isn’t THAT kind of blog.)

Now I’m not going to compare the smells and the tastes. I think we can all agree that female and male genitals smell and taste like, well, genitals. (Practice proper hygiene, folks.)

I’m also going say that pubic hair is a wash. Both genders have it. While more women seem to manicure that area, we also don’t have to get as much pube-in-mouth action because we’re not sucking hairy penises. (At least I hope not.)

So here’s why the blowjob sucks more (see what I did there?):

There is a large cylindrical object in your mouth being rammed down your throat. This object can cause extreme jaw discomfort and seriously fuck with your gagging reflex. Men, if you don’t believe me, go spend 10 minutes deep-throating a Costco hot dog. HAHAHA! Just kidding. It never takes 10 minutes.
At the end of a blowjob, a foul-tasting, vicious wad of goo shoots into your mouth. Or somewhere in the room. I’m not sure which is worse, honestly. Most women agree that the salty surprise is the worst part. (Except one lady who told me, “I don’t like balls. They’re weird. I feel like I should do something with them, but they’re baggy and whiskery. And they move around in a way that makes me nervous.”)
When a man is done, he’s D-O-N-E. There’s no more fun to be had with his joy stick. We women can keep going … and going … and going.

And I can keep going and going and going about this topic, but I think I’ve made my point here. Men are whiners about oral sex. It’s as simple as that.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I think I should mention that one woman I interviewed said, “I threw up on a guy when I was going down on him once.”

Okay, so, that guy had a legitimate reason to whine.

Photo Credit: slasny / 123RF Stock Photo

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There’s No Crying in Cards Against Humanity

Recently I was at a friend’s house playing my favorite game, Cards Against Humanity, with a group of friends and acquaintances. (I know, I know. I violated #1 from my own rules.) During one of the rounds, one player (an acquaintance) was upset by another player’s answer. He went on to pontificate about why the card played was so offensive and then chastised the other player for playing that card.

Most of the rest of us looked around at each other with confused expressions. I didn’t know the guy well enough to say anything, and I’m generally slow to process such responses. Eventually that guy calmed down, and the game moved on.

But here’s the thing: there’s no getting offended during Cards Against Humanity.

It’s Cards Against Humanity. It’s a party game for horrible people. For fuck’s sake, it says so RIGHT ON THE BOX.

If humanity is the quality of being humane (i.e., showing kindness and benevolence), then by definition, all of the game revolves around the opposite of those things. The cards are going to be appalling. This is Cards Against Humanity, not Cards Blowing Rainbows Up the Ass of Humanity. You don’t get to be surprised and upset when the cards end up being … well, offensive.

For example, if you are irrationally angered by dieting or body parts, this will likely be a winning hand during the game.

Yes, that awesome white card belonged to me, and I won the round.

If poking fun at religion or the atrocities of the world is abhorrent to you, this combination will reign supreme.

YEP. ALSO MINE.

If sex talk is off of the table, BOOM. This bit of terrible fabulousness WILL happen.

It’s possible I sang a little song when I won that round.

So you know what? Don’t play the game if you’re going to get your panties in a wad. Seriously. Go find something else to do. Like Apples to Apples. Or badminton. Or better yet, go play solitaire so that nothing that anybody says ever in the history of any game offends you.

You might have guessed that I’m not just writing this post to show you all of my winning CAH hands (although I was pretty fucking proud of those). There’s a bigger message here.

There is so much to be offended by in this world: hunger, violence, inequality. Go be outraged by those things. Go scream and wail and protest about all of that. Go make a big scene. PLEASE.

But don’t go around to places of entertainment you know you’re going to hate and then piss and moan that the world is all kinds of wrong. (I’m talking about the Internet here, folks.) Stay away from the sites that have too-edgy-for-you humor or contrary views. Stay away from the places that upset you. Stay in your own little corner of happiness.

Or, if you find something that ruffles your delicate feathers, just walk away. Just close the browser window and WALK AWAY. There’s no need to start a big fight. No need to cause a commotion. No need to look like a complete jack-ass.

Because this jack-ass over here is still trying to figure out what this card means.

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When Your Tween’s Room Requires an Intervention

Normally my kids are in charge of cleaning their own rooms. I believe this chore instills a sense of responsibility and ownership. It helps builds character, and it teaches lessons that will help them become independent adults someday.

Also, I’m lazy, and I don’t want to deal with their messes.

But there are times—maybe once a year or so—when it becomes necessary for me to intervene and clean on their behalf. The times when:

Half of my silverware collection and all of my bowls are missing.
We’re so familiar with the stink emanating from the room that we give it a nickname. “Stenchie’s back” is a common expression in our house.
We’ve been late to school or appointments one too many times because I’ve been searching through my tween’s landfill to help find her [insert any frequently missing item].

If you are a better parent than I am and can get your tween to clean his or her own room, then congratulations. However, if the time for intervention comes in your house, I have some advice for you.

Wait until your tween is at school, camp, or the grandparents’ house. You will need uninterrupted time. You will not need a screaming tweenager hollering about non-existent rights.
Gather the necessary supplies: trash bags, recycling bins, cleaning spray, rags, vacuum, gloves, a shovel, and hazmat suit.
Open the door and all of the windows. It doesn’t matter how cold it is outside; you will need fresh air to survive.
Find and eliminate the source of the foul odor. This task may involve washing putrid socks, removing rotten food, or throwing away rank shoes or questionable “crusty” clothing. Warning: do not assume there is only one source of funk.
Gather and wash all clothing on the floor—even if you suspect some of it is clean laundry that was never put away. If the clothing was touching the floor, trust me, it needs to be rewashed.
Collect the garbage next. Hopefully you will only find used tissues, dirty napkins, candy wrappers, and stale food. But prepare yourself for the worst. If anything sticks to the floor, use scissors to remove it, and/or rearrange the furniture to cover it.
Reclaim your kitchen dishes and utensils. Determine if the crusty/moldy/slimy cups are even worth salvaging. If not, throw them in the trash. Soak the “good ones” in the sink for a few hours, then run them through the heavy cycle on the dishwasher.
It may be daunting, but pull out all of the crap from under the bookcase, desk, and bed all at once. After you resolve not to set the entire pile on fire, repeat steps 4 through 7.
Find your tween’s secret stash of candy. Eat all of it without remorse. (But wash your hands first.)
Sort the remaining crap into two piles: essential and extraneous. Put away the items you’re keeping. Hide the other crap until you can donate it. HIDE IT WELL.
Wipe down the doors, walls, and other surfaces, and then burn the cleaning rag when you are done. Vacuum the floor, and experience the joy of rediscovering the true color of the carpet.
Take some pictures so you can remember this state of perfection after the room returns to its natural state of a municipal dump … the very next day.

When your tweenager returns, put on earphones and blast your favorite music. Make sure you’ve purchased movie tickets for the neighbors so they don’t have to hear the screams emanating from your house, “MY ROOM IS SO FOREIGN TO ME! I CAN’T LIVE IN THESE CONDITIONS!”

NOTE: If you happen to stumble upon your tweenager’s journal, DO NOT read it—no matter how tempting it may be. It’s not right to violate their privacy, and there are some things that can’t be unseen. (Not that I know from experience…)

© 2014 Kathryn Leehane, as first published on Scary Mommy.

Photo Credit: dstaerk / 123RF Stock Photo (My tween’s room was MUCH worse.)

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