I am soooo sorry for the delay on a new post. Silly me, I thought my teenager didn't care what the hell I did or said.
It turns out, he does.
Me: Hey, buddy! I am going to start my blog up again and make YouTube videos. Fun, right?
Teenager: **Looks up. Blinks. No words. Goes back to his game.**
Me: I need your help with videos!
Teenager: **Finally looks up from his game** Wait. You're doing that mom blog thing again about you and dad sucking at parenting?
(That was the fastest and easiest way to explain the blog to a then eight-year-old, and it stuck.)
Me: Yes! That!
Teenager: Mom, no. That's dumb. And you can't talk about me, my friends will read it.
Me: Yeah, that would require you and your friends to not only find the blog online but also read the posts.
Teenager: You said YouTube too? Are you trying to ruin my life?
I pause: I totally didn't expect him to care. Instantly, I regret saying anything. Of course, he would think it's a dumb idea. He thinks every idea I've had since he turned 12 was dumb.
Teenager: What are you going to write about me? It can't be embarrassing. I need to see it first. Same with videos.
Me: Deal!
Fast forward to my first post talking about how EVERY time I walk past my child during the summer, he asks for something to eat. I feel like I spend half my day feeding my child and the other half shopping for food! So. Not. Cool.
Y'all, I'm here to tell you, a "growing boy" eats non-freaking-stop. Like, an absurd amount of food!
I finish the post about me essentially spending summer 2025 as a private chef to a growing 5'10" thirteen-year-old and email it too him to read.
Teenager: **His bedroom door flys open** WHY ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT?
Me: I am not calling you fat! I am talking more about how hard it is to keep up with grocery shopping and meals during the summer.
Teen: No, you are calling me a fatty McFatFat. You can't post that. Riz killer.
Me: GHAAAAAA. Fine.
Next post: We live like feral animals during the summer. It's seriously IMPOSSIBLE to keep the house clean during the summer. There are shoes EVERYWHERE. Socks in every corner. Towels at the door. Sunblock on the floor.
So, until September, I'll be inviting in my home by saying: Welcome to my shithole.
I've resigned to the fact that we will be feral af until the fall when we are back on a normal routine. Sorry, not sorry.
News Flash: This post, too, did not pass the teen-test.
Teenager: You can't tell people we live like dirty animals! Riz killer.
Me: What can I talk about?
Teenager: Your garden.
Fear not, I will figure out a way to revive this beautiful space, and I'm no longer worried about grumpy teenager backlash. Besides, from what I understand from friends with older teens, my son is going to be perpetually annoyed by my ideas and even presence until he is 18 years old, so I might as well give him a good reason for it!
