Must Be Good To Be King

As the mother (zookeeper) of 16 year-old twin boy-type creatures, I am sure other parents of teenagers will relate to the following story. 

Our boys were THE sweetest children.  They actually seemed to like us and even thought we might know a little more than they do.  That all started to change just a couple months before their thirteenth birthday, or as we now say, just before they turned TURDteen.

Now, of course, my husband and I are the lamest, most embarrassing people on the planet.  Yet, we somehow produced the smartest people in all the universe.  If you have teens, you know what I'm talking about.  If you don't and you think you might want children, forget about the carrying-around-an-egg-for-a-week-and-keep-from-breaking-it test to see if you're up for the job.  Just borrow a teen (there are tons of willing parents!) and parent that teen for a couple of hours.  If you can do this and still think handling teens is no big whoop, they by all means, procreate away.  But, before you do, please go sign up for the special forces, as they could really use a few people like you.

Our two teen-type "people" not only think of my husband and as lame, embarrassing morons, they think of us as servants.  Consider the love notes our angels taped outside their bedroom doors for us last night.  (I should preface by saying my husband and I wake our little darlings from their slumber each morning.  This week, local high schools are conducting SOL testing which means students can go in much later than normal when they don’t have an SOL test scheduled, which ours did not.)

Anyhoooo…this is the love note left by Thing One in about 157 point type: 

DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES,

GET ME UP ANY EARLIER THAN 8:35 A.M.

And this beautiful letter was penned by Thing Two:

If it is earlier than 8:25 a.m.,

turn around and walk away.

If you are still having difficulty,

proceed to jump face-first off the balcony.

"Touching," said my husband as he and I stood outside their rooms reading these love letters around 7:00 a.m.  “Yes,” I acknowledged.  “Makes me want to reach out and touch the authors.”  My husband then said, “I guess dem boys plum forgot dat I’s too stupid to know how to tell time,” just before he began rapidly and loudly pounding on their doors well before the “allowable” 

I love that embarrassing moron-servant.