Here’s a list of things that my kids probably wish I didn’t talk about:

I do not call my children pet names like Honey or Sweetie.  I call them Crack Monkey, Homey, and (my personal favorite) Skillet.  That’s how I roll and I make no apologies.

I still use the phrase “That’s how I roll”.  And I use it often.  I also say “Are you picking up what I’m throwing down?”  Again, no apologies will be made. 

I don’t observe my boys playing Minecraft to ensure that it’s appropriate – I kick them off the Xbox so that I can play.  I love it and I WILL get turns at regular intervals.

I think farts are funny.  Sorry, but I am XX (oops, something happened to my keyboard and the numbers aren't working, oh well) years old and I still think they are funny.  Throw in the fact that the craniotomy cost me my sense of smell and the hilarity only increases.

I make my boys “pay” for their lunch, snacks, and drinks with hugs.  Not short, little hugs, but hugs that last so long they forget what they initially wanted.  Mission accomplished.  Ulterior Mommy Motive: You are a big boy, make your own sandwich.  Seriously.  

In this house weird is not only OK, but encouraged.  So, yeah, the Johnsons are a weird bunch. We’re cool with it.

Underwear is not underwear.  Underwear is drawers.  That is what I call them.  Quit correcting me.

I pronounce cabinet with 3 syllables.  And I pronounce the T in often.  This comes more from trying to teach phonetic spelling than it does from some strange pronunciation issue I have. But, at the same time, so help me, if you replace the D with a B in supposedly, I will go straight up psycho.  Some things a person simply should not ever have their ears offended with – ever.  

I make the boys smell me, my clothes, the trashcan, and pretty much everything else all the time. One who has lost their sense of smell should always have a working nose available just in case. 

Some songs really are better in the Kidz Bop versions and I will blast them in the car as loud as I can stand it.  I don’t care if you have had to listen to the same song five mornings in a row.  I still like it.  I am a mom and if I have to listen to Kidz Bop, I will make the best of it.  I paid for that right with a scar across my tummy.  

My boys, who are unable to remember ten spelling words in a week, can recall with astounding accuracy every single Pokemon card in their collection.  The collections number in the hundreds.  Seriously kid, learn to spell something with that memory.  Geesh. 

Thanks to me, my kids have an appreciation for cooking shows and will gladly sit and watch them with me.  This is partially due to the fact that I am sure they are thinking about food 95 (oh wait, the numbers do work; I should probably go back and fix my age in a previous sentence…….) percent of the time and partially due to the fact that I cannot stand to watch kids’ shows.  Look, I barely came out of the Blue and Dora years alive; self-preservation says that I do not have to endure these tween shows they like now.  I have paid my dues in this department.  Either we watch someone cook something, or we all go to bed.  End of discussion.

Playing a board or card game with the twins requires two things: patience and ear plugs. Without both of these things, tears will happen and I will be found in the fetal position murmuring incoherently about how I thought it would be so cool to have twins.  Seriously, they are loud. And competitive.  And loud.  

The truth in all of this is that I have the best kids.  Any group that will let me be this dorky and love me for it has to be amazing.