The sayings I grew up with—“for crying in a bucket,” “heavens to Betsy,” and “fiddlesticks”—once made perfect sense. Now my grandkids look at me like I’m performing a one-woman comedy act. Apparently, I speak fluent Grandma.
I grew up in a world where yelling “For crying out loud!” meant you were at your wit’s end—but still too polite to cuss. It was what you said when your toast caught fire or your husband installed the shelf upside down. Again. It was normal. It was colorful. It was clean.
Now? I say it in front of my grandkids like I’d had a minor stroke.
I remember once when my grandson Jack was very young he couldn’t figure out how to get the printer to work. I sighed and muttered, “Well, for Pete’s sake, it’s not rocket science,” and Jack looked up and asked, “Mimi… who’s Pete?” I paused. Blinked. “Honestly, I don’t know. Pete’s just… Pete. Like Betsy. And Jehoshaphat. And Murgatroyd. They’re the holy trinity of people who never existed but were always being exclaimed about.”
One timeI told Madi she looked “cute as a button” and she wrinkled her nose and said, “Buttons aren’t cute, Mimi. They’re just things that keep your shirt closed.” Right. Try telling that to someone from 1962.
When my phone updated and erased all my apps, I grumbled “Heavens to Betsy,” and Jack —heaven help him—asked if Betsy was someone I used to work with. I told him no, Betsy’s just been taking the blame for my stress since 1965.
I also said “fiddlesticks” when I dropped my phone, and Emmy just lost it. She laughed so hard she had tears rolling down her face. Then she asked, “Did people actually say that back in the olden days?” Yes, Emmy. We did. And we had manners, too.
My generation had a way with words. We didn’t need to curse to get our point across. We had “consarn it,” “horsefeathers,” and “balderdash.” And if someone made you mad, you didn’t cancel them—you called them a “nincompoop” and got on with your day.
These kids today toss around acronyms and slang like “slay” and “rizz” and think they’ve cornered the market on clever. But give it a few years. One day, Madi’s going to say “periodt” in front of her own kid, and that child is going to look at her like she’s lost her mind.
And you know what? That’ll be my revenge.
They may laugh at me now, but I guarantee someday they’ll be the ones muttering weird phrases, trying to stay relevant, and wondering when they became the punchline. Until then, I’ll keep saying “for Pete’s sake” every time the Wi-Fi goes down—and I’ll do it proudly.
Because Pete might not be real, but my frustration sure is.
