Are you tired of me yet?

Hello all my lovelies! Since I am quite certain that you have all had quite enough of me ranting and raving and bitching and moaning (at least my oldest has told me that you MUST be tired of hearing me…he who is brilliant and a mind reader at age 13. I think he just doesn’t want me blogging about him anymore). I have thus decided that I will NOT blog the month of February. Nope. Not a single blog will be blogged by me. Instead, I’ve invited a guest blogger so that my followers and readers can get a fresh perspective on motherhood. Ladies (and those two gentlemen who actually read this blog) I give you guest blogger Amy Maxwell!

Wait a minute, wait a minute! Amy Maxwell is your character isn’t she? Star of The 8 Mistakes of Amy Maxwell and the soon to be released Amy Maxwell and the 7 Deadly Sins? If Amy is your guest blogger, doesn’t that mean YOU are actually blogging and totally breaking your own rule???

Why no, not at all! Amy is certainly NOT me. Amy has 4 children and I only have 2. Amy is a stay at home mom and I have a full time job outside the house. Amy has 2 sisters and I only have 1. Amy is the middle child and I am the oldest. See? TOTALLY not even remotely the same person. (Also Amy is a lot more klutzy than I am and tends to daydream WAY more than I do…Shhh, don’t tell her I said that).

Anyway, Amy is a 36 year old stay at home mom of 4 who tends to daydream from time to time. In fact, if she goes off on a daydreaming tangent while blogging, just ignore it…someone will send her crashing back to reality before long. She also has a knack for getting herself in dangerous, albeit humorous situations. She is currently recovering from her latest adventure and may seem a bit jumpy to you. (That’s what happens when you’re looked in a cabin for two days with your hunky neighbor while hiding from a killer…)

So sit back and enjoy the next few weeks of another bad mommy’s point of view. I hope you’ll find it refreshing. And if you do enjoy Amy, I hope you’ll check out the rest of her story, The 8 Mistakes of Amy Maxwell, on Kindle.  http://www.amazon.com/The-Mistakes-Maxwell-Series-Book-ebook/dp/B00NOFDA8W

Or, if you’re like me and can’t stand reading on a device, Amazon for the paperback copy.

http://www.amazon.com/The-Mistakes-Maxwell-Mysteries-Volume/dp/1500664774/ref=tmm_pap_title_0

Note to Self: Change the Locks

Snowed in??? Curl up with a good book on Kindle. You don’t even have to leave the house! On sale Jan 27-Feb 3 for 99 cents!

Author Heather Balog

My face fell, along with the blue terry cloth towel wrapped around my body, when I opened the door to find Simon staring back at me, backpack slung over his left shoulder. No, no, no! This can’t be! What in God’s name is he doing here? I caught the towel with my left hand before it completely dropped to the floor and attempted to pull it tighter using only one hand.

“Hello, love!” Simon chirped in his annoying British accent, eying me up and down and giving me the creeps.

Using both hands, I cinched the towel as snug as it would go, practically cutting off my circulation. Damn it. Simon is not the Fed Ex man. Now just so you know, I don’t normally answer the door in a towel, but I was waiting for my new stilettos that I ordered from DSW. When the doorbell rang as…

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What’s For Dinner?

You hear that sound? That clanging, clattering noise? That’s the sound of me throwing my hands up in the air in sweet surrender. The clattering noise is from the pots and pans that were in my hands hitting the floor.

It’s dinner time again and of course, we’ve got a problem. What to eat, what to eat… Well, according to the chalkboard menu board that I have so cleverly painted on the wall of the kitchen, we are having tacos tonight. After all, I took the chopped meat out two days ago so that means tacos tonight, right? (As an aside, my husband does not approve of meat defrosted in the microwave, hence the inception of the menu board in the first place. That way, I know what we are planning on having a week in advance so that I can take the appropriate meat out at the appropriate time, least his delicate taste buds be offended by meat that may have been defrosted in *gasp* the microwave. After all, his mother never defrosted in the microwave. Also his mother didn’t work full time and have three picky as hell people to cook for, but I digress.)

Anyway, to answer that question, the answer is …WRONG! Just because we planned to have tacos for dinner, doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. I’d just like to say that I try very hard to keep my family well fed and healthy. I am a terrible cook, but I make enough things well that alternating with my husband cooking (and take out), we can survive. The problem is planning is an absolute nightmare because PEOPLE IN MY HOUSE HAVE BECOME SO DAMN PICKY THAT THIS IS BECOMING IMPOSSIBLE! It nearly always blows up in my face.

This is just a sample of what happens nearly every single night without fail:

“What are we having for dinner?” Child #1 implores.

I point to the board.

“Tacos? Oh I love tacos!”

Yes. One down. (It falls apart right after this).

“What’s for dinner?” Asks Child #2. I point to the board and he nearly has a fit.

“But I had tacos for lunch at school!” He wails.

“Did you have other choices?” I ask.

“Well, yeah.”

“Then I don’t care,” I tell him. “Tacos have been on the board all week. Look at it before you leave in the morning. The rest of us aren’t going to revise our dinner plans to accommodate you.”

He sulks off in a huff.

“What are we having for dinner?” Hubby asks (because if I don’t tell him that he is actually cooking and practically lay out the ingredients for his incompetent ass, he has no clue…sorry honey, I love you, but it’s true).

“Tacos,” I reply.

He wrinkles up his nose. “I don’t feel taco-y tonight,” he tells me. (Without fail, someone doesn’t feel taco-y or salmon-y or chicken-y every night). “Unless we’re going to Taco Bell.”

I slam the package of meat down on the counter. “We are NOT going to Taco Bell!

“Ooo Taco Bell sounds good,” says Child #1.

I glower at her.  She was the only one on my side and I will not lose her now. “We are NOT having fast food. We are having tacos at home! Fast food is terrible for you! It clogs your arteries and you will have a heart attack before you’re old enough to drive. The meat is defrosted, there’s no reason we can’t have tacos.”

“Yes there is. I had tacos for lunch,” Child #2 pipes up.

“Oh well then it’s stupid for him to have them again for dinner,” hubby tells me. “We don’t want him eating the same thing twice in one day.” (Meanwhile the kid has six bowls of cereal a day and would eat pizza ten times a week if we let him). “Let’s just have tomorrow’s dinner tonight,” he suggests.

At the risk of sounding like a person on the verge of OCD hysteria, I shriek, “We are having tacos! The meat for tomorrow isn’t defrosted yet and if we have tomorrow’s dinner tonight, the meat from tonight will be bad. The board says tacos…we are having tacos damn it!” I slam the spatula down on the counter. I break the spatula. My family stares at me as if I am a mental patient.

We end up having Chinese food.

Why People Without Kids Live Longer

As I scrubbed the inside of my microwave this weekend, I contemplated the idea that people without children must, as a whole, live longer than those who have chosen (for whatever insane reason) to procreate. I am convinced that the daily surges of electricity that I get when momentarily aggravated by something the children have done, are actually moments of my life leaving my body every single day.

My daughter is in the “science experiment” phase of her childhood right now. While I do appreciate the fact that she wants to be creative, I wish she wasn’t so damn sneaky with her “creativity”. I’m pretty sure the cosmos are now punishing me for all the walls my son DIDN’T scribble on, all the worms he DIDN’T dissect, all the raisins he could have shoved up his nose but DIDN’T, and all the times he could have glued his eyeballs open and chose NOT to be an idiot. Because he never did anything weird with duct tape or rubber cement, he created naive parents in us.

We were naive because we had the impression that children ages 6-9 were actually manageable and could be left alone in a room while one used the bathroom or cooked dinner. Or left alone with a younger child. Or a pet. Or a rock.

At this point in time, I was scrubbing the microwave not because I was bored or didn’t have anything else to do. I was ferociously cleaning it because my darling child had decided to melt crayons in said microwave. In case you are wondering, crayons apparently explode in the microwave. At least that is the impression that I get from the flecks of blue that now coat my microwave. I’m not sure if she reached the same hypothesis as a result of her experiment. I didn’t ask. I was too busy trying to calm the heart palpitations.

What is even more annoying is that this “experiment” unfortunately followed directly on the heels of the “Great Lip Balm Debacle of 2015”. A few days prior, I went into the freezer to get the meat to defrost, only to find a hardened green rubbery mess all over the ice tray. It looked like ice cream, but I knew better. I sniffed it with caution and based on its flowery scent, I determined that it was either hand lotion or shampoo. Either way, it doesn’t belong in my freezer. Still, I am glad it wasn’t as messy as the time she and her little 4 year old friend put cans of Pepsi in the freezer to see what happened. I’m STILL scraping frozen soda off the side of the freezer and actually used the word SHRAPNEL when describing the scene to my husband.

I blow out a puff of irritated air and promptly call my resident Doc Brown to appear before me in the kitchen.

“What’s this?” I ask pointing at the green crap.

“I don’t know,” she replies with all the shoulder shrugs and innocence that she could muster.

“It SMELLS like hand lotion,” I inform her. “Do you know how it got all over my freezer?”

“Uh, no?” She attempts to bluff. “It musta been someone else.”

Just then, the older child wanders in.

“Hey,” I rip his headphones off his head to get his attention. “Did you put hand lotion in the freezer?”

He stares at me for a minute, his brow furrowing. “What’s hand lotion?” he asks in all seriousness. I smirk as I send him on his way.

“Nope! Not him,” I announce. I can see the wheels turning in her head as she scrambles to come up with another scapegoat. The dog scrambles away. He’s not getting blamed. He doesn’t even have opposable thumbs.

“It musta been Daddy!” She finally decides.

“Oh, sure,” I say with a nod of my head. “Hey, dear?” I call to him. “Did you put hand lotion in the freezer?”

He doesn’t reply for a minute, and then he asks, “Are you drunk? Why would I put hand lotion in the freezer? Why would ANYONE put hand lotion in the freezer?”

“I don’t know,” I respond, while staring the little one down. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

After some well placed stares and threats to her TV viewing, she finally comes clean. Apparently she was watching some You Tube video on how to make your own lip balm. Add her reason for wanting to make her own lip balm??? Oh yeah, she wanted to SAVE ME MONEY! Yes, the same kid who practically throws herself on the floor in Old Navy because I won’t buy her the useless crap that they line the checkout line with, like a snowman keychain (when she doesn’t even have keys) and a coloring book (when she doesn’t even color). She wanted to save me money…a likely story.

The more likely story is that she saw the You Tube video and said, YES! I must do that even though it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever! I must wait until my mother takes the garbage out or tries to fold laundry because she will definitely try to stop me and I cannot imagine WHY she wouldn’t want me to make my own lip balm!

Which is why I am now taking away her iPad and blocking You Tube from ever being streamed into my house again. And pronto, before she gets an idea to make a volcano out of mashed potatoes and red jello.microwave Tara microwave

Life’s Tough, Wear a Cup

#reblog Saturday

Author Heather Balog

So I was at my daughter’s softball game this morning and I’ve come to a conclusion and it’s not just that watching 9 years play softball is akin to watching paint dry. I’ve reached the realization that parents are lying to their kids. I am not, nor will I ever be, a parent who sugar coats things. I know it’s hard for you dear readers to imagine, but I don’t believe in lying to my kids. Yes, there are some teeny white lies we tell to protect them like “no there are no vegetables ground up in this meatloaf, why ever would you think that?” , but I do believe in being honest about their abilities, even if it means their feelings are going to get hurt.
Over the last 8 years as a “sports mom”, I’ve witnessed other parents and their reaction to their kids playing and I realize…

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The Sneaker Freak

#reblogSaturday

Author Heather Balog

My son has an obsession. It’s not what I would consider a normal teenage boy obsession like comic books or collecting baseball cards or prank calling cute girls. He’s obsessed with sneakers and socks. Odd, yes?
The problem began back in the summer when he came home from hanging out at the mall with his friends. Of course being the involved parents we are, we grilled him when he got home. “Who did you talk to?” “Did you see anyone else you know?” “What stores did you go in?”, etc., etc. Usually we get the one word answers or grunts, but this time, he held a bag up proudly.
“I bought socks!”
Socks? My husband and I exchanged concerned glances. This is the boy who has an “emergency sock” collection at the foot of the steps, just in case he needs socks in an emergency. It’s more like he’s too…

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