The bad mommy diaries » thebadmommydiaries

The SAHM that ticked me off…

thebadmommydiaries — Thu, 14 Nov 2013 21:43:13 +0000

When I started blogging about motherhood, I promised myself that there were several areas on which I would not tread..the loaded guns. You know the ones, breast feeding vs bottle, the great immunization debate and the granddaddy of them all…working mom vs. stay at home mom. My opinion has always been that you need to do what’s best for your family and what’s best for you. I hate when moms start bashing each other; stay at home moms are not better because they are home with their kids and working moms are not better because they are out in society either. Both sides have valid arguments.
As much as there are times when I wished I could be at home for the kids when they were little, there has been other times where I’m glad I am able to get out of the house and feel productive in more than just grilled cheese sandwich making. I knew they were in Grandma’s capable hands and that made me feel better. I am extremely fortunate to work in a school system, so now when my school aged kids are off, so am I (for the most part). I am there for homework, baseball games, school conferences and bedtimes. There is not too much I feel that I am missing by working outside the home and it makes me feel that I have been successful in BOTH my job as a mom and school nurse.
That was until this weekend when a stay at home mom made a Facebook comment that made my blood boil and my eye twitch uncontrollably.
Now let me preface this…I harbor no ill will towards stay at home moms in general. In fact, I think stay at home moms with toddlers and infants probably need to be inducted into sainthood or something because 24/7 with Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, sticky fingers and snotty noses would drive me to a steady diet of liquids. And by liquids, I mean alcohol. You have to have patience and resolve that I’m not quite sure I had to stay at home 365 days a year with a child under the age of 4. And more than one? Oh dear Lord. I don’t think there is enough wine in the world to deal with all day sibling rivalry.
But this particular mother has one child. Which is also a personal choice but I’m sorry, the more kids you have, the more difficult parenting is. There is no one on the planet who can produce one valid argument to the contrary. This mother’s child can tie his own shoes, butter his own bread and (hopefully) wipe his own butt. And he goes to middle school. So for 6 1/2 hours a day, Monday through Friday, this mom does her laundry and her cooking and her shopping in virtual peace and quiet. I bet she even has time to squeeze in a half hour nap. Then when her little darling demon spawn arrives home from school at 3:45, she’s fresh as a daisy and is able to help him with his homework and they can do craft projects together by candlelight to simulate life in the old west.
Ugh…okay, maybe not that last part.
Now, I do all that, too. I clean, I make sure there’s food in the fridge and I even sometimes get through a meal without burning it. I help with homework, I wash dishes and I decorate for the holidays. But my time frame for doing that is shorter. And it’s constantly interrupted with “mommy can you?”, “mommy can I?” And “mommy the chicken is on fire!”
As a result, I’m lousy at a lot of things stay at home moms excel at. We’ve already discussed my cooking skills, so that one is a given. I forget to mail birthday cards and sometimes forget people’s birthdays. I haven’t printed picture of my kids in over a year. In fact, even when I pay for school or sports pictures, I admire them, stick them in the basket reserved for mail and forget to give them to people. I forget to sign planners and send in milk money. I don’t know what fundraiser is going on at school right now…(honestly can anyone keep track of those things???) and I filled out the latest form for Market Day and forgot to order anything until it was too late. I am met by sobs of “mommy you forgot…” at least once a week. And I admit it. I forgot. I forget a lot of things because I have way too much on my never ending to do list in my brain. I have a work to do list AND a home to do list and I am expected to perform at 100% all the time at both. There’s no excuses for me. I’ve got to get it all done or I feel like, and my kids remind me, I’m failing as a mother. If I don’t get something done at work or forget to call a parent or just miss something, my boss will remind me I’m failing in that department, too.
I realize something’s got to give and for the most part, I’ve been okay with it. I let the dishes pile up in the sink and it doesn’t kill anyone. I sometimes let the laundry go and just sit on the couch and watch a movie. It’s taken me almost 13 years, but I’m finally starting to get some home/ work/ motherhood balance going.
Until that other mother had the nerve to piss me off. What this mother had the audacity to say was “I hate it when the kids are off from school for break. It’s not like the faculty doesn’t get enough days off with weekends and summers. It really ruins my schedule.”
Oh so sorry, Princess! Didn’t mean to mess with your schedule of getting things done in an organized fashion without having to entertain or keep track of a child (multiple children) like the rest of us do!
I, for one, need that break from work. I can get caught up on what I’ve been slacking off of in the motherhood department. I can spend time with my own kids without having to worry about having to go to work.I can get laundry done AND play Chutes and Ladders with my child and not have chose. I can pick up on a Tuesday at noon and have lunch with my husband, alone without kids. All things I can’t do when I am playing the balancing game.
Motherhood IS the most difficult job on this planet. Mothers should support each other and not point out each other’s flaws. We should support each other’s choices. But it’s really difficult when people can’t understand how the other half lives. I get a glimpse of stay at home motherhood in the summer and I gotta admit, it’s exhausting. Taking the kids to the beach, running to baseball practice, entertaining them when it’s raining for the fourth day in a row…it’s all part of my job as a mother. And I can appreciate that mother who does that 365 year. WITH A TODDLER. When your kid is at school, yes, you’re a mother, but you’re not on the clock. I am on the clock almost 24/ 7, 365 days a year with the rare exception of a babysitter or my kids going to a sleepover. Or my three minute drive to work when there are no kids hitting each other in the head with empty water bottles. But on the other hand, in the summer it’s really nice to have the entire week to get cleaning done, rather than trying to squeeze into a five hour time frame on a Sunday. It’s nice to go out to the grocery store without fighting off the weekend crowds and the cheerleaders shaking a can in your face for money. It’s nice to have 24 hours to do one job instead of two.
So don’t get on your high horse and imply I don’t deserve a break from my one job when you get one almost every day. I am in fact, envious of women who can have that opportunity to be at home. It’s not a possibility for me financially as nice as it would be. I think it would be fantastic to be able to be more organized and not feel like my head is going to explode any minute. But it’s not. I have to go to work and I have to be a mom, too.
Okay, rant over…going to go push my blood vessel back in my eye now.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: SAHM, stay at home moms, the stay at home vs. working debate, working moms

Bad Mommies Unite

thebadmommydiaries — Tue, 15 Oct 2013 12:23:11 +0000

I’m think I’m overwhelmed. I’m not sure. Is overwhelmed the feeling that your head is going to explode from all the things you need to do in a day and the feeling that you’re having a heart attack because of the constant heart palpitations and chest pain? Okay, then…I’m definitely overwhelmed.
I feel as if I have so many balls up in the air to juggle that I’m dropping all of them. Everyday I’m busting my ass to be the best mother, best wife, best friend, have the cleanest house and to do that job that pays for all of it, to the best of my ability. Throwing in my writing on the side and working out so I can wear a bikini on vacation and it’s become a recipe for disaster.
Moms are expected to be perfect. Our families see us as infallible and we knock ourselves out to insure we never let them down. We all know that “perfect mom” at our kids school. You know, the one who always has her makeup done, nails perfectly manicured in her tailored suits and fabulous shoes. (I LOVE her shoes). Her kids have the lunches with the healthy bread and organic carrots and juice boxes. She’s class mom, has a huge circle of friends and when run into her in the grocery store on the weekend in your ratty sweats with your hair in a messy bun (not the cute messy bun look), she looks glamorous in her hot pink yoga pants with matching shoes and her hair up in a sassy ponytail without a straggler to be had. She got a bazillion pictures on Facebook of her and the kids and the hubby in matching outfits pumpkin picking and making pottery. When your kids go to her kids’ birthday party, there’s a theme and blow up bounce house and friggin pony. She gives out hand sewn American Girl doll outfits in the goodie bags.
Yeah, you know the one. The “Stepford mom”. The one we all look at and roll our eyes at, but on the inside, we are all jealous of her, we’re all striving to be like her. And giving ourselves mini strokes trying to accomplish it.

My daughter screamed at me earlier. I know, shocking, right? She wanted to make pumpkin muffins. We bought all the ingredients the other day, but between football games, school and work, I haven’t had a chance to make them with her yet. Or rather, make them while she wanders off and magically reappears to lick the spoon. Because no matter how often I try to engage the children in “homey” activities like crafts and baking cookies, they become bored after about a minute and a half and then I am stuck decorating cupcakes and finger painting handprint wreaths on my own. This happens EVERY SINGLE TIME. Yet, I continue to beat myself up when I don’t really have time to make Christmas cookies or handmade birthday party invites, but feel the need to squeeze it in because that’s what a “perfect” mom would do.

Maybe I’m selfish. Unlike a lot of moms, I do take time out for myself. I go to the gym regularly (usually at the butt crack of dawn) and get my nails done (usually on my lunch break). Because every second that I do something for myself when I could be with them, I feel guilty. Never mind that a healthy and happy mom equals happy and healthy kids, it makes me feel like crap when I’m reminded that I should be home, doing something for them. THEY remind me. When I walk through the door they stare me down with their accusing eyes and pepper me with questions. “Where were you?”, “what took so long?”, “why didn’t you bring me?”. I bite me lip to refrain from yelling, “Because I wanted to be alone, all right? Sometimes mommy needs to get away from you because you drive me crazy!” And I feel guiltier still.
But maybe it’s okay. Maybe it’s okay that I didn’t make my daughter’s Halloween costume this year or that I didn’t create the perfect party game at my son’s birthday party. Maybe it’s okay that I wanted to watch a TV show instead of making salads with organic vegetables for the kids’ lunch the next day and they ended up with Nutella on white bread. (Gasp! White bread!) Maybe it’s fine that I occasionally forget to sign the little one’s planner or don’t remind the older one to brush his teeth every night. Perhaps it isn’t even too bad that the last time I remembered to give everyone their vitamins (including myself) was the first day of school. Maybe it’s not a big deal that I forgot to wash my son’s uniform before his game and he wore it dirty and I dug through my daughter’s hamper for a pair of jeans for her to wear. In fact, maybe everything I do is okay, not perfect, but okay. I don’t think any of us will ever BE that perfect mom, no matter how hard we try. And we need to stop beating ourselves up for it. As long as our kids are healthy and know they are loved, does it really matter?
And you want to know a secret? That perfect mom isn’t perfect either. She buys store brought cookies and her mother shops for her. (I NEVER buy store brought cookies, so there). Her kids trade away their organic lunches for Doritos and peanut butter and fluff. Her Halloween decorations don’t get put up and every night she lets her 5 year old stay up till he falls asleep on the couch because she’s too tired to fight with him. She hasn’t changed the sheets on her bed in a month and she sweeps the toys under the couch instead of putting them away. She DOESN’T have it all together, just like me and you. We need to stop beating ourselves up and comparing ourselves to each other. None of us have it all together, we are all “Bad Mommies” somehow and we should stick together. Does it matter that our lives don’t look like our Pinterest board? I mean, who really has time for that crap? After all, I’m lucky my shoes match today considering I left the house yesterday with one brown and one black shoe. I’m starting a fashion trend. Take that “Stepford mom”.

Filed under: Uncategorized

Mommy’s Sick Day

thebadmommydiaries — Wed, 09 Oct 2013 23:02:09 +0000

How do I call out sick? Like, do I just stay in bed? Or do I have to actually file some sort of request with God or something? I’m talking about calling out sick from mommy duty. Because it’s been 4,440 days since I took a day off and I’m feeling a sick day coming on….
I have an ear infection that has kept me up for two nights now but I have had to haul my ass out if bed every morning and perform not one, but two jobs for the past two days. But I don’t think I can do it tomorrow. Every illness I’ve had, I’ve managed to keep it together at home. Even cleaning up puke in the middle of the night when I feel like puking myself. When my husband is sick, he gets to be in bed and make him soup and listen to him bitch and moan about being feverish. I swear to God he makes me take his temperature about ten times an hour.
When I’m sick, the rule seems to be “if Mommy can speak, she can take care of us”. I still have to make sure homework is done and shuttle children to school. Laundry still piles up until I pop an Advil, wrap myself in my robe and load the washer. When I am sick and out of work, someone else deals with my problems THERE for the day. Nobody calls me and says, “so and so needs meds, come give them”. The people at work who are well deal with it.
Why isn’t that the case at home??? When I feel like crap, why can’t I wallow in my bed on my illness infested sheets and be left alone to recover? Why does someone else deal with the problems that come up? Why can’t the children make their own meals and get along for five minutes and just LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE??? Can nobody else in this house PROBLEM SOLVE???
I’m now laying in bed because it hurts too much to move. And also, I’m waiting for my drops to stop leaking out of my ear. I have the blankets over my head and my one good ear pressed to the pillow and I can still hear it. The running, the slamming, the dogs barking…glass breaking. I squeeze my eyes tightly, willing it to go away, trying to shut of my giveadamn meter. Someone else will take care of that. It will be all fixed when you get up and feel better. The glass will be swept up, the kids will be fed. All you have to do is take care of yourself for once.
“Go rest!” my hubby said. “Go lay down! I’ll take care of things!”
Translation: I will make sure if the house is on fire I will knock on the door to let you know.”
I remember when my youngest was four days old and I had 102 fever and could barely hold my head up. I was weary from hormone overload and going without sleep for nearly a week. I needed an hour nap. I crawled under the covers, leaving the four day old and four year old with their father. I closed my eyes and drifted off into blissful rest until…
You need a little background here. At that time, hubby was still a volunteer firefighter and who go on calls at random times. Middle of the night, middle of dinner, middle of your worn down wife taking a nap.
Yep. You read that correctly. I was shaken awake, a newborn and cranky preschooler thrust at me as he rushed out the door. As I sat there sobbing in postpartum misery, I knew then and there. I was NEVER getting a day off again.
Like today. There is someone standing over me. Through the muffled cotton in my ear I can hear, “Mommy?”
I try to ignore it. If I lay perfectly still, maybe it will think I am dead and go away. Don’t breathe, don’t breathe. You can outlast, outwit, outplay. It’s only a kid after all. At most, it has a mentality of a seventh grader. Even if it’s the hubby.
When I think I heard the door close, I exhale with a sigh of relief. Stupid move. It is still in the room, waiting to pounce.
“Mommy?” It calls out again, nearly causing me heart failure.
“What???” I scream out, tossing the blanket aside.
It’s the older one. “I have a stomach ache,” he announces.
Groaning, I sit up abruptly, causing my ear drum to feel as if I am being stabbed with an ice pick. I yelp and clutch the offending appendage. (Is the ear an appendage??)
“I think it’s because I’m hungry,” my twelve year old continues, completely oblivious to my distress. I glance at the clock. It is 7:15PM.
“Didn’t you eat dinner?” I ask. Now I don’t usually prepare dinner, but apparently it is my job to remind my dear husband that it is time to eat along with what to prepare. He can’t seem to handle this on his own. For dinners I actually have a chalkboard on the wall telling him what we are eating. I’ve also had to call him when I am not home at lunch time to remind him that it’s time to eat. Otherwise, he can be found wandering around in a circle, kicking empty granola bar boxes and muttering to himself when I return.
My child shakes his head.
“Where is your father?” I growl.
My child shrugs. “Last I saw him, he was in his chair.”
Annoyance courses through my veins as I struggle to my feet, my equilibrium completely thrown off by my illness. I stumble downstairs to find the following scene before me.
My daughter has pulled out the coffee table and has a mixing bowl, spice jars, several cookbooks and spoons sitting on top of it. She is vigorously mixing something that is sloshing over the sides and the dog is happily lapping up. There are so many paper towels surrounding her that it looks like the Bounty factory blew up in my living room. The other dog is munching on the discarded paper towels. She pauses to vomit one up.
“What ARE you doing?” I manage to squeak, trying not to cause myself pain.
She looks up at me, huge smile on her face. “I’m making some medicine for you,” she replies sweetly.
Now I’m sure that statement would tug at any other mother’s heart strings. But not me. I’m a bad mommy. I’m a realist. I know that shit isn’t getting cleaned up and I’m going to have to do it.
“Wanna taste?” She hands me a cup.
“No. And you don’t either.” I snatch the bowl away and storm into the kitchen, each step reverberating in my ear drum. It is in the kitchen that I find my next mess. Dishes, dishes everywhere. They cover not only the counter, but the stove, too. It is apparent someone also attempted to make soup and did not move any dishes out of the way. The aroma of burnt plastic still hangs in the air.
In the past, I have loaded and emptied the dishwasher. The counter was always clear and dishes were always clean. I busted my butt to make this happen. However, about two months ago I looked at myself and said, “Self, don’t be a moron. You have enough to do now that you’re going back to work. Give this job to someone else.” So in an act of generosity, I split the job. Hubby is supposed to load and the oldest puts away. And in those two months, I have not seen the bottom of my counter. Once again ladies, it takes two men to do the job of one woman AND they don’t even do it efficiently.
I also find that the garbage has been overturned by my two adorable fur monsters. It is not a pretty sight. Apparently nobody thought to give them dinner either.
“Why is this HERE?” I manage to croak out to the oldest who is trailing behind me. “Could nobody clean this up?”
He makes a face. “That’s gross. I’m not touching that.” This coming from the kid who hasn’t brushed his teeth in a week and ate his own boogers until fourth grade.
Grumbling, I throw everything back into the garbage can and by everything,I mean all of the wrappers of the snacks that the children have consumed in the short time I’ve been out of commission. Oh my son is right…it’s gross alright…their arteries, that is.
Shaking my head, I head down to the hubby’s lair where I find him, reclined in his recliner. He spends so much time there that there is actually a butt imprint on the chair.
He is playing virtual golf on the iPad. He sees me and pops up.
“Thank God you’re up. I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?”
That, ladies and gentleman is why Mommy can’t take a sick day.

Filed under: Uncategorized

Putting Family First

thebadmommydiaries — Tue, 24 Sep 2013 02:19:51 +0000

My hand has been twitching all day…I’ve been dying to get to my computer and vent. After all, that’s what blogs are for, right? I’m warning anyone who is looking for a comedic vent…you’ve got the wrong bad mommy tonight.
Having children is not a God given right. I know MANY women who have suffered from infertility (myself included) and would give anything to have a child. People go through hell to have children and it galls couples suffering from infertility to no end to see children abused, neglected and mistreated. Those of us who are blessed enough to have children better damn well appreciate it. I’m not religious, but I do thank God for my darlings every single day. Yes, my kids piss me off. Yes, they drive me absolutely insane. Yes, they make me considering running away on a daily basis. But there is not one single day that goes by that I don’t thank my lucky stars for them and would never consider my life complete without them. If you have kids, you need to stop and appreciate them every day because regardless of how crazy they make you, YOU ARE LUCKY.
Grandchildren are not a guarantee either. You could have six kids and never have a grandchild or not be lucky enough to live to see your grandchildren born. Grandchildren are even better than your own kids. You get to spoil them with Happy Meal toys and have fun with them and fill them up with candy and soda and then send them home to torture their parents. If and when I am ever lucky enough to have grandchildren, I am pretty sure I will want to be in their lives as much as humanly possible. After all, most grandparents aren’t in their grandchildren’s lives for too long, unfortunately. I want my grandkids to remember me and cherish their time with me. I want them to remember my presence in their everyday lives, not as the woman who sent them a card with $20 on their birthday or the woman their parents made them visit in the nursing home who smelled like canned green beans. I have such fond memories of my grandparents; it seemed like they were always there. They didn’t miss too much of my childhood, but unfortunately they all passed away by the time I was 25. I would give anything to spend one more day with them.
Which is why I cannot for the life of me understand people who can chose to miss important milestones in their grandchildren’s life. Some grandparents live too far away to make it to every birthday and every school play. Mine didn’t and I remember that they were there. I especially remember my grandmothers’ faces in the audience of practically everything that my siblings and I did. I remember their smiles beaming over every birthday candle I blew out. I remember feeling like I could tell them anything, that they would always be there for me. I’m actually in tears writing this because I couldn’t imagine if they had not been the ever present fixture in my life that they were.
Maybe my memory is cloudy. Maybe they missed my eighth grade graduation or a soccer game when I was ten. But they were around often enough for me to think they were always there. They both raised their kids and even when their grown children were out of the house, they did not stop being parents and grandparents. Did they have a life outside of ours? I’m sure. But we always seemed to come first. I’m sure my grandmother was annoyed when we bugged her to play scrabble with us during Scarecrow and Mrs. King. But she did it anyway because she knew her time with us was limited. That we would go home and tomorrow she could watch her show uninterrupted.
Some people with grown children are breathing a sigh of relief because their kids are finally out of the house. And they see it as “their” time, time to do for themselves. I know when my kids go off to college or get married and leave home, I will cheer, too. For about ten minutes until I realize I miss their voices and a night time snuggle and story. I may even miss the constant bickering every once in awhile. But with grandchildren, you get that back. And even better, when they drive you to reach for the corkscrew and wine glass, you can send them back to their owners! And I can see wanting time to myself…hell, I want to lock myself in my room at bar the door at least twice a day. But once you have kids, you need to put them first 95% of the time. It doesn’t matter if they are 3 or 33. I’m sorry, once you give birth they are your main priority. FOREVER. And that includes their children. Yes, it’s okay to be selfish and want a day to yourself or go on vacation. Absolutely. But for the love of God don’t be selfish at the expense of those little faces. Don’t miss a single candle being blown out on a birthday cake because nothing in life is guaranteed and you don’t know if you’ll be there for the next candle.

Filed under: Uncategorized

It’s a Bird, It’s a Plane! No, wait! It’s Just My Helicopter Parent :(

thebadmommydiaries — Mon, 16 Sep 2013 21:57:43 +0000

So school has been in session for nearly two weeks now and I’ve born witness to a childhood affliction at the middle school that I know is common in elementary schools, but had no idea that it was carried through to the older grades. After talking to other parents of older children and getting an overwhelming response to my status on Facebook regarding this phenomenon, I have come to realize more and more children are suffering from this condition and in fact, it is becoming a widespread epidemic. No, it’s not the plague, head lice or bed bugs. It’s by far worse because apparently, once you have this, there’s no getting rid of it. It’s called “helicopter parents”.
Now a few years ago, I wasn’t even familiar with this term. In fact, I’ve only heard it in the recent months so I checked out the “formal” definition on Wikipedia. Wikipedia defines this as “a parent who pays extremely close attention to a child’s or children’s experiences and problems, particularly at educational institutions. Helicopter parents are so named because, like helicopters, they hover overhead.” This is common practice in elementary school, especially with kindergarteners and first graders and is completely understandable. Your baby is going to school for the first time, and in some cases, they’re going to be there all day without you! They’re going to have to eat lunch without you cutting it in tiny squares so they don’t choke, they’re going to have to zip up their pants on their own and they’re going to have to talk to people without you telling them, “Say thank you to Mrs. Sherman.” It’s nerve wracking for sure. I get it. The entire first few days of their school experience you are a bundle of nerves, worried about how your offspring will do on his or her own. You check the phone obsessively for calls from a teacher, principal, school nurse and are relieved when there are none. When they get home, you bombard them with questions about how their day was and are much to your dismay, you’re usually met with a generic “fine”.
And other than checking to see that they are doing their homework every night and keeping on top of their assignments, making sure they are getting along with everyone and are not being bullied, this where most normal parents’ intrusion in their children’s daily grind ceases.
Oh, but not helicopter parents. They need to be in the thick of it constantly. Their lives revolve around their precious darlings and its unclear if they think of anything else in their six and a half hours away from them during the day. I hate to make a blanket judgement, but I think most of these parents must be of the stay at home variety. Because I cannot imagine how they would have so much free time to obsess about their children otherwise. I’m barely able to remember to give my kids their vitamins in the morning. (Oh crap, I forgot to do that today…) Helicopter parents probably have a chart they fill out. Nothing like over obsessive parents to make you feel like you’re slacking.
Working in an elementary school, I am often faced with parents who eat, sleep and breathe their kids. I go on my lunch break about an hour and half before school ends and believe it or not, there are several parents waiting in their cars already, eager to pick up the little darlings and carry them home. SERIOUSLY??? Wouldn’t your time be better spent elsewhere? Cleaning the house? Grocery shopping? At the gym??? (Ahem, just a suggestion…) I know if I was not working while my kids were in school, I would be that parent running up just as the bell was ringing to end the day since I’d be trying to fit in every last ounce of child free time I could. And these people are sitting there for over an hour waiting? It’s not like the school day is a guessing game and you have to show up early on case they let the kids out at a different time. The bell rings at 3:30…no need to show up at 2. You’re kids are just fine without you hovering outside the school.
So anyway, back to these helicopter parents at the middle school. What I saw every day the last week boggles my mind. A group of four or five parents were pulled up in front of the middle school (in the fire zone, no less), standing outside their cars, coffees in hand, chatting as they watched their middle school children waiting to go inside the building. Now these “children” are teen and Tweens, desperate for a life at middle school. Mommy and Daddy standing outside every morning, waving to them as they go into the building and blowing kisses, is surely killing their chances of a social life. They’re probably being tormented by their peers already. Yes, is it petty…of course. Middle schoolers are even more petty and ridiculous than toddlers. But this is THEIR world. They don’t want parents standing outside witnessing their failed and successful attempts at socialization amongst their own. Drop them off and LEAVE! You are embarrassing the crap out of them; when they do get bullied and shoved in a locker and harassed, you can know that it’s all YOUR fault!
I for one, barely slow the car down to let my kid out. We have a routine. He offers me the top of his head for a kiss if there is no one around. If, God forbid, another middle school is within a half a mile radius of the vehicle, I get nothing. Except a grunt as he leaps from the car. And I’m ok with this. Because, unlike these psychotic helicopter parents, I remember being 12. There is nothing that your parents could possibly do to make you want to be around them in front of your peers. It doesn’t matter how cool they are at home…no one’s parents are cool in front of their friends and no middle schooler wants their parents up their ass, treating them like a baby. I bet Ozzy Orborne’s kids didn’t want their dad dropping them off at school.
I get that you’re nervous for them. Of course you are. But at some point in time, you’re going to have to let them go and trust that you taught them well. And don’t be insulted that they don’t WANT you hanging around. Deep down in their cold black teenage hearts, they still love you even though they don’t think you’re cool anymore. Chances are, you’re NOT cool anymore…so get over it.
Except, of course for me. I know I’m cool. And in a few years, maybe my 12 year old will remember it.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Helicopter parents, parents that are too involved in their kids' lives, parents that don't have a life, parents that hover

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

thebadmommydiaries — Wed, 04 Sep 2013 01:22:09 +0000

So it’s officially the last day of summer vacation (for the kids anyway) and I’ve just put the little one to bed and I am soon going to begin the fight to get the older one to turn in. The summer seems to go so fast no that I’m older. I felt like it lasted forever when I was a kid. And I never seem to be able to cram everything into the time off that I want to anymore. Most of the summer was too rainy, too cold, too hot and too busy. When we weren’t running around from baseball game to football practices, we were trying to make the best of our days and nights. Despite this, I still think it was a pretty good summer because the kids told me it was. Apparently that’s all that matters when you’re a parent anyway. So I am sitting here a little misty eyed, feeling rather nostalgic as I reflect back. Or maybe it’s the sangria I made…but anyway, I’m thinking about what I’ve learned this “vacation” and I’d like to present it to you, in no particular order.
#1: “Never wake a sleeping child” is probably the worst piece of parenting advice I have ever received. In all fairness, I think the saying is actually, “never wake a sleeping baby”, but still, crappy advice. Because sleeping preteens will actually sleep until noon. Which would be fine except the fact that they are then up at midnight. And well beyond. And you spend much of your night climbing up and down the stairs screaming for them to shut their light, go sleep and stop posting pictures on Instagram. Every night is the same battle, same threats, resulting in one exhausted mommy the next day and one chipper kid when he finally wakes up in time for a late lunch. And it’s a vicious cycle….until the day school starts. Man, is his head gonna hurt tomorrow!
#2: Never say to your family “Let’s do something fun today!”. Their idea of fun and YOUR idea of fun are two totally different scenarios. Their idea of fun is tossing all your clean blankets on the floor and building a fort while spending 14 hours watching the same episodes of the same stupid Disney channel shows over and over and over again. On a beautiful sunny 82 degree BEACH day. Or in a husband’s case, sitting with his feet up at the computer, clicking his pen while making “dire” financial decisions (not really). Did I mention my husband is home almost every single day in the summer with us??? How I haven’t driven a stake through his neck yet boggles my mind.
#3: Your children will never want to go in the very nice pool you maintain in pristine condition for them in the backyard. They will only want to go in everyone else’s pool, leaving your pool very sad.
#4: Kids need more food in the summer than any other time of year. You can buy a gallon of milk on Tuesday and it will be gone on Wednesday. The chips you cleverly hid for company will be detected by the little scavengers when you go to the bathroom and they will devour the bag before you can even zip your pants up. Because they are constantly snacking and not waking up till noon, will also not want to eat meals at normal hours or when you want them to eat. They will announce “I’m hungry” as you are backing out of the driveway on your way to the mall or to run errands. Even though you TOLD them to eat before you left the house.
#5: If you give your husband a project to complete before summer is over, you must be more specific in your instructions. For example, “please have this done by July 31st of THIS summer”.
#6: Sunblock works best when applied on BOTH sides of your body. Similarly, holding a crying child, scream child tightly against your body outdoors in the sun will result in imprint of crying, screaming child on your lap, chest, etc.
#7: Sleep overs that involve multiple 12 year old boys are ALWAYS a bad idea. Something or someONE always ends up broken.
#8: Always bring extra flip flops and sunglasses wherever you go. Yours WILL break. And then you’ll be limping along on the sand with a floppy flip flop and cockeyed sunglasses. And you’ll look drunk.
#9: Preteens do not like for you to make small talk with their friends when you are playing taxi cab all day and night. They prefer if you stare straight ahead and drive the car. They do not like if you tell corny jokes, sing along with the radio or fart while shuttling them around. Apparently, those are embarrassing. Oh and dancing to any song that comes on the radio is completely grounds for filing for emancipated minor status. Especially “Baby Got Back”.
Finally, #10: Do NOT, under any circumstances let a third grader pack her own book bag, no matter how many times she tells you, “I’ve got this”. The night before school starts you will discover her pencil case contains 2 lip glosses, 5 hair bands, 16 pencil toppers, an extra pair of earrings, 7 nickels, a dry erase marker, half used tube of glitter, a stuffed bunny and absolutely NO pencils, erasers or anything remotely useful for school. You will sigh in frustration as you unpack the bag and tears spring to her eyes while she tells you she “needs” that stuff. You know she is going to shove all of it back in when you leave the room and part of you is annoyed, but the other part of you hopes that she stays so young and innocent for just a little bit longer. Soon, she will refuse to let you talk to her and when she does it will be to tell you off. That’s when you will wish for those days of arguing over nonsense in a pencil case and reminiscence about when they were only 12 and 8. Ok,you’ll have to excuse me while I go cry now. ( and dance a little jig).

Filed under: parenting humor Tagged: Back to school, summers home with kids

Book Club

thebadmommydiaries — Wed, 04 Sep 2013 01:07:44 +0000

Reblogged from M is for Music:

A few weeks ago I joined a book club, Its an all women's book a club and maybe that was my first mistake. already I'm bored to death, and I want to tell most of these women to go fuck themselves and I want to do it with flair. Women in groups cannot be trusted, in fact groups of anything cannot be trusted; cats, geese, men; cupcakes.

Help! The kids put the cayenne pepper on the cinnamon shelf next to the vanilla!

thebadmommydiaries — Thu, 29 Aug 2013 13:06:16 +0000

I am convinced the hospital messed up 8 years ago and gave me the wrong baby. Allow me to explain. My house may not be “clean” all the time (absolutely impossible with two kids, two dogs, a cat and a husband), but I make a point of making sure everything is organized. Everything has a place and I go to great lengths to insure that storage of all items makes sense. All the photo book are in the hall closet, arranged by year. In the kitchen, jars are stocked in one cabinet, boxed goods on another. In the linen closet, the towels are on one shelf, sheets on another. In fact, if something doesn’t fit into one of my organizational categories, I have been known to just throw it out. I even organize the groceries on the belt in the store so that they go in the bag they way they are found in the house. (I hyperventilate when I see the high school kids bagging…I pay them NOT to bag my stuff)
Makes perfect sense, right? Not to my child.
My daughter is a slob. We just finished cleaning her room (me cleaning, her playing with everything I took out of the closet that she had forgotten she had) and I am convinced she cannot be my child. She has absolutely no organizational skills whatsoever. To her it is perfectly acceptable to store doll clothes with crayons and a tea set. I know! I know! Those of you with OCD are gasping audibly, covering your mouths with your shaking hand. Her books are overflowing on her shelf, paperbacks mixed with hard covers, Nancy Drew next to Fancy Nancy. Not only are her storage bins (which I have painstakingly labeled, Crafts, My Little Ponies, etc., etc.) not housing their designated toys, they’re either empty, stuffed with tissues to make a doll bed or laying on the floor. Oh and the floor…don’t get me started on the floor. It’s an obstacle course of pencils, earrings, Polly Pockets and Legos. I cringe thinking of my sleepwalking child stepping on a Lego at 2 in the morning.
Which is why I put myself through this tidying ritual every few days. It’s for her safety. And a little bit for my anxiety. Ok, maybe a lot for my anxiety. Because I do tend to hyperventilate a tad bit when I see the state of her room. And her oblivion to the distress it causes me. The fact she cannot understand WHY the room is a mess unnerves me a bit and I start to wonder about a hospital mix up. But then, I think of my husband and it begins to make sense. She is his child after all.
When I was dating my husband, the first time he invited me up to his bedroom I have to admit, I was a little nervous. I didn’t know what I would find, or what would happen. This could make or break our relationship, after all! He held my hand tightly as we climbed the stairs; his hand just as sweaty as mine. I could tell he was nervous as well. This was a big deal, a first for us both. No going back after this. Would it be everything I thought it would be? My pulse quickened with excitement when he opened the door and I realized it was perfect!
His floor was SPOTLESS, bed made with tight hospital corners, every figure and trophy in place. After settling me on the bed, he happily unlocked a storage box under his bed…and showed me his bills…organized by serial number. On his neatly organized desk stood a binder, color coding his expenses. I nearly had an asthma attack right there. He was one of my people! I wanted throw him on the bed right then, rip his clothes off and demand that he marry me.
And he did marry me. And immediately after, I found out that neat and organized room was ruse. A diversion created by my mother in law to marry him off. SHE cleaned his room. SHE made his bed. SHE did his laundry and put it away so that he didn’t have to sniff through piles of clothes to find the freshest pair of underwear. I had been duped. The binder and organized cash was the extent to my husband’s neatness and organizational skills, neither of which really serve me well. In fact, the binder is a big troublemaker. It made him cut up my credit card on my 32nd birthday because the color coded pie chart inside tattled on me and told him I was spending more than he made. (I hid the binder in the cleaning supply closet. He has no clue where to find it now)
Every day I lose a few more brain cells screaming and yelling at the top of my lungs to the organizationally challenged that live in my house. They have no respect for what I do and how much thought goes into making sure every item has a home in our house with a similarly related item. They move things and don’t put them back with their brothers and sisters. And then they shrug their shoulders and say, “so what?”. I shudder to think of the dark path they are headed down. Soon the forks will be mixed with the spoons in the utensil drawer. Oh the horror!
I have a closet in my house that has a shelf that I call “the regifting station”. It’s where I go when someone has surprised me with a gift I didn’t expect. On this shelf are the gifts I have gotten in the past that I have no use for and are awaiting a new family to take them in and use them lovingly. The shelf is in my daughter’s closet (she has two for heaven’s sake) so she stared at me wide-eyed as I dusted it and replaced the items.
“Whatever IS that?” she asked with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
“Don’t worry about it,” I responded. “It’s just a place where I keep the things I don’t want.”
She stared at me quizzically. “Well if you don’t want them can I have them?” That’s the other thing about my daughter. While I will gladly give you anything I am not wearing, using, needing, etc., she will gladly take anything you don’t want anymore off your hands. She’ll sniff around your house and ask you if you are using such and such a thing anymore. And then she’ll take it home and I have to find a place for it. She’s a slightly classy garbage picker and a cute con artist.
“No,” I told her firmly. “Leave everything on the shelf alone.”
She wandered off as I continued to organize happily. She returned several minutes later, arms overflowing with shoes. I stared down at her from the ladder.
“What are you doing with the shoes?”
“I want to put them in my closet,” she announced with smug satisfaction. She knew exactly what she was doing. I immediately began to sweat. LIKE HELL YOU ARE!
You see, the children’s shoes are neatly ensconced in cubby holes in the hall closet. That is where I want them. The reason for it is simple. When I find the shoes behind the couch and flung willy nilly all throughout the house, I can simply tuck them in the cubbies and be done. If the kids keep their shoes in their bedrooms, I have to tromp upstairs to put the shoes away. See? My madness has a reason. Oh and also, that’s where I want them. Did I mention that?
“No, no, no!” I ripped the shoes from my daughter’s arms. “They need to stay in the hall closet.” I stormed off to putt them back in their cubbies only to return and find that she had gotten up on the ladder and retrieved one of the “regifts”. And was ripping open the box. And squirting the foul smelling lotion all over her hands. I sighed as I headed to the bathroom to find a new place for the lotion.

Filed under: parenting humor Tagged: cleaning kids' rooms, kids who can't clean, kids with ADHD, kids without organizational skills, OCD

Life Before Technology Ate Our Brains

thebadmommydiaries — Fri, 23 Aug 2013 21:12:50 +0000

My son was punished earlier this week…we took away his iPod and his phone for two days. I thought by the end of the second day he was going to go absolutely bonkers from technology withdrawal. It rained yesterday so he couldn’t go outside and there was, according to him, “nothing on TV”. With 400 channels, plus on Demand, I find that very hard to believe. Yet he sat, sulkily in the living room, watching Phineas and Ferb reruns, pining for his beloved iPod and his connection to the outside world.
If I was parted from my iPhone for 48 hours, I must admit, at this point in my life, I’d be distressed. Technology has definitely enhanced our lives in ways we never imagined. I mean, I am sitting poolside while writing this and I won’t even have to move more than my fingertips to make this available for all of you to read when I’m done. If you had told me that would be possible when I was his age, I would have thought you were nuts. After all, I was his age in the 80s.
When I was twelve, writing was either done with a paper and pen or on a typewriter. There was no back space. Once you hit the key, that letter was permanently stamped on your work. If you made a mistake, you had to pull out the sheet, white out the error, blow on it till it dried and pray you could line in up correctly when inserting it back in the typewriter. I remember when they invented the erasable pen. I thought it was the greatest invention since the pen. Of course, my school work ended up smeared or the eraser would rip right through the paper.
Not to sound like an old fart, but that’s another thing. Doing school work. Ugh. Remember when you had a research paper to do? Did we Google the subject? Nope. You were either lucky enough to have a 26 volume set of encyclopedias in your house or you tromped down to the local library with your spiral notebook and four colored clicky pen to peruse the card catalog for the entire afternoon. My kids don’t even have a clue what an encyclopedia is. One kid at school asked me if it was related to Wikipedia. Yeah, except a ton heavier and completely out of date most of the time. Well, not that Wikipedia is reliable, either.
These kids are so used to everything at their fingertips, at their demand. They have no idea what it’s like to wait all week for Saturday, the day your favorite cartoon is on, only to find out you have to go to your brother’s baseball game. Why wouldn’t you just DVR it? they would ask. Because, my dear spoiled children, DVRs haven’t been invented yet.
In fact, I remember vividly the day my father came home with our very first VCR. I was 10 and we stared at it, mouths open.You mean we can just tape a show and watch it later? You mean we could watch movies we missed in the movie theatre? Back then if you didn’t see it in the movies or they didn’t televise it, you didn’t see it.We couldn’t believe our good fortune. No longer would we miss our favorite shows! We were completely deluded, though, because we only have 6 channels to record from. Cable was not yet available in every house and when it was, there was no remote. We had a ridiculous contraption the size of a shoe box that was connected to the TV. It reached about ten feet from the TV and we were beyond amazed. So amazed we broke it in a day switching all the channels.
Forget about a world where texting wasn’t invented yet. Cell phones weren’t even invented yet. That’s right. When you wanted to talk to a friend, you had to pick up the ugly yellow phone on the wall of the kitchen, dial your friend, pray their brother you had a crush on didn’t answer and then proceed to have a conversation in front of your siblings who would sit at the kitchen table, mocking you and writing down what you said in a notebook. Oh yeah, there was no privacy. There was no “sexting” or lewd pics on Instagram. The closest thing you could get to privacy was if you wrote a note (yup, on paper with a pen). And even that was running the risk of being intercepted by some well meaning (ahem, busybody) adult.
When we wanted something, we had to wait. We learned patience. If you liked a song and couldn’t afford to go out and buy the whole album (yes, I said album), you sat in front of your radio with a tape recorder and waited. And waited. And waited until the song was played and you scrambled to hit play and inevitably your little sister would come storming into the room blabbing away just at that exact moment. If you were lucky, you’d get a recording. But then your tape player would chew up the tape and that would be the end of it. My kids hear a song they like, they literally hit a button on the iPod and it is instantly transported into their ears. My daughter whines when it takes more than a minute to download. Pathetic.
And I hardly remember ever being bored, even though I didn’t have a gaming system. Well, we got one when I was like 14 and it had one controller which would get tangled in knots and we’d all fight for our turn. Before then, we had board games and cards. We had an entire shelf in the basement stacked with games like Trouble, Scrabble and Clue. And we would play for hours. I remember playing marathon long games of Monopoly with my siblings. And each game was new experience every time. We didn’t have go out and buy a new $40 Monopoly when we beat the game. We just played again.
If you wanted to know what was going on in the world, you had to watch the news, which was only on ONCE a day. Or actually READ a newspaper. The only reason my kids know what a newspaper is is because they like the comics. There was no constant media bombardment of what celebrity is sleeping with who and who had Botox and where the President is vacationing. Is that even really news? I mean, who really cares?
We missed people. If you lived further than a bicycle ride distance from a friend, chances are, you didn’t see them over the summer. Relatives than lived in another state were ones you didn’t see until the holidays. Other than the occasional long distance phone call on Sunday night when the rates were lower (yeah, kids have NO clue what that means) you didn’t know what was going on in their lives. No Snapfish pictures, no Skype , no Facebook status updates. If you went on a road trip to see the family in your 6 passenger station wagon, you better bring books or be prepared to play the license plate game all the way to Ohio. No TV monitor on the back of the seat, no headphones to listen to your favorite songs. Just your dad singing along to the Oldies station at the top of his lungs. And God help you if he got lost…which he undoubtedly would because he had the book of maps propped up on his leg and the wind would blow the pages around when he cranked the window down to pay a toll and he would get confused. There was no Onstar or Mapquest to save him. You’d wander around for hours, looking for the interstate because he would NEVER stop and ask for directions.
Kids have it much easier but I’m not sure they have it better. They’re missing talking to people and hearing their emotions. They can’t spell to save their lives. They don’t know what to do when they go outside without a ball or friends to play with. Sadly, the whole concept of imagination is lost on them. They’re more likely to get carpal tunnel syndrome than break a leg falling out of a tree house. I feel sorry for them, I really do. I’d love to go back to some of those carefree days and just enjoy things for what they were. No worrying about who is tweeting about you or if your profile pic is cute enough. No taking selfies with your phone, no wondering who is going to check out your pictures of your lunch and what their comments will be. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am being paged. The kids need me the to put in the code so they can get another app for their Nooks.

Filed under: parenting humor Tagged: kids don't know what they're missing, kids these days have it easier, reminiscing about being a kid in the 70s and 80s, Technology taking over our lives

Who Should Play Me in My Movie?

thebadmommydiaries — Wed, 21 Aug 2013 17:49:52 +0000

Okay so it is definitely not the bestseller Fifty Shades, but after hearing that book was going to be made into a movie, I thought I’d post the first chapter of my new book: Note to Self: Change the Locks onto my blog and see who YOU think should play these characters when they pick up the movie rights to my book. :) I was thinking Reese Witherspoon for Elizabeth and Russell Brand for Simon. (I’m just a bit partial to Russell Brand.) It may not be as kinky as the other book, but it’s a fun romantic comedy with a few sexy scenes for the more faint of heart. Check it out and post your thoughts. Oh and if you’d like to check out the rest of the book, it’s available on Amazon along with my first book, All She Ever Wanted.

http://www.amazon.com/Note-Self-Change-Heather-Balog/dp/1484802519/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1377106807&sr=8-1&keywords=note+to+self+change+the+locks

Note to Self: Change the Locks

         My face dropped 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 fell to the floor and tried to pull it tightly across my body using only one hand.

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

            Using both hands, I cinched the towel as tight 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 Espadrilles that I ordered from DSW. When the doorbell rang as I was getting out of the shower, I raced to answer it since I was sure it had to be the Fed Ex guy. Those damn shoes were supposed to be delivered yesterday and I’ve been waiting so patiently for them. I really needed them to come like, right now, since I planned my entire outfit around them for today’s interview.

Had I glanced in the peep hole and saw Simon standing there, I wouldn’t have opened the door in a million years. In fact, I probably would have climbed out the fire escape. “This is a really bad time, Simon. What do you want?”

            “Oh! Is there another bloke here, then?” Simon asked, craning his neck in order to peek into my apartment. Stepping out into the hallway, I pulled the door closed behind me.

          “No! There is not. Not that it’s any of your concern,” I replied crossing my arms. At least, Austin wasn’t here right this moment, but that wasn’t really any of Simon’s business, now was it?

            Simon leaned up against my door frame, trying to appear cool. “Ah, so no new chap? Still carrying a torch for old Simon, then, huh?” He flashed one of his cheesy grins my way. God, did his audacity ever end?

            “Listen, Simon. I’m really busy this morning. I have an interview at 11:00 and I thought you were the Fed Ex man with a package. So if you could just tell me why your English ass is on my doorstep and so I can bid you Cheerio, to borrow one of your expressions from your homeland.” I forced a tight smile.

            “Well, I was really hoping, you wouldn’t tell me to sod off, love. You see, I’ve been forced from my flat.” Simon drawled, leaning closer to my cleavage. “My, you smell delectable. New scent?”

            I frowned as I side stepped his wandering nose. “No. Same old scent.” And same old Simon. “Listen, Simon. I’m so sorry to hear that, but A, I don’t see how that’s my problem and B, we call them apartments here in the States.” So freaking annoying. He’s lived here for twenty years, but he still thinks the accent is charming and is going to get him his way. Simon was like those Italian guidos at the Jersey shore that liked to pretend they had been born in Venice or something. They would strut around town with their Italian horns and Italy tattoos pretending they’re born and bred in Italy when they’re actually from Bloomfield and probably haven’t ever been outside the tri-state area. Like my brothers.

“Alright then, my apartment. I was forced from my apartment.” He enunciated the word careful. It still sounded overly British. Why can’t he just talk like an American?

            Actually, come to think of it, at one point in time, I did find Simon’s Britishness (if that’s even a word), sexy and irresistible. It’s pretty much how he got me into bed in the first place. Well, it’s not going to work today.

         “And why, might I ask, were you forced from your apartment?” I enunciated every syllable hoping to piss him off. I could be a bitch if he was going to be a jerk.

           Simon cringed. “Well, I had a little bit of dickering with the landlord over the rent.”

           “By that, you mean you didn’t pay the rent?” Simon was completely irresponsible with money. His parents had been well off, but they never seemed to teach him the value of money. He threw it away on toys and frivolous endeavors without budgeting for essentials of daily living. It was another one of his many grating habits.

           “Well, it was kind of hard. You see, I got sacked.”

           “Shocker that is,” I remarked with a smirk. Simon was a very smart guy; his IQ was off the charts. But he absolutely refused to apply himself and I’m pretty sure he had an adult version of ADHD because he couldn’t seem to stay in any job for more than a few months. He changed his college major twice and then didn’t even graduate. He told me that it had “bored” him. With a big, fat trust account after his father died, he didn’t feel the need to ever be serious about a career or even just a steady income.

“Please, Lizzie? I can’t get an apartment on a moment’s notice. The waiting lists are eons long and I have nowhere else to go. Mum’s in a home now. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.” Simon’s face fell and his dark gray eyes grew wide and moist. Oh, shit. Not the puppy dog face. Simon, put the puppy dog face away! That infuriating man knew I could not resist the puppy dog face.

I closed my eyes to shut out his pathetic face. “Don’t call me Lizzie. You know I hate that. What about Jake? Why can’t you stay with Jake?” Jake was Simon’s successful and talented screenplay writing brother, whose home was literally three blocks from my apartment. Except, I still lived in the crap part of town and he was living in a mansion penthouse.

“Oh, Jake’s being an arse.” The way he said arse gave me goose-bumps. Darn accent again. Stop it now, Elizabeth. Do not let him get to you. “Something about not wanting company there when they’re doing construction. Mary Ellen is having a baby, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” I remarked dryly. He was so dense. Did he really think I kept in touch with his family after our breakup? I always found the whole bunch to be rather pretentious and I had been overjoyed to purge myself of all of them in the process of breaking up with Simon. It had been one of the perks of our relationship ending.

“Oh, well. She is. Due in May. Going to be a girl. They’re doing the nursery in Mother Goose or some other nonsense like that.”

Exasperated, I sighed. “Listen, Simon. I’d love to chat and catch up with the last two years of your life, but I’ve really got to go.” I reached for the doorknob as I spoke. “Why don’t you friend request me on Facebook or something and we can be regular old chums,” I remarked with sarcasm.

“That’s quite naff. Leave me out in the cold,” Simon pouted.

“It’s April, Simon. You’ll be fine. Go find a refrigerator box or something.” I turned the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn. What the hell? I gripped it tighter and tried again. It stuck sometimes in the humidity.

As hard as I turned, the door wouldn’t budge. Oh sweet Jesus, please tell me I am not locked out! In the hallway. In a towel. With Simon. When I have an interview uptown in less than an hour.

Simon chuckled behind me as I tugged futilely at the door. “A bit of a pickle, eh?” His voice was full of amusement.

“It’s not funny, Simon,” I growled through gritted teeth. “I really need this job. I can’t be late for the interview.” Tears burnt my eyes. You cannot cry in front of Simon. I pulled at the door harder to no avail. I tensed as Simon inched so close to me that I could feel him breathing on my neck. What a creep!

“Ah, what happened to your job, then, Lizzie?”

“My job is none of your beeswax,” I retorted as I jiggled the handle futilely. Son of Sam, why the hell won’t this open? I don’t remember locking it from the inside.

“Oh, so you don’t have a job either? And you were criticizing me?” Simon chuckled. “You want to be the pot or the kettle then?”

I inhaled sharply as I turned around, facing his pointy chin. “Good day, Simon,” I told him, curtly nodding before marching off barefoot to the bank of elevators at the end of the hall.

“Where are you going?” Simon called after me.

“Getting the Super to open my apartment door,” I called as I punched the button to summons the elevator. This was going to be one embarrassing visit to the Super’s apartment. Perhaps even more embarrassing than the time I tried a new sushi restaurant with Nora and we both had explosive diarrhea which clogged up my toilet.

“Oh, well that seems rather mortifying,” Simon commented with a chuckle. Really, Simon? You don’t say. I focused on the green glowing numbers lighting up on the top of the elevator door. Why was this damn thing so slow today? “So you need a key, eh?” I heard Simon ask.

“Yes, Simon. Keys usually open doors,” I replied sarcastically while refocused my gaze and stared down at my feet. I could see that my toenail polish was flaking off. Great. Now I have to wear boots and it’s hot. I can’t even wear the open toed shoes if I wanted to. I’ll never get the job like that. Ugh, I’ve got to rethink my outfit, now. My mind was reeling as the clock ticked down.

“Oh a key like this one?” Simon called just as the elevator doors opened. My upstairs neighbor, Mrs. McIntyre was inside the elevator, gawking at me, her mouth hanging open. She clutched her purse and her stupid toy poodle, Cupcake, close to her body like I was some sort of animal snatcher. Haven’t you ever seen anyone waiting for an elevator in a towel, lady? I spun around to see Simon dangling a key in the air. My key. On my Mets lanyard that I had given him. Son of a bitch! He never gave me my key back!

The elevator door closed with Mrs. McIntyre and Cupcake safely behind it as I stormed over and attempted to snatch my key from Simon’s hand. He was shorter than average, a fact he absolutely hated, but he was still taller than I was and able to dangle the key well out of my reach. Holding on to the towel, I tried to jump for it, lost my balance and my body covering in the process. Quickly, I snatched up the towel and held it to my bare body. Simon laughed with delight as he tossed the key on top of the pile of junk my neighbor kept outside his door, despite the association regulation forbidding use of hall space for personal storage. Every weekend, Mr. Jackson attempted to clean out his apartment, dragging furniture and boxes into the common hallway, and every weekend, the poor dear became so overwhelmed by the process of cleaning his horde that he would quit halfway through. I didn’t have the heart to report him and his mess even though the pile of rubble was slowly creeping towards my own door.

“Come on, Simon! That was a real shit thing to do!” I dragged a chair to the edge of the pile. Thankfully, Mr. Jackson had attempted cleaning his dining room this past weekend and his entire set of dining room chairs was up against the wall. I climbed onto the chair, trying to grab my key. Simon sidled up next to me and gazed upwards. I stared down at him and tucked the towel between my legs. “Are you serious right now?”

A broad grin erupted on his well chiseled face. Damn, I forgot what nice cheekbones he has. But he does look like he’s put on weight. That thought satisfied me for some perverse reason. “I don’t think you can reach the top of that pile, love.”

“I can too,” I replied, puffing out my chest. I can’t reach the top of this pile. Damn my parents and their genes. Short, fat people should not be allowed to procreate together! The result is even shorter sausage-like children.

Simon casually leaned against my door frame once more. “I can help you out there, Lizzie. In exchange for one teensy little favor.” A sly smile spread across Simon’s lips.

“Don’t call me Lizzie,” I growled. I was stuck. Damn it. I needed his help. I sighed as I tightened my towel for the umpteenth time and ran my free hand through my now dry hair. “What do you want?”

Simon pushed off the door frame. “Oh you know what I want.”

I sucked in my breath. “You can’t live with me, Simon. It’s just not possible. I’m sorry.”

Pouting and throwing the puppy dog eyes my way, Simon inquired, “How about just for a few days? Till I can find a new flat? I promise I won’t be a bugger.”

I cringed at the word, flat, once again. Flats were shoes, damn it, not apartments. Just listening to him butcher the English language gave me the feeling of nails on the chalkboard. Sighing, I explained, “It’s not that I think you’re going to be a bugger.” I actually know that you will be a huge pain in my ass. “I’m sort of seeing someone right now. And I don’t think he would appreciate coming home from his business trip to find you living in my apartment.” Especially since I never even let him spend the night, I reminded myself.

Simon’s face clouded slightly. But then he triumphantly remarked, “Ah! So there is someone else!”

Sighing, I nodded my head. “Yes. And it’s, um, serious. I don’t want to jeopardize that.”

Simon nodded with comprehension. “No, no, I understand. I don’t want to get in your way.”

I smiled gratefully. “Thank you. Can I have my key now?”

Simon continued to smile. “No. I don’t think so. Why don’t you get your boyfriend to bring you the key?”

Oh my God he was so exasperating! Just when I think I’m making headway with the pompous prick!

“First of all, Austin is out of town on business, as I mentioned before. And secondly, he doesn’t have a key to my apartment.” The words escaped my mouth before I could stop myself.

“Ah, so not as serious as you led me to believe, my dear,” Simon said with a grin. He had me there. Austin and I had been seeing each other for almost a year. He was a very talented baseball player, who was currently playing Triple A ball. After being drafted right out of college, he spent a few years in Triple A where he batted .470 and played a mean center field. He was called up to the majors two years ago, before we met. A hamstring injury in his first month in the majors sidelined him for several weeks and he ended up being sent back down after rehab. We met at a bar shortly after he got sent down. He was out drinking with some of the other guys on the team. Even though I wasn’t a fan of his team, (cough, cough, Yankees) I recognized one of his teammates and as a lover of baseball in general, I was completely tongue tied. Nora dared me to go up and talk to them. She bet me the next month’s rent that I wouldn’t do it. I lost my job a few weeks before, along with whatever dignity I had left so I took the shot of whatever the hell the bartender put in front of me and waltzed over to the guys. And got the heel of my boot stuck in the floorboards. And proceeded to fall flat on my face in front of them.

Austin’s friends thought it was hilarious and mocked me, including the ball player I had worshipped up until that moment. But Austin was sweet and helped me to my feet. While his friends moved on to picking up a group girls who couldn’t even be out of high school, Austin and I sat alone at the bar and lamented about our recent career changes. We knocked back shot after shot and I guess I was drunk enough to go home with him that night; something I don’t normally do, but he had been a major league baseball player, after all. I was mortified when I woke up the next morning, naked in his bedroom. I was certain he was going to kick me out when he sobered up, telling me how much he regretted it. Instead, he asked me to spend the day with him, just hanging out, talking. And of course, sex, too.

He was a lot of fun and we hit it off outside the bedroom, so we’ve been dating ever since. I’m pretty sure it’s exclusive, but I never really asked. I don’t want to pressure him into anything else right now. I have a feeling he’s frustrated with where his life is taking him professionally and he isn’t going to be able to commit to our relationship just yet. I mean, neither of us even said “I love you”. I didn’t want to seem needy and all that. It’s usually the first mistake I make. And I’m a little out of practice. Did I mention I haven’t dated anyone since my breakup with Simon?

So I didn’t really know if it was serious or not, but I wanted Simon to think it was. And also that my very jealous boyfriend would beat him up if he found him at my apartment.

“It is serious. He just doesn’t have key because he’s out of town so much. He’s a baseball player,” I stressed importantly.

“Just dandy,” Simon remarked. “So if he’s out of town a lot, he won’t mind me staying here, then. It’s not like I will be in his way or anything.”

He had me there. Still, it reeked of a rotten idea.

“Come on, Lizzie. For old time’s sake?” Simon was practically on his knees.

“For old time’s sake is exactly why I don’t want you staying here, Simon. If you’ll remember…”

“I swear to Christ I’ve changed, Lizzie. I promise I won’t be the wanker I was back then. Please? You won’t even know I’m about.” He gazed into my eyes as he pleaded. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I mean, it’s only for a few days and even though he’s a real jerk face, I can be gracious and try to forget the past. I mean, it’s not like what he did could ever hurt me again, right?

I sighed audibly. I can’t believe I’m going to do this. Sure I was going to regret this for as long as I lived, I opened my mouth and said, “Ok, Simon. But only for a few days.” Simon beamed as he bounded to the top of the chair like a drunk leprechaun and retrieved my key. I poked his chest with my finger. “And you stay on the couch. You don’t dare come near my bedroom.”

Simon winked, “Are you playing hard to get?”

I shoved him harder. “I’m dead serious, Simon. Stay on the couch and out of my way. You said I wouldn’t even know you were there? Well, make that happen.”

“Of course, of course. I wouldn’t dream of making this difficult for you.” He unlocked the door for me and stepped aside as I entered my apartment first.

“Ladies first.”

“Gee, thanks. It is my apartment.”

Frowning, I stepped inside onto the plush carpet. And then, my ex-husband walked in right behind me. Back into my life again.

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