The bad mommy diaries » Uncategorized

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

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.

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.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: books made into movies, drama, Reese Witherspoon, romantic comedy, Russell Brand, vanilla sex scenes, who should play my book characters

A bad Mommy’s thoughts on “Fifty Shades of Grey”

thebadmommydiaries — Mon, 19 Aug 2013 01:23:11 +0000

About a year and a half ago, I started hearing rumblings amongst friends and coworkers about a HOT new book, Fifty Shades of Grey. Now these ladies were nearly quivering with madness when they exclaimed to me, “You HAVE to read this book! You just have to!” That right there is the most antagonistic set of words ever set in front of me. I DO NOT LIKE TO BE TOLD what to do. And what’s more, I don’t tend to follow the crowd, what ever the trend, I tend to buck it…I don’t watch any Housewives of any county, I don’t find Zumba exhilarating, I never thought Tom Cruise was yummy (but Channing Tatum is a different story), I never grew carrots on FarmVille or crushed candy…you get the picture. So just on the fact that it was popular and all you saw on the beach all summer were women hunched over books with a necktie on the cover was enough for me to swear I wasn’t reading the book.
Until Saturday. When I realized the library was closed until Monday and I was out of books to read…gasp! The horror. Now a normal person would just upload an Ebook onto their iPad, but living with Mr. Cheapo for 16 years has rubbed off on me. I cannot fathom spending money on a book that I can get elsewhere, especially since it takes me an average of two days to read a book. So, I borrowed Fifty Shades from a friend and set forth to on a quest to figure out what all the fuss was about. I sequestered myself in my bedroom with the book and a fresh set of batteries. When I emerged five days later, I only had one thought.
Oh my. Or in the words of Ana Steele, Holy cow (or crap, shit, hell, etc., etc…..) For a woman so allegedly intelligent, how many times can she possibly utter one of those phrases in her head? I seriously considered inventing a drinking game, but I would have been dead of alcohol poisoning by chapter 5. She couldn’t seem to utter a coherent, intelligent sentence in her head that didn’t include any of these words. Yet, in her emails to Christian she would throw in words I needed to grab the dictionary for like verbose and envisaged. After spending five agonizing days between alternately looking up words and feeling my brain cells die slow painful deaths while reading, I’m pretty sure I want a refund on my time. And the dead brain cells.
Now before you Fifty Shades fanatics lynch me, let me explain a few things about why I didn’t like this book. First off, it is not because I am a prude. I have ready many a steamy novel in my day and even watched some questionable movies. I am not shocked by those who chose to shake up their sex lives. Whatever people chose to do in their bedroom is not my business as long as nobody is getting hurt. Oh, ding, ding, ding…. Getting hurt. This was one of the reasons I hated this book.
There was a scene that made me see red…one that was akin to a domestic violence situation. But it was “okay” because she agreed to it? Nope, sorry…never okay to beat another person. And it is certainly not okay to excuse him because he is rich and handsome. And anyone who goes along with it for those reasons is, in my book, a moron. (Aka. Anastasia Steele)
That out of the way, let me tell you why this book had me laughing my butt off and rolling my eyes for 514 pages. I am sure I would have been black and blue if I belonged to Christian Grey but hey, here’s the thing…I’d never “belong” to anyone. I have a brain in my head and NOBODY tells me what to do. My hubby would lose an appendage if he dared to try. In fact, I gave him a nosebleed once when he disagreed with me.
My problem with that simpering twit, Ana, is that she had this rich boyfriend, but she was too good to accept gifts from him because it made her feel like a (gasp) prostitute. Guess what honey? If the guy “owns” you, that’s exactly what you are. Look the definition up in the dictionary when you’re searching for synonyms for “wow”. But yet, she like to think that she’s in charge of herself and has some control. She would try to exercise her control by arguing about the STUPIDEST things. Okay, so your boyfriend wants you to eat. Hello, that’s a NORMAL request! If a guy wants you to eat in front of him, Eat!!! Make him wonder where you put it all. If he tells you you must have your hair up at all times or can’t look at him, THEN you tell him off. But, no. Ana lays down and lets him boss her around about those things and then has the nerve to think, he’s bossy. No duh! Did you read the contract? Or were you too busy with your breath hitching? What does that even mean? It makes me feel like she’s having an asthma attack and needs a puff of the inhaler. Is that a common saying that I just missed? Maybe it’s British.
That’s another thing. The author is British and she’s setting the scene in Washington state. Which is fine if you can get the language and jargon right! In the good old US of A, we don’t call backpacks rucksacks, we don’t wear “pinafores” and we don’t talk on our “mobiles”. Christian sounds like fricken Agatha Christie…what guy says “it’s a lovely day” or “for pity’s sake”?? None I know unless he’s being sarcastic. I’ve known my husband for 21 years and never heard either him or his friends utter “for pity’s sake”.
Maybe if this book hadn’t been hyped to the moon and back, I would have enjoyed it more. But picking it up, I was expecting not only a book that would make me not only ravage my poor unsuspecting hubby, but be an awe inspiring piece of literature worthy of a Noble Peace prize. Instead, I found myself trudging through a cringeworthy, detailed description of a sick and twisted individual with mommy issues and the air headed fool who thinks she can change him. The fact that this is a best seller not only makes me physically ill, but has me questioning womankind. I read reviews from readers who were literally (haha…that’s a pun) in love with Mr. Grey and would have killed to be Ana. This is the kind of man they want? This is the type of woman they can relate to? E.L. James is a billionaire household name because millions of neglected women got bored of their washer’s spin cycle and that is fifty shades of crazy.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Fifty Shades of Grey, moms who hated fifty shades, women who don't like Christian Grey

You Have Another Parent (that guy in the recliner lives here, too)

thebadmommydiaries — Fri, 09 Aug 2013 12:40:41 +0000

I have come to realize that my family would fall apart if I were not around. Especially my kids. They have yet to realize that they do indeed have another parent. My daughter will literally walk past her father to ask me (on my hands and knees scrubbing the toilet) to pour her a drink. My son will ignore the man who is four feet from him and scream my name across the house for help with his homework. They seem to have forgotten that he can do nearly everything I can (even though I undoubtedly do it BETER). Yes, that man in the arm chair can also help you tie your shoes or make you a sandwich. And they most certainly can be the parent you go to when YOUR OTHER PARENT IS SLEEPING!
Case in point, last night I discovered that I had a cluster of mosquito bites on my foot (or poison ivy, according to Dr. Husband) and it itched like a bitch. After nearly scratching my foot raw, I decided to take some Benedryl. Now, Benedryl makes me VERY sleepy (like I can’t keep my eyes open without toothpicks kinda sleepy) and I wouldn’t have taken it if it wasn’t after 10:30 and both kids were supposed to be asleep. The key words here are “supposed to be”. Because shortly after I tossed that sweet pink liquid back, I discovered that they were both wide awake in their rooms.
Too late to do anything about my sleepy juice that was already coursing through my veins, I snatched all the electronics that they were hoarding and ordered them to go to sleep, NOW. I sounded like a novice mother saying that because telling a kid to go to sleep is like telling a dog with fleas to stop scratching. Ain’t gonna happen. In fact, in some twisted way, I think it actually prevents them from sleeping.
After announcing to my husband that I was going to sleep and watching him roll his eyes because going to bed before midnight is juvenile to him, I slipped between the covers in medicated bliss. For about 11 1/2 minutes. Just long enough to feel completely alarmed when I was shaken awake by a small, sobbing child.
“Mommy!” small, sobbing child wailed.
Who is she talking to? I don’t know this Mommy person. What day is it? What time is it? Who am I by the way?
“Mommy!” the kid repeated, this time in even higher pitched tones.
“Huh? What?” I mumbled. My mouth wasn’t working right. I sounded like I had a mouthful of marbles. And what the hell? Is this drool on the pillow? Why am I drooling???
“I had a nightmare, Mommy and I can’t sleep,” small child told me.
“Oh well, that sucks,” I replied indifferently. Why was this kid telling me this? I wondered. She really should go tell her mother. I drifted asleep only to be shook away three seconds later.
“Mommeeeeeee! I need you! I need you to lay with me!”
And that’s when it hit me. This was my kid. And she woke me up from a drug induced sleep. And she wanted me to lay with her.
I tried to fling my leg over the side of the bed to stagger to my feet, but my leg wouldn’t move. In fact, I couldn’t even throw back the covers because my hand wouldn’t move either. In fact, I think I was falling back to sleep right at that very moment. Oh crap.
“Go back to sleep,” I managed to stammer before drifting off.
“Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeee!” came the screechy voice again.
“For crying out loud,” I snapped. “Just go to your bed and close your eyes and go to sleep. See, Mommy is doing it right now…” (Listen, before you criticize, remember this is the BAD Mommy Diaries, not the June Cleaver Diaries)
I felt her hot breath against my ear before she screamed into it, but my reflexes were delayed and I failed to get out of the way. I think my ear drum may be punctured.
This time, my body bolted upright and I sprang from the bed.
“I’m up, I’m up!” I walked her back to her room and tucked her in. “Go back to sleep,” I ordered (pretty unsympathetically, I might add).
“I’m scared of the dark,” she complained. “I need you to lay with me.”
“There’s nothing to be scared of,” I reasoned. It wasn’t even dark. In fact, she had every light in her room blazing.
“Lay with meeee,” she whined.
“I don’t wanna! I wanna go back to bed!” I whined back.
“But I’m scared!”
I scratched my head, trying to come up with a logical solution to this dilemma in my foggy state. Now if I was half awake I would have crawled into her bed and killed two birds with one stone. But no, I was not that smart. Instead, I asked, “Where’s the dog? She can lay with you.”
I called the dog, unleashing the chain of events that usually occurs when the dog is laying with the older one. The dog leaves his side and he falls apart. Crying and begging the dog to come back. And then the little one ends up crying and grabbing the dog who then bites her because she hates being in the middle of their “I love the dog more” fight. (They love her at bedtime…hate her at “pick up the dog crap” time).
Stupid me. I trudge back to the bedroom, intending to lock my door and cover my head with a pillow to drown out the sounds of them beating each other with their Nooks.
I glanced at the clock, expecting it to be like, 3 in the morning. Instead, my jaw dropped as I saw the angry red numbers reading 11:16. Sixteen minutes??? I was asleep and this entire scene transpired in sixteen minutes??? I turned to see that my husband was missing from the bed. Of course he was. He was still awake. Why didn’t she go to him when she couldn’t sleep???
I stomped down the stairs, very loudly I might add, and found the hubby in his recliner. Laughing at grown men in camo swinging from tire swings over a muddy river. On TV, of course.
Hands on my hips, hair in awful fright, I asked with sarcasm, “Are you deaf?”
He looks up from the zany frivolity on the TV and gives me a blank expression. “Huh?”
Rolling my exhausted eyes I reply, “You must be deaf otherwise you would have heard the circus unraveling upstairs.”
He continues to look bewildered. I shake my head in disgust and storm back upstairs where the children are are both crying and screaming and flailing their arms around. Something about a bloody nose and a broken thumb. And the windows are open.
“Shhhhh!” I hiss. “You’ll wake the neighbors.” And they’ll call the cops because they’ll think someone is being murdered in here.
“I’m hot,” the older one announces. Good, lets close the windows.
So I tromp all over the house, shutting windows. I go downstairs and hubby is in the same place.
“The kids are hot and can’t sleep. I’m turning the air on,” I announce to Sir Cheapskate. Before he protests, I add, “Help me shut the windows.”
Entranced in his show, he waves me off. “In a minute.” Code for, “you might as well do it yourself, I’m not getting up”.
I sigh, finish closing the window and head back upstairs expecting the children to be drifting off into blissful, cool and comfy sleep. Instead, they are still screaming at the top of their lungs.
“But I want the dog!”
“No! I want the dog!”
This again.
“We have TWO dogs! You can each take one!” I reason in a pleading voice. “Please, just go the hell to sleep! Mommy can hardly stand up!”
The “other dog” lifts his head at this suggestion and gives me a “oh HELL no!” look. The dog, purchased for the purpose of “putting the children to sleep”, does not want to have anything to do with them. He wants to lay all over me all night so he can be closer when he barks to go out at 4 in the morning. My husband conveniently cannot hear him barking, either. Amazing. He really must be deaf.
Speaking of, here he comes, up the steps. The children are still fighting, the dog is now barking and I’m practically in tears because the Benedryl is kicking in high gear. He turns to me an announces, “It’s late. I’m going to bed.”

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Kids who only ask mom for help

Are We There Yet???

thebadmommydiaries — Sun, 28 Jul 2013 14:56:00 +0000

Around March or April, my husband and I begin to sweat and break out into hives. It is this time of year that we start to plan our annual family travel extravaganza. Like most other red blood American parents, the notion of a family summer vacation is ingrained in us. We feel it is our parental duty to provide our children with some sort of vacation during their vacation from school. We want them to have life experiences beyond their own backyard. Every year, we ponder destinations over brochures and the Internet, seeking our perfect family getaway. And every year, after we’ve spent countless hours analyzing our options and fighting over who wants to go where (some reasonable, some not so much…ahem…European cruise), a sense of dread immediately begins to consume me.
Vacations are hardly that for me. The anxiety sets in about a week before we are scheduled to depart. That when I start with the lists.
My family (my husband) makes fun of my lists. But without them I think I would quite frankly lose my mind. Packing for four people and preparing for a trip, even a two or three day mini vacation, is a monumental undertaking. Ugh…there’s that word…”packing”. Just saying it gives me a headache.
It causes my head to pound because it is entirely up to me. I have to make sure everyone has bathing suits, socks, underwear and outfits for every conceivable situation we may face from hiking up the side of a mountain to an impromptu invite to dinner with the President. Not only are the other three people in the house completely incapable of this chore, if I left it up to them it would cause my head to explode. Because when I hear, “Mom, where’s my…” or “dear, did you pack the…” I know the answer to the question. If they packed, my son wouldn’t pack any underwear, my daughter would fill her whole suitcase with clothes for her American Girl doll and my husband would throw everything in a garbage bag because he would have no clue where the suitcases were kept. Nobody would remember their phone chargers, toothbrushes or extra flip flops. And then would stand there in their broken flip flops, holding their dead cell phones and a tube of toothpaste blaming me for their inability to plan ahead and anticipate their own needs. Needless to say, it is exhausting. Because inevitably I WILL forget something and usually it will be something of my own (like our week long Myrtle Beach vacation the day after all of us were in a wedding and I remembered every last blessed item except my phone charger).
Then there is the actual traveling. All of our trips are via car. Not only am I like chicken in the flying department, but the hubby is cheap. (Love you dear) Despite providing the children with ample food, drinks and activities on the road, the trip in at least one of the directions will be nothing short of disastrous. Usually it is the returning home trip after we’ve had a smooth sailing on the way to our destination and have lulled ourselves into a false sense of security that “hey, maybe this will be a good car ride both ways”. But alas, our return trip will always be a nightmare. We will hit bumper to bumper traffic at some point and my husband will start off by cursing under his breath. He will ask why we are traveling on a Saturday again and loudly announce “we are never traveling on the weekend in daylight hours again!”. As we crawl down the road, he will become increasing agitated and start shouting at the drivers around him and clenching his jaw which will undoubtedly cause him to get a migraine. He will not want to play the license plate game any longer. It will be at this point that my daughter will (without fail) announce that she has to pee and she has to pee NOW. Dear hubby will grip the wheel, knuckles turning white and inform her that there is no place for her to go to the bathroom. Her eyes will well up and her bottom lip will tremble. She will announce that she is in fact peeing RIGHT NOW. Her brother will scream that she’s gross, to which she will immediately get defensive and tell him it’s no fair that he can pee in the Snapple bottle. Which he will take as a challenge and try to pee in the bottle, missing as my husband sharply switches lanes.
I’m desperately trying to ignore the rest of the travelers in my car by reading a book when I hear those ominous word, “Mommy, I feel like I’m gonna puke”. Quickly I spring into action because this a very real threat. Inevitably my belt will lock up as I am attempting to contort myself to grab the plastic bags stowed behind my seat. My son will usually take pity on my and hand his sister the bag, but his help ends there. He will turn his head, muttering about how gross she is once again, as she spends the next five minutes with vomit shooting out of her mouth and nose. She will then hand me the plastic bag and I will discover as I carry over into the front seat, that it has a hole in it. I start my mental list for the next day. Unpack, laundry, scrub car seat, scrub car floor. The wall of traffic lets up at this point and my husband, desperate to “beat his time” will now attempt to do 90. Causing him to get pulled over and get a ticket, thus losing money and even more time. There is no way he’s going to let us stop to eat or pee now. It’s home or bust now.
I probably could tolerate the packing and the car ride if it was a little easier to enjoy the actual vacation. No matter where we go, someone is unhappy. If we go to an amusement park, the little one wants to ride on the toddler rides (which she is WAY too big for) and the older one will have a temper tantrum because he doesn’t meet the height requirement for the rides that twist you up and tie you into knots. My husband wants to eat three fast food meals and I think eating two big meals is more time efficient on vacation. If we go to the beach, someone gets burnt the first day and spends the rest of the trip miserable and complaining. When we go some place known for it’s unique cuisine, one of my kids will turn up their nose and go on a hunger strike. If we go someplace remote and relaxing without a lot of distractions, they will complain they are bored. Every souvenir stand we pass will result in tears because I don’t want to buy junk that will fall apart before we get to the hotel. If the hotel doesn’t have a pool, they will cry. If the hotel does have a pool, they will never go in. They don’t want to share a bed. “She pinched me”, “he kicked me”…24/7 for the entire duration of vacation and I can’t get away! I think, next March, I’m just going to take the money and hop a plane to Hawaii. Yup, I’m gonna get on a plane and fly away by myself. Just me and the cabana boys bringing me drinks on a sandy beach all day long. I can read all day, eat when I want and not pack anything but a bathing suit. Now that’s my idea of a vacation!

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: planning kid friendly vacations, Traveling with kids, vacations with kids