Heather Balog's Blog, page 21

Should I Go To the Nurse’s Office???

I was at work today, contemplating making a new bulletin board for my nurse’s office. I was tired of the old one and wanted something informative for the MANY students that pass through my door on a daily basis. I considered a table outlining the differences between the flu and a cold. I thought about pictures of how to properly wash your hands. I wondered if a bulletin board that advised about the dangers of smoking would be good. Then I realized, they’re not going to pay attention to that. I needed something to really help them make some good, healthy choices.

With the assistance from several colleagues, I compiled a list to help students decide whether or not they should interrupt their educational day to take the ten minute round trip to my office.

#1

DO come to the nurse if you are bleeding profusely. Profusely means…A LOT.

DON’T come to the nurse for a trickle of blood that can easily be wiped away with a tissue (nosebleeds included). If you must have a bandaid, ask your teacher. Yes, your teacher has bandaids. I know because I gave the bandaids to them.

#2

DO come to the nurse’s office if you fall in gym and a bone is sticking out, or a hand or foot is dangling.

DON’T come to the nurse’s office if you got a paper cut on your pinkie finger at home three weeks ago and now it “stings”.

#3

DO come to the nurse’s office if your hair is on fire. Actually, STOP, DROP and ROLL and THEN come to the nurse’s office.

DON’T come to the nurse’s office to check your hair or your shoes or your makeup in my full length mirror. Also, duck lips and selfies are not allowed in the nurse’s office. (Teachers are excluded from this rule.)

#4

DO come to the nurse’s office if your tooth fell out and is bleeding and you want a tooth box to take it home in.

DON’T come to the nurse’s office if your tooth is loose and you want me to pull it. I am not a dentist. Teeth freak me out.

#5

DO come to the nurse’s office if you throw up Exorcist style in the hallway.

DON’T come to the nurse’s office if you’re nauseous because you just realized you forgot to do your math homework…I can’t help you there.

#6

DO come to the nurse’s office if you get stung by a bee.

DON’T come to the nurse’s office if you got a mosquito bite four days ago and it suddenly itches. Leave it alone. It’ll stop itching. I promise.

#7

DON’T come to the nurse because you broke a nail.

DO come to the nurse if you broke a nail because you slammed your hand in your locker.

#8

DO come to the nurse’s office if you have peed your pants.

DON’T come to the nurse’s office if you have spilled water on your pants. (Water dries.)

#9

DON’T come to the nurse’s office to use my bathroom because the line in the hall is long and you don’t want to have to wait like everyone else. Or because you have to poop and don’t want anyone in the hall bathroom to know you’re pooping and think my bathroom is private, but really we can hear you outside the bathroom flushing ten times and then the whole room smells and everyone who goes in afterwards knows EXACTLY what you were doing in there. At least in the hall bathroom you can blame it on someone else.

DO come to the nurse’s office to use the bathroom if you legit will poop your pants if you wait in line in the hallway.

#10

DON’T come to the nurse office if your jacket zipper is stuck.

DO come to the nurse’s office if your belly is stuck in your zipper.

#11

DO come to the nurse’s office if you bumped your head on the bus.

DON’T come to the nurse’s office if you put your hand in gum on the bus.

#12

DO come to the nurse’s office if you have a headache.

DON’T come to the nurse’s office if you need change for the vending machine.

#13

DO come to the nurse’s office if you got something in your eye outside at gym.

DON’T come to the nurse if you swallowed an gnat outside at gym.

#14

DO come to the nurse if you can’t BREATHE.

DON’T come to the nurse if your nose is stuffed up and can’t SMELL.

#15

DO come to the nurse if you have a fever and want to call your mom to take you home.

DON’T come to the nurse if you want to call your mom to ask what she’s making for dinner tonight. (Yes, I actually had a student have a TEN minute conversation with her mom because she didn’t like meatloaf and was trying to talk her out of making it for dinner.)

I sure do hope my tips help cut down on the traffic!

The Bad Mommy Cooks—North Carolina

[image error]Moving right along on our Cuisine Tour de USA. We’ve been taking turns cooking and last week it was my turn to cook again. I’m not gonna lie to you…after hubby’s brilliant execution of the bison burgers, I was a little nervous. ESPECIALLY after he suggested that we actually keep score in this challenge. Which, if you think about it isn’t fair at all. Besides the fact that he cooks better than I do, remember my family’s aversion to the Alabama meal? what happens to the person who pulls Alabama??? They’re going to lose points just because my family is that petty. It could be the most amazing meal in the world, but the “ewwww gross” factor that going to result from catfish showing up on our kids’ plates is insurmountable. And with my luck, I’m going to be the one who ends up cooking it.

Well, I realized I needed to bring my A-game just to pull even in this contest. And I lucked out last week—I pulled North Carolina. I felt the heavens singing. Our North Carolina meal was to be pulled pork sliders. One of the four or five meals I make well happens to be…pulled pork. In fact, pulled pork sandwiches and I are practically synonymous…ask my friends. Pulled pork and I go together like peanut butter and jelly. Like shampoo and conditioner. Like Bert and Ernie. Like hotdogs and mustard (I will not even speak to you if you put ketchup on your hotdogs). Like cornflakes and peanut butter sandwiches…wait, you don’t do that? Okay, maybe that’s just me, but you don’t know what you’re missing.

I was not nervous any more…well, not completely. The only thing that I needed to do was shake up the recipe a little to make it different from my usual pulled pork sandwiches. The first change was to use slider buns instead of kaiser rolls. My husband had serious doubts about this change as he stared at the tiny slider rolls.

“You can have more than one,” I told him.

“I guess,” he grumbled. “I really like the rolls, though.”

“Pretend they’re White Castles,” I told him. He perked up immediately.

My second change was to spice up the pork a bit. I always use an All Recipes recipe that I printed out a bazillion years ago. It’s a safe bet, but the meat doesn’t usually have much flavor until I drench it in BBQ sauce. This time, I added some Cayenne pepper and smoked paprika to the usual salt, pepper, paprika and red pepper flakes. And by some, I mean a ton…I accidentally dumped half the smoked paprika in there. Ooops. It definitely made the pork spicier and hotter—there was almost no need for BBQ sauce at all. But of course, I added it—a honey BBQ flavor. And I topped the sliders with coleslaw. They didn’t like the vinegar based coleslaw that’s common in the Carolinas, so I appeased them with my usual mayo based coleslaw. The family wolfed them down enthusiastically.

The only thing they did not share my enthusiasm for was the sweet potato fries that accompanied the dish. I love sweet potato fries—the frozen ones didn’t end up as crispy as I like them, but even if they had been, that would not have changed my family’s indifference toward them. (They’re not very adventurous sometimes

The Bad Mommy Cooks Again—North Dakota

If you’ve been following my blog recently, you know that our family has started a new eating challenge—meals from all 50 states. The first state was Hawaii, and in typical bad mommy style, I ruined the meal. I’m sure none of you are shocked. Last week we pulled out North Dakota as our state. North Dakota is famous for their bison burgers. Now our kids love burgers—Bison burger, however…well, lets just say faces were made.

“What’s a bison?” my daughter asked as I googled where I could buy bison meat—believe it or not, it wasn’t available at Shop Rite. It’s like, gourmet or something.

“Um, a really big cow,” I told her…not totally a lie. I have to admit, I was also a little nervous about eating an animal I’d never consumed before. We get so used to beef and chicken and pork that anything else seems foreign and scary to us.

But never fear, the bad mommy  mommy’s hubby, was on the job. Okay…this one was prepared for us by my hubby.  I stepped down for this challenge since I’ve only made burgers about four times and he’s made then like skatey-eight billion times. After my most recent cooking debacle, the children practically begged him to make the meal.  It is worth mentioning that I have rarely screwed up a burger though. I mean, I’ve only burnt them once and undercooked them twice. (So…that’s like batting .333, which anyone will tell you is pretty damn good stats.) Yet, the fam was not willing to budge. This was HIS meal to cook and I was sent to the DL. But I DID find the bison meat, so, that counts for something right?

Anyhoo, hubby made the bison burgers and added bacon and everyone loved them and blah, blah, blah. (What a show-off he is.) As a result, I discovered something very important. There is nothing funny about him cooking. Sure we get a good meal and all, but what fun is that? Seriously. He doesn’t burn potholders or cut open bloody meat. He doesn’t set baked potatoes on fire in the microwave or make crunchy rice. He doesn’t forget to season the meat or accidentally put the chicken in the oven with the package of giblets still inside (ONCE—you will only make that mistake ONCE). Which means one thing—hubby cooking is not very funny and therefore, not great blog material. On that note, I will leave you with a picture of our perfectly cooked, juicy, tasty burgers and stay tuned for the next episode of The Bad Mommy Cooks where I accidentally melt the crock pot on the stove.

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Filed under: cooking Tagged: bad cooking, bison burgers, north dakota cuisine

Driving Me Crazy

When my first born came home from the hospital at two days old, I remember being struck by a paralyzing fear while staring at him in his bassinet. What the heck was I going to do with this tiny little creature? And what would I do if something went wrong? What if I dropped him or fell asleep and crushed him or he got sick or stopped breathing? What if I did everything wrong and screwed him up beyond repair? What were the people at the hospital doing, letting me come home with six pounds of complete helplessness? These horrifying thoughts raced through my head for several days, causing me to well up and burst into tears at random times. As the months went by though, my anxiety abated a bit—slowly I started to get into the motherhood groove, and even though pangs of terror would hit me every so often, I realized that many of my fears were unfounded. Similar panic occurred when he started walking, and then later when he went to school. Then it was going to the mall with friends and crossing the street without my help. Each time I learned to work through my anxiety of him doing something new and growing up.

But none of those previous episodes could have possibly prepared me for the most terrifying of all “normal” parenting experiences—the first car ride with your child behind the wheel. They turn 16 and you realize, “Holy crap…they need to learn how to drive!” At first, you send them off with a driving instructor and a $300 check and assume they’re going to come back with all the knowledge and expertise they need to operate a motor vehicle. It’s not until you actually get in the car with them—in a bizarro world where they’re in the driver’s seat and you’re just the front seat passenger—that the reality of what is happening hits you. You just handed your keys to the person who was incapable of wiping his own butt a mere decade ago. The person who told you this morning that he didn’t know what to do when he spilled milk from his cereal. The person who claims he can’t set his alarm and needs you to wake him up every morning. He’s going to turn on this 2,000 lb machine and attempt to propel it through the streets without A. hitting another car (moving or parked) B. hitting a person, and C. killing you in the process.

Yeah. I know. Terrifying doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of this experience. Still, you’re going to give that world class driving school the benefit of the doubt. With your heart hammering in your ears, you buckle yourself up and say a quick prayer as you clutch the door handle and tell him to back out of the driveway. Within seconds you realize this may have been a mistake considering he hasn’t even bothered to adjust his mirrors, let alone check them. So of course, you start screaming as he barrels out of the driveway at warp speed, causing him to slam on the breaks and your neck to snap forward like a rubber band.

“What?” he asks in a panicked voice. “Did I hit a squirrel?”

“Not yet. But you will if you don’t adjust the mirrors.”

He grumbles and fidgets with them for a few seconds and then continues on his way out the driveway, passenger side tire hitting the curb because he turns the wheel too quickly and in the wrong direction. You suck in your breath and correct him. He continues to mumble under his breath. Once he hits the street though, the speed completely halts as he awkwardly turns the wheel (practically ending up on the neighbor across the street’s lawn). Thankfully, there is no one coming down the street to be held up by this act. Granted, the kid’s never backed out of the driveway before—you got to give him some leeway.

He has, however, driven on the street before, and even before he gets to the corner, you realize that this is going to be a $hitshow. You assume that at some point he learned that roads have two side and each driver needs to stay on his or her own side of the road—the fact that he may not have comprehended that fact is quickly becoming apparent. If another car should happen down this road, there’s going to be a head on collision happening.

“Watch where you’re going!” you screech, resisting the inane urge to grab the wheel to correct the car’s direction.

“Stop yelling at me!” he yells back. “You’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry, ” you mumble because you realized that he’s really not that far over the center of the road—you’re just so shaky from this whole experience so far. And you’re not even off your own street yet.

“My driving instructor said I was good,” he says defensively.

Yeah, I bet he says that to all the kids if they don’t wreck the car. Or kill him.

As you continue to hyperventilate, he rolls up to the stop sign. And yes, he rolls up to the stop sign. Not past it where most normal people stop so they can actually see the traffic coming in order to make an informed decision about whether to turn the car or not.

“What are you doing?” you ask as he stares at the parked cars on either side of the street. “There is no way you can see!”

He ignores you as he blindly turns onto the main street—he cuts the wheel wide to the right and then makes a tight left turn. He immediately speeds up—he’s only going 30, but it feels like 90. You close you eyes and chant in your head I’m not going to die, I’m not going to die, I’m not going to die. Then you realize that if your eyes aren’t open, you just may die since you may be the only thing preventing your child from slamming the car into the oncoming vehicles on the opposite side of the road. Reluctantly, you open them, just in time to help him realize that there is merging traffic coming off the highway as he attempts to turn into the grocery store parking lot without checking his mirrors. It is at this point that you realize driving school instructors are grossly underpaid.

“I put my blinker on,” he protests as you breathe into a paper bag.

“That doesn’t matter,” you mumble through the bag. “You have to LOOK all the time. People don’t care about your blinker.”

“Then why use it?” he asks. Good question, kid. I wish I knew the answer—sometimes I feel like I’m the only person who actually uses it.

“Just park the car,” I instruct him. Then I gaze at the packed grocery store parking lot with various cars parked haphazardly throughout. A vision of him clipping the back of a Lexus as he attempts to park springs to your mind. “Down there,” I point. “Far away from all the other cars.”

He pulls into a spot—there are no cars on either side—yet he is still crooked. Oh my God, you think as you stagger out of the car. He’s going to give me a heart attack…or at the very least, drive me crazy.

“How did I do?” he asks enthusiastically.

“You didn’t kill us or anyone else,” you say.

“That’s good, right?” he asks as eager as…well, a teenager who wants to drive.

“That’s a plus.” And then you swallow the vomit that is lodged in your throat and wonder if you can break into his college fund and pay the driving instructor to take him out for the next 11 months until he gets his license. It would be so worth it.

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***Author’s note: This particular experience happened three weeks ago—since then, he has become MUCH better at driving (his parking skills still suck), but it still makes me cringe every time I see the keys in his hand.

 

 

Filed under: parenting humor Tagged: driving with teeangers, my kid is driving, teenage drivers, teenagers with driving permits

The Bad Mommy Cooks Again—Hawaii

At the end of July, we were eating dinner and my daughter came up with this brilliant idea that for our next Family Food Challenge, we should cook a meal from each of the fifty states over the course of a year (50 states, 52 weeks…a coincidence???). So we scoured the internet and asked for advice from Facebook in order to compile a list of meals from all 50 states. And now it’s September and we are finally getting to our first meal.

There are a couple of reasons for the delay, and most of them have to do with my family’s picky nature. When we organized the list, we discovered Alabama was first alphabetically. Not much of a shocker there, but the fact that we had fried catfish as the “Alabama” meal, caused my family’s fur to prickle. In our house, salmon is about the only fish that makes it through our front door. Upon the “Catfish discovery”, the children (and hubby) made various gagging noises and raised complaints. I still didn’t budge. When hubby said our local grocery store wouldn’t have catfish, I proved him wrong. I came home with catfish. A victory? Nope.

That catfish literally sat in our fridge for 9 days before I acquiesced and sent it on its way to the giant garbage can in the sky. Every single day that I had planned to make the catfish, something mysteriously came up…doctor’s appointments, birthday parties, late afternoons at the beach… Our Food Challenge was stalled for almost two weeks simply over catfish. I told them resistance was futile—we had to have catfish to start.

Then the brilliant child came up with a plan to get around the catfish (for now). She wrote down all the states and put them in a hat. We waited with bated breath to see what she would draw out of the hat. Luckily, she pulled out good one…Hawaii.

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Hawaii was initially “Spam”, but with a little research, I found a recipe for Kulua Pig. This called for a pig roasted over a spit…not happening, but there was a “cheat” recipe where you could make it in the oven. Winner, winner, chicken, er, pig dinner! (There was also a crock pot recipe but that was too close to my normal pulled pork recipe…this experiment is about trying new things.) Everyone was satisfied with the choice. You would think that would have meant we had the Kulua Pig the next day, right?

Wrong. You obviously don’t understand how my family works and how difficult dinner really is in our house. First, it was finding the right cut and size. The recipe fed 20. My kids eat a lot, but not even my teenager can eat for 20. So I got a smaller cut (keep this in mind, it is relevant later). Then the pork butt sat in my fridge for 5 days while life got in the way. Since the recipe said the pork needed to cook for 4 hours and change, we had to make it on a day when we would be home all afternoon. That’s not an easy feat. The pork butt went into the freezer. A few days later, the pork butt came out of the freezer and I tried again.

Wednesday we were supposed to have the pork butt. I had to work and forgot to tell the hubby to put it in the oven—pork butt sat in the fridge and we went to Chili’s. Thursday, hubby worked and it’s not worth it to cook elaborate meals for just the kids—pork butt sat in the fridge. Friday, we had lunch too late and no one felt like eating dinner—pork butt sat in the fridge. Saturday I threatened to cut the WiFi if we did not have the Damn Kulua Pig because it was going to have to get thrown out if we didn’t eat it tonight!!!! Hubby then informed me of a BBQ that he forgot to write on the calendar. (He claims he TOLD me about it but he did not, and if it’s not on the calendar it doesn’t happen.) I threatened his manhood if he didn’t come home to eat the Damn Kulua Pig. He promised he would be home as he sheepishly bowed out.

As I was gathering the ingredients, I realized I read the recipe wrong (the font on my phone seems to be shrinking…). I needed banana LEAVES to wrap the Damn Kulua Pig in. Yeah, I don’t have banana leaves, nor do I have any idea where to get them—actual bananas were going to have to do. But of course, when I cook, ONE problem isn’t enough. Remember I got a smaller cut of pork? Well after hubby rubbed it with sea salt and liquid smoke and as I was preparing to put it in the oven, I realized that crap…it wouldn’t need a whole 4 hours to cooks. But then, our oven is messed up—sometimes it’s off by 50 degrees in either direction so it’s a game to figure out how long stuff will take to cook to begin with—so I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I cut everything by half, temp AND time wise? Math is not my strong suit, so soon, the only smoke was coming from my ears. So I stuck it in the oven and crossed my fingers, hoping for the best. At 2 hours in, this is what happened:

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Ooops. (Aren’t burnt bananas pretty???) Meanwhile I had told hubby he better be home by 6:30 to eat the Damn Kulua Pig. It was 6:15. I kicked the oven up a few hundred notches and proceeded to dry the whole thing out within minutes. Hubby made a face and said he was going back to the BBQ for “Real food”. Children turned up their noses at the pork and followed their father out the door with promises of “Real food”. This is me…eating all by my lonesome:

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Well, one down, 49 to go. Better luck next time, right?

Filed under: cooking Tagged: Bad cooks, bad mommy cooks, cooking fails, food, Kulua Pig, pinterest fails

Summer Expectations With Kids Vs. Reality (The Teenage Version)

Every June I clutch my planner to my chest lovingly and dream of all that the upcoming summer has in store for me and my kids (and hubby, too). I have overnight trips planned, day outings, leisurely strolls on the beach and campfires with s’mores. I have relaxing by the pool days in mind, as well as days spent riding roller coasters. I’ve got bedroom painting plans and garage cleaning out plans—okay, they may not be fun, but they’re a necessary evil. Why not do them when we have the extra time? And every damn August I look at that planner like I am today, and I fight the urge to burst into tears because nothing works out the way I expected. Every year is the same story…August arrives in a blink of an eye and I’m screaming at the kids to finish their summer reading projects and lamenting about what we didn’t do this break.

Expectation #1: We are going to get up early every morning and take a walk or go to the gym.

Reality: Kids are sleeping till almost noon every day. I am waking them up with a whistle after I eat lunch.

Expectation #2: I’ll cook more since we don’t have to rush anywhere and don’t have to eat at a certain time.

Reality: Party of four?

Expectation #3: We don’t even have to spend any money—we can just use the pool in our backyard every day. Heck…we don’t even have to GO anywhere.

Reality: IT. RAINED. ALMOST. EVERY. FRIGGIN. DAY. Or at least it seemed that way. And the days it didn’t rain, no one wanted to put sunblock on. And then it was too hot for the Prince and Princess of Air Conditioning to be outside. Plus, no one wants to go in the backyard anymore because our neighbor’s weeds are LITERALLY higher than our fence and the mosquitoes think we are a feast when we’re outside. Like seriously…I am out here now with two citronella candles, bug spray on, and a citronella wrist band. And they’re nibbling on me without a care in the world. I could play connect the dots with my mosquito bites.

Expectation #4: I’ll get a lot done around the house at least—even if it’s rainy all summer. I’m going to clean every room from top to bottom, paint the bedroom and get new blinds and a comforter. I’m going to fix the crack in the wall in the dining room and repaint it, clean out the garage, rearrange the laundry area downstairs, straighten up the attic, weed the whole backyard, lay a 10 x 10 stone patio in the backyard, fix the trellis that’s falling off the deck, clean out the closet in the front hall, go through the kids’ clothes and donate what they’ve outgrown (which is everything)…

Reality: I fixed the crack in the wall. And I didn’t even do a good job.

Expectation #5: The kids will be done with their summer reading books by the time our plane lands from vacation in early July.

Reality: Did you miss the part where I’m screaming at them to finish their f&@ing books??? They obviously have.

Expectation #6: The kids will not do anything fun this summer until all their chores are done for the day. In fact, they will have to do their chores before I even give them the Wifi code because I’m going to change it every night so they aren’t on their phones all night and sleeping till noon.

Reality: How do you change the Wifi code?

Expectation #7: We’re going to do fun family things together. The kids are getting old quickly. We’ll get Great Adventure season passes and go on other fun day trips.

Reality: Me—“Let’s go (insert activity here) today!” Hubby—“No, it’s too hot.” Kid #1—“Go to where? Eh, I don’t want to do that. Can you take me and my friends to the mall instead?” Kid #2—“I just want to stay home and watch YouTube videos of other people doing stuff.”

Expectation #8: If the kids don’t want to be with me, I’ll go down the shore once a week. Alone.

Reality: I’ve been there twice

The Curse of the Summer Reading Project

I wrote this over two years ago, yet it’s still completely relevant today. Nothing changes…*sigh*

Author Heather Balog

I have come to the conclusion that there are two types of people in this world. Those who squeal in delight at the sight of a bookstore or library (having to go change their underwear because they have peed when they discover their favorite author has put out a new book), and those who would rather have their nipples gnawed off by rabid coyotes than read a book.

I am, of course, of the former catagory while my husband is of the latter. This difference is not as significant as our Mets/Yankees rivalry, however, it has created a problem that we did not anticipate with procreating. We’ve created a child who falls in the catagory of what can only be plainly labeled as a “book hater”.  It’s not too much of a problem…until summer, that is. Oh yes, it’s that time of year again. The dreaded summer reading project.

Who…

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Filed under: parenting humor

I Went to the Beach…Alone

Twenty something years ago, long before I had kids, and even before I got married, I remember my best friend at the time telling me she had gone to the beach one afternoon by herself. I stared at her—a mixture of being appalled that she had gone by herself and hurt that she hadn’t asked me to go with her.

“Why would you do that?” I asked, hoping she would tell me she didn’t know I was available to go along. Instead, she told me she went by herself because she didn’t want to be with anyone else that day—she just wanted quiet.

I spent the rest of that night completely miffed. To me, going to the beach solo was on par with going to the movies by yourself or going to a restaurant by yourself. Wasn’t she embarrassed that she was at the beach alone? Would she rather be at the beach alone than with me…her best friend???

If I’m honest, that lone beach trip was actually the beginning of our friendship unraveling. I was hurt and confused by her actions. But now, twenty-something years, two kids, and a husband later…well now, I get it.

Now I am the one who goes to the beach alone. I’m the one who doesn’t want anyone to accompany me. I’m the one who goes for the peace and quiet.

I went to the beach alone this week and it was glorious. I drove down the way I wanted to drive, no one making faces at my inability to set the cruise control, my terrible habit of changing lanes with impatience, and my speeds ranging from snail to The Fast and the Furious. No one to complain that my radio was blasting at a volume of 25 (Yup…it does go up that high). No one to mock my ridiculous posthumous crush on Kurt Cobain and my sudden fondness for flannel whenever Nirvana comes on the radio. No one to change the radio station when I put on the 60s station and sang off key. No one to roll their eyes when I have to stop to use the bathroom before I even get to the beach. No one to make me STOP to use the bathroom before I get to the beach because they can’t hold it. No one to throw up as we exit the Parkway (EVERY. DAMN. TIME.). There was no one to complain when I turned off the air conditioner and rolled down the windows so I could smell the salty air. There was no one to complain that I went to the beach without bathrooms, the beach that’s never crowded. And there wasn’t anyone to complain that the beach I picked was too crowded. Nobody ran off as I was trying to put sunblock on them either.

There was no one to tell me that 10:45 was too early to eat lunch (so I ate my sandwich because I wanted to) and no one to complain to me that they were hungry the whole damn time. There was no one rummaging through the bag for snacks, dropping my keys and phone in the sand. Nobody begged me to go in the rough water and get knocked down by waves. Nobody told me they had to go to the bathroom RIGHT NOW and refused to go in the ocean instead. Nobody got sand on my blanket or dripped water on my towel. No one begged me to make a sand castle and then lost interest. I sat there and read my book, took a nap, and stared at the waves on MY time.

It was absolute bliss—heaven on Earth. That is…until a family of five (with four kids under the age of ten) parked down next to me on the nearly deserted beach. They could have gone anywhere on the beach but no, they picked me to torture. The kids proceeded to do EVERY LAST THING my own kids did when they would come to the beach with me…including getting way too close to my blanket and kicking sand on it.

I shot daggers at the harried mother…couldn’t she see this was MY time that her kids were interrupting? Couldn’t she see I’ve done this before? The crying, the screaming, the begging…the miserable beach trips? Couldn’t she see those days were over for me and I had no desire to partake in her miserable beach day? I scooted my beach chair farther away from them.

Then I felt bad. It wasn’t this poor mother’s fault that kids are just miserable beach-fellows. I wanted to tell her it was going to be okay…I wanted to tell her that one day, she would be me…she would be by herself on the beach, enjoying the sun on her face and the blessed quiet. I mean…that is until someone else’s kids showed up. So I didn’t tell her anything. I just packed it in for the day and headed home. After all, if anyone’s kids are gonna drive me nuts, it might as well be my own.

Filed under: parenting humor Tagged: alone on the beach, beach bliss, beach day, beach with kids, can't relax on the beach with kids, mom's beach day, moms at the beach

Call Me Uber

The picture above could be a picture of me this summer. I feel like I haven’t gotten out of the car all summer; a permanent imprint matching my butt can be found on the driver’s seat. Uber is my new name. My husband’s too…we share this awesome moniker. At least that’s what my sixteen year-old son believes. Apparently his father and I are running a car service for him. For free.

I drop him off at the baseball camp that he’s helping out at the other morning and he frowns as he glances around the parking lot.

“I’m the first one here,” he tells me.

“There’s people here, ” I point out. There are girls on the soccer field and boys on the football field.

“Not for baseball camp though. I’m the first one for baseball camp.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s good, right?” I say, really confused. Usually he is rushing me out of the house because he’s paranoid about being late. Even though he’s never been late in his entire life. Okay, maybe once he was late when his sister threw herself on the floor and refused to move unless we gave her a cookie or something, but generally, he is never late.

“No. I don’t want to be this early.”

I look at the clock and see that it’s 8:15. He needs to be at the field by 8:30. He’s not ridiculously early. And I have a doctor’s appointment 20 miles away at 9:00. An appointment I may not make it to if I allow him to stay in the car for another minute. “Oh well. Sorry,” I said, practically shoving him out of the car. The coach is there and besides, he’s sixteen, not six. He has a cell phone and the campus is crawling with students from other camps and sports teams. He’s not getting abducted—he just has to spend 15 minutes alone…the horror.

He grudgingly gets out of the car, but not before mentioning for the bazillionth time that the camp is over at 2:00 and there’s no need to wait for him to call to say the camp is over and I should be there at 2:00 because he was the last one picked up yesterday. I grip the steering wheel because I’m contemplating “bumping” him with the car and that would be bad. Beyond Bad Mommy Diaries bad. I drive away muttering under my breath, cursing him and his ungrateful teenage ‘tude.

It absolutely amazes me that not only are we bending over backwards to get him to where he needs to go (and ON TIME), he’s got the nerve to tell us how were supposed to be doing it. Instead of thanking us, he’s critiquing us. I remember walking home from track practice in high school or walking to work…MANY TIMES. Not once would I have berated my parents for not giving me a ride if it wasn’t convenient. I would be missing teeth right now if I had complained.

But not my spoiled boy…he seems to think rides to wherever he wants to go is his God given right as our offspring. In fact, for someone with no license or car, he makes an awful lot of plans, plans he expects us to partake in. He doesn’t seem to get that there are 3 other people in the house—3 other people that often have to change their schedules or not go out in order to accommodate his schedule.

“I’m hanging out with my friends tonight,” he says to me in the car as I pick him up from his umpiring job later on. I glance at the dashboard clock. It’s after 8:00 in the evening.

“Um, you are, are you?” This doesn’t bode well for me. Not one of his friends live in walking distance. In fact, his circle of friends literally extends the entire width of our township. It takes a good hour to collect or drop off the entire lot of them anywhere. Not that that stops them from actually walking here there and everywhere once they’re together. In fact, once when he was at one friend’s house (who lives 3 miles away), they walked as far as the McDonald’s that is a half a mile from our house—and then turned back to walk to the friend’s house to ask me to come pick him up!

“Yeah, we’re gonna go to the fair,” he tells me. I groan. The fair is on the other side of the world. Or at least, the other side of the township.

“How are you getting there?” I ask with a sinking feeling that I already know the answer to this question. This is the fourth night he’s been to the fair—I’m pretty sure this is going to go down a lot like the other nights.

“Can you take us?”

I sigh. I have no desire to play chauffeur tonight. I’m tired and cranky and there’s a glass of sangria in the fridge screaming out my name. A glass that I will have to neglect if I’m the uber of the evening. I’ve juggled multiple schedules to get him everywhere he needs to go several times this week already. I’m going to follow Nancy Reagan’s advice and just say no, I decide. After all, who’s the parent?

“Nope,” I tell him with conviction that I don’t feel at all. I really have no reason to refuse to let him go other than the fact that I am feeling lazy and I would like to have an adult beverage. So yeah, worst bad mommy ever.

“What?!?!” he is appalled at my selfishness.

“No,” I repeat.

He then proceeds to confirm the fact that I am the worst mom ever by telling me so. I then tell him that he’s grounded and he can kiss my butt if he thinks I’m ever going to take him anywhere again. There are tears and threats and pissed off faces when we pull into the driveway.

“What’s his problem?” my twelve year old asks as her brother storms past her to throw himself down on his bed, face in his disgusting-probably-hasn’t-been-washed-since-I-stopped-doing-his-laundry-two-years-ago pillow. This is her signature sulking method and she wants to know if he’s justified in ripping off her practically trademarked move.

I explain to her that he expects me to be his servant and shuttle him all over God’s creation at the drop of the hat. I mutter that I am counting down the days till his seventeenth birthday (367…) My daughter shrugs as she watches me angrily pour my drink and then says, “Why don’t you just get him an uber?”

I stare at her for a second, considering her suggestion. She may actually be on to something. His birthday is coming up…does uber have gift cards?

 

 

Filed under: parenting humor Tagged: driving teens around, getting teens from place to place, shuttling your teens, teens that can't drive yet, ubering your teens

The Bad Mommy Cooks Again

As you all must know by know, I’m a crap cook. I once had to be taught how to make Ramen noddles by my eleven year old daughter (in my defense, I lived at home in college and never had to have a Ramen noddle/hotdog dinner). But still, I keep trying. Mostly because we have to eat or we will die. We eat out a lot. I’ve gotten a lot of flak from friends and family for that. Not that they come over to help plan a meal and shop for a meal and clean up from a meal after it catches fire and the damn picky kids refuse to eat it…but I digress. It’s very difficult for me (as I’m sure it is for many of us) to execute a decent dinner without a hitch. So what to do?

I’ve become a Pinterest whore, pinning nearly every recipe that makes me drool and rarely making them. And when I do…well, you’ve seen “Pinterest fails”, haven’t you? I’ve signed up for every meal delivery service known to man, hoping that somehow, someway, the boxes that come to the house will magically transform me into Chef Mommy (or include an actual chef to cook me dinner) (See Cooking for Dum(me)). I’ve invested in an idiot proof crock pot that guarantees fantastic meals and still…I manage to mess it up. It’s depressing screwing up so much. I’ve lost the will to go on. Cooking wise, that is.

UNLESS…there’s a challenge involved. I do love challenges almost as much as I despise cooking. Whenever our family has faced a “food challenge”, we’ve overcome it…like the month I forbade us to eat out at restaurants (See The Great Cooking Experiment ). Last week as I was scrolling through the endless emails that those meal delivery service companies still send me (gotta give them points for trying—they don’t realize I’m hopeless at cooking), my mouth began to water at the pictures of food. It was around lunchtime and that’s when I’m particularly vulnerable to food pictures and the notion that I can cook. It must have something to do with a drop in blood sugar. Anyway…the menu was already there. One of the biggest challenges for me when planning meals is figuring out WHAT to cook (and who has practice and when will we be able to all sit down at the same time…), and with this menu, it was already figured out for me. Along with that week’s menu was an article from a news outlet stating that this particular meal delivery service was “cheaper and easier than the grocery store”. I eyeballed those words and said “Challenge accepted”. Already it was Heather 1, Meal Plan Company (MPC) 0, how could I go wrong?

For some reason, the meal delivery service companies actually allow you to download the recipe and print it out…even if you don’t purchase food that week. Suckers. So I did just that and headed to the grocery store to purchase everything I needed. Going to the grocery store was no big deal—even when we had the meals delivered, I still had to go to the grocery store for other meals. After all, we didn’t just eat three meals a week. Anyone who says it saved them from going to the store is either lying or doesn’t live with Walking Metabolism Man and Son. Heather 2, Meal Plan Company 0.

At the grocery store, I realized the pitfall to picking up your own ingredients was the fact that the meal plan company slips one IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND ingredient in each recipe. Like Chihuahua cheese. Which I am happy to report, does NOT come from actual Chihuahuas (long story…). No matter, I’m up for the challenge. I have Google and I’m not afraid to use it. Almost every ingredient can be replaced with something similar. Not like my kids’ palates are so refined that they’re going to notice the difference between red chiles and jalepenos anyway. And by going to the store I got to get MORE of the ingredients. Instead of the sliver of steak that the meal plan company sent last time (and the kids tried to stab each other with steak knives over it), I got three times as much. That’s now Heather 4, MPC 0. Yup…bonus points.

I got everything home and discovered that it was all just as stupid and confusing to cook as it was when they sent me the ingredients. I nearly set the stove on fire countless times and actually burnt the corn for one recipe. Oh, but I did learn that we HAVE a broiler on the oven. My husband looked at me like I was mental. How was I supposed to know it was a broiler? We’ve only had that oven for twelve years. While cook, though, I realized that the only thing that MIGHT have been helpful was the pre-measured ingredients. That would have saved me some agonizing over how much milk I needed if I couldn’t actually find a measuring cup. And chopping stuff. I do hate chopping stuff. So now it was Heather 4, MPC 1.

The first recipe was a Mexican street corn flatbread. Hubby and I really liked it, although I did end up putting too much milk in it. The homemade guacamole (not included in MP) and sangria (DEFINTELY not included) certainly helped. Kids balked at the sight of the flatbreads and each took bird-like bites and then threw themselves on the floor like I had fed them dog poop fresh from the backyard. Pretty sure they would have done that if the MPC delivered the food as well. So no score change on that one. [image error]

Meal two was even tougher. Steak with Robert sauce. It was essentially flank steak with sides of sautéed green beans and blue cheese mashed cauliflowers. Sounds fancy, but it was rated “easy”.  (I love how the recipe cards rate them all as “easy”. Easy for who? Gordon Ramsey???). Hubby had to help or I really would have had to call the fire department since the recipe called for me to saute green beans and flank steak at the same time in separate pans. I can’t even reach for the salt and stir a pot at the same time. Here’s a pic of the finished product:

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The steak was really good, but that was all hubby’s doing. Although I did pick some nice pieces. And everyone was definitely happier with portion sizes this time. All steak knives were used appropriately. The wine was delightful, but once again…not included in the meal plan company’s version. The green beans were okay and the mashed cauliflower…well, that’s my third time attempting mashed cauliflower. Three strikes you’re out, right? At least the dog liked it. I’m giving myself a point for this one. Heather 5, MPC 1.

The last recipe was Carolina BBQ pork medallions. It had a coleslaw side, but nothing else. I love BBQ pork so I figured this would be a great one despite the lack of sustenance.

Well, it wasn’t. I forgot to season the pork before browning it. And I didn’t have the right “Dijon mustard dressing”. And my daughter ate all the peanuts for the coleslaw before I could make it. And I put too much of the jalepenos in the coleslaw. Oh and “ewwww why does this coleslaw have vinegar in it? I only like coleslaw with mayo in it.” Yeah. Pretty much a disaster. I think we all had ice cream for dinner that night. At least it looked pretty. Heather 5, MPC 2.

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Total cost of all meals? About $47. (Not including wine and guacamole ingredients). It would have cost me $119 if I went with the meal plan company for almost the exact same meals. Verdict? It’s NOT cheaper than the grocery store…not by a long shot. Especially not if you end up chucking one whole meal. Final score: Heather 6, MPC 2. However, the meal plans aren’t without merit. It was good to go out of our comfort zone and try new things…things I wouldn’t have thought of on my own. Don’t take my word for it though. Check out one of the sites and try the challenge yourself.

Filed under: cooking Tagged: cooking challenge, cooking fails, food, grocery shopping, meal delivery services, meal plans, shopping