Heather Balog's Blog, page 30

Note to Self: Change the Locks

thebadmommydiaries:

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Originally posted on Heather Balog:

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

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

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

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What’s For Dinner?

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

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

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

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

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

I point to the board.

“Tacos? Oh I love tacos!”

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

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

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

“Did you have other choices?” I ask.

“Well, yeah.”

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

He sulks off in a huff.

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

“Tacos,” I reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We end up having Chinese food.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: #dinnerdisasters, #dinnertime, #kidsdontwanttoeat, #picky eaters, tacos

Why People Without Kids Live Longer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just then, the older child wanders in.

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

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

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

“It musta been Daddy!” She finally decides.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: kids and science experiments, kids are killing me, kids driving me insane

Life’s Tough, Wear a Cup

thebadmommydiaries:

#reblog Saturday

Originally posted on Heather Balog:

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

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The Sneaker Freak

thebadmommydiaries:

#reblogSaturday

Originally posted on Heather Balog:

My son has an obsession. It’s not what I would consider a normal teenage boy obsession like comic books or collecting baseball cards or prank calling cute girls. He’s obsessed with sneakers and socks. Odd, yes?

The problem began back in the summer when he came home from hanging out at the mall with his friends. Of course being the involved parents we are, we grilled him when he got home. “Who did you talk to?” “Did you see anyone else you know?” “What stores did you go in?”, etc., etc. Usually we get the one word answers or grunts, but this time, he held a bag up proudly.

“I bought socks!”
Socks? My husband and I exchanged concerned glances. This is the boy who has an “emergency sock” collection at the foot of the steps, just in case he needs socks in an emergency. It’s more like he’s too…

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A Post Christmas Poem

‘Twas the day after Christmas and all through the house,

The only creature that was stirring was my computer mouse.

The children were all busy with their brand new toys,

Not fighting or behaving like bad girls and boys.

The little one built Legos all by herself,

While the big one played video games like a good little elf.

I thought to myself, “This is too good to be true,”

“Maybe they’re both coming down with the flu?”

No objects were broken or needed return,

No clothes so hideous that I wanted to burn.

It would be the very first year I didn’t schlep to the store,

To return a gift or two….or a hundred and four.

Thrilled with the prospect of staying home all day,

I put on my sweats and on the couch I prepared to lay.

As I dozed off to sleep I felt a terrifying jolt,

And sat up from the couch with a heck of a bolt.

I cracked open my eyes and who should be there,

But my lovely dear children who were starting to stare.

“Hello Mommy dearest,” they cooed in unison,

And I immediately knew the pain I was going to be in.

Their words were benign but I feared their tone,

“What do you want?” I asked with a groan.

They waved their gift cards that were fanned in their hand,

And then they each grabbed an arm to help me to stand.

“Let’s go to the mall!” the kids cried with glee.

“You don’t have to spend any money! It all will be free!”

“Like hell!” I shouted, in the air went my fist.

If I had to leave the house, I was gonna be pissed.

They begged and they pleaded,

And cried till they got overheated.

As they wailed, I shook my head with disgust,

Why should my lounging today be a bust?

“No!” I shouted with a frown on my face.

“Why must spending gift cards always be like a race?”

“Two months from now you will surely whine and cry,

When you want something that you have no money to buy.”

“But we want these shoes, book or a game!”

It doesn’t matter what it is, it’s always the same.

They get those gift cards in their greedy little hands,

And out the window goes Mommy’s relaxing plans.

With annoyance I grumbled as I tugged on my boots,

And glowered at the children who were now in cahoots.

“Let’s go you little brats,” I growled with distain,

Going to the mall today would be a major pain.

Five million people either on line to return,

Or those like my darlings, with money just dying to burn.

Off to the mall we shall go and bid goodbye to my couch,

My kids may drag me there, but they can’t make me not be a grouch.

 

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The 8 Mistakes of Amy Maxwell (Amy Maxwell Series Book 1)

Crazy for Christmas Cookies

The accepted definition of insanity is something like, the act of doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results, right? Ok, then by those standards, I must be certifiable because I KEEP MAKING CHRISTMAS COOKIES. Every. Damn. Year.

Who invented Christmas cookies? And why do I never see men making them? (Hmmm…I may be on to something) For what ever reason, though, I seem to have it drilled into my skull, maybe as far back as infancy, that we MUST MAKE CHRISTMAS COOKIES. If we don’t make cookies, Christmas will not happen. It’s as essential as gifts and a trees and baby Jesus. So every year, I make the damn cookies. And every year, I swear I am NEVER MAKING THEM AGAIN.

Maybe once upon a time I had one or two batches come out nicely. By nicely I mean they looked appealing and were tasty. Every other batch has been miserable in some other form or other.  Some are burnt, some are mushy in the middle, some could double as spare tires. Yet every year I feel compelled to drag out the mixing bowls and beaters and make friggin Christmas cookies.

I guess it’s because I keep seeing everyone else’s fantastic cookies plastered all over Facebook. Tell the truth people…you pick them up at a bakery and spread them on your holiday plates and say, look what I made! You must, because there’s no way you make cookies that perfect. Hell, I can’t even get my cookies to rise half the time…and yes, I follow the recipe. I’m actually meticulous about following the recipes. The only explanation I can come up with is that other people lie about their cookies. Either that or the cookie gods absolutely hate me.

So this year I once again decided to embark in the hellish nightmare that is cookie making and as usual, I dragged my daughter down with me. Actually, she was the one who pushed for it this year. Not that she necessarily enjoys baking…she’s a real big fan of eating cookies. So she annoyed me and tormented me until I decided I was going to suck it up and bake the damn cookies.

I donned my apron that I break out once a year, cranked the Christmas music and set to work. I preempted the disaster (I thought) by declaring we were only going to bake four kinds this year unlike the usual six or seven I torture myself with.  In fact, I was going to practically cheat and use of those bags of sugar cookies that you only have to add water and an egg to. Seriously, it’s so simple it’s fool proof.

Apparently I am a bigger fool than I though. The oh so simple sugar cookies stuck so badly to the parchment paper and our fingers when we tried to cut out the cute little Christmas tree shapes, that we had to roll them into balls and squash them down with our fists. This is the result:

Yeah, not so fabulous. I got eight cookies out a batch that was supposed to yield 36.

We moved on to the reindeer cookies…a cute little project I saw on Pinterest (damn you Pinterest for deluding me into thinking I could make cute reindeer cookies with phrases like EASY and FUN!). Here’s what they were supposed to look like.

I should have just written EPIC FAIL next to ours. I didn’t realize that it would be better…no scratch that, ESSENTIAL, to take the cookies off the cookie sheet before applying the oh so melty chocolate candy. This is what happens, by the way:

At  least theses were edible even though they looked like the reindeer was drunk or had a stroke. Either way, bad for the reindeer.

But never fear, the next cookie was chocolate chip. I’ve been making the Nestle toll house cookie for years, the recipe right off the bag. I carefully measure all the ingredients out and even chill the dough over night. I don’t know if the oven is defective or maybe our baking soda is bad because this is what happened:

The bottom dropped out…heck, there was no bottom, and the cookie shriveled up into a mushy mess when I tried to take it off the sheet. It didn’t even taste good. Maybe I need one of those new fangled mixer things. Yeah, that’s it. If I had one of those, I’d make perfect cookies.

We didn’t even get to make the peppermint Oreo cookies because at this point, it was after 9:00. I was cranky and fed up. My daughter wanted to decorate the sugar cookies with different colored icing and designs and crap like that. I told her we are NOT dying the icing at 9:00 at night for six frickin cookies (we lost two in the sheet to cooling rack transfer) and she proceeded to throw the box of food coloring and stomp out of the room telling me how I ruined Christmas.

I sighed as I scraped the one batch of chocolate chip nightmare into the garbage, turned off the cheery Christmas music and turned out the light. I’ll deal with the mess in the morning. And next year I swear…I’m buying the cookies from a bakery.

 

Filed under: parenting humor Tagged: Christmas cookies, Cookie fails, Holiday baking, I hate making cookies, Pinterest cookies

I Want a Do Over and I Want It Now!

I want a do over for today and I want it now. Ok, so maybe I sound like that spoiled girl in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory but I had a crappy day. I want be like Dorothy and click my heels three times and say “There’s no place like home” and I wake up in my bed twelve hours ago. Why, you ask? I want a do over because I FAILED today. No…fail is an understatement. Today was an EPIC fail. Today I didn’t get the Christmas shopping done. Today I didn’t go to the gym. Today I didn’t get my Christmas cards out. Today I didn’t cook dinner. Today I let laundry sit in the washer so long I had to wash it again. Today my kids ate McDonald’s AND frozen pizza. Today I didn’t work on my book. Today I didn’t make a list and check it twice so that I accomplished everything I set out to. Today I was a terrible wife and ignored my husband. Today I was an even worse mother than I thought I could ever be.

Today I screamed at my daughter because she wouldn’t go to school. By “wouldn’t” I mean full out kicking, screaming, tantrum throwing, refusing to go. She pulled out every excuse she could to get her way. She was “stuffy” (“snuffy”), going to PUKE (say this out loud as dramatically as possible for full effect and clutch your abdomen as if you are giving birth), scared of a fire drill (making sure to squeeze out just enough tears so that your mother notices) and “just wanted to snuggle”. She picked the worst day on earth to “pull this $hit” (my exact words) because staying home with a fake sick kid was not on my agenda today. Needless to say, I did not handle it well.

I, after attempting to reason with her for about ten minutes (knock this crap off, of course you’re going to school), ended up screaming and stomping and throwing a hissy fit myself. I actually had to lie down because I gave myself heart palpitations. After a hit of my inhaler, I popped back up and threatened to take away Christmas. She shrugged and said, “I don’t care”. She actually signed a “contract” that said she didn’t want anything for Christmas and she wouldn’t cry when there was nothing for her under the tree (oh, yeah, right). I knew it was one punishment I would never be able to uphold and she did too. (Yeah, yeah, tell me you could do it?)

Finally, I told her flat out to get her shoes on. She slammed her bedroom door and locked me out. I broke the lock and told her if she didn’t get her butt in the car (I’m paraphrasing for the Family friendly nature of this blog), I was going to take away her iPad. She laughed at threw a stuffed animal at me. I took away watching TV. She replied with “see if I care”. My eyeball was literally pulsating in my skull. I slammed the door and stomped downstairs to choke down my coffee in attempts to ward off an inevitable migraine.

As I strummed my fingers on the table with aggravation, I considered my options. I certainly wasn’t going to try to drag her kicking and screaming to school. If I could even get her out of the house, I still had to get her out of the car and into the school. I would be sweaty and pissed off and DYFS might be called by some nosy person who had no clue. Plus, I wasn’t going to subject her teacher (principal, secretary, fellow students to that sort of thing). I refuse to bribe her (mostly because it doesn’t work) so I needed plan B.

Taking a deep breath, I approached her like one would approach a cat you’re planning to throw in the bathtub. She didn’t hiss at me so I wrapped my arms around her and asked her what was wrong, why did she not want to go to school? I apologized for my own outburst while internally congratulating myself for my calm and rational behavior. She was immediately receptive. Yes! Maybe this day was salvageable after all!

After I let her whine and whimper and totally manipulate me with a completely made up story of why she didn’t want to go, I told her I would fix EVERYTHING (insert sunshine here) when we got to school. I said, “Ok, let’s get your coat. We can still make to school on time!” Fingers crossed with a perky attitude!

Nope.

Screaming commenced again, this time with a dramatic blanket over the head maneuver. I was done. I left the room before I lost it and sat in the kitchen to stew. I let her stay home. I didn’t do anything that I should have done. I let it ruffle my feathers and affect everything else I had to do today. I might as well have pulled that blanket over my own head. I suck and I know that. But what can one do when your kid absolutely refuses to go along with your plan? Even if it’s a simple plan that she should go along with, like freaking GOING TO SCHOOL???

Simple. You suck it, chalk it up to a loss, and try again tomorrow. Parenthood isn’t about that one day you failed just didn’t have the answers to move forward with a win. Those days are going to happen. It’s about all the days combined that you DID have the answers and you DID win. So maybe I don’t get a do over for the epic fail today was, but tomorrow is another day! I sound a bit like Scarlett O’Hara there, don’t I? Maybe I should just pour some wine, cut my losses and settle down with a movie… Maybe this day can be saved.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: #epic fail, bratty kids, kids having temper tantrums, kids misbehaving in restaurants, taking away christmas from kids

Why I Love That Creepy Little Elf on the Shelf

thebadmommydiaries:

Still love the elf!

Originally posted on Heather Balog:

As the days tick closer to Christmas, the height of the frenzy is upon us. I’ve seen a lot of complaints on Facebook lately about the Elf on the Shelf (mostly from people without kids) about how it is “creepy” and “lazy” parenting. People are saying it’s a cop out to hide the elf around the house and expect kids to behave so that he or she doesn’t report back to Santa. They don’t want to see pictures of the cleverly posed elves invading people’s homes. They think it’s not the “right” way to encourage kids to behave. That kids should be taught to behave and if you can’t get them to do that without threats or bribes, you’re a bad parent. You know what I say to that? Bah Humbug. Parenting is really just a series of eighteen (or more) years worth of threats and bribes.
You would think…

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REAL Mommies Aren’t Perfect

Ok so I’ve realized I have not written a blog in well over a month…but I have an excuse! Last week, I typed my 50,000th word for NaNoWriMo 2014. For those of you who I haven’t badgered to death detailing NaNoWriMo, it is a writing community activity where the goal is to write 50,000 words of a novel in the month of November. So anyway, I finished it Thursday, three weeks into to the month. Now as I high fived myself and patted myself on the back for not only accomplishing this lofty goal, but doing it in 3 weeks instead of a month, I wanted to brag to the world how brilliant I was. I finished this amazing feat that not many people can do. It’s grueling and oddly satisfying at the same time. I also managed to go to work at my full time job, go to the gym, and feed my children (for the most part). So as I congratulated myself and prepped my social media sites for bragging rights, I glanced around. What I saw nearly made me throw up a little in my mouth.

My house is in absolutely disarray. Sure I’ve been loading the dishwasher and doing laundry and vacuuming now and again. But when I really looked at everything, I saw there were baskets of laundry and dishes piled up everywhere. There were handprints and nose prints and Lord knows what other prints all over the windows. I haven’t changed my daughter’s sheets in over a week. She’s been sleeping in a sleeping bag. There’s dust bunnies that she has actually named Frank and George camping out underneath her bed. Thank God she’s getting hot lunch at school or she just may have starved to death.

On the back deck, remains of summer are still in sight, a pair of googles, a deflated raft, a citronella candle. I’ve been too busy to pick that stuff up. I haven’t made a grocery list or gone to the store for a substantial grocery shopping in weeks. Our fridge looks like it belongs in a bachelor pad, one wilted tomato shoved all the way in the back of the crisper drawer, a half empty container of apple juice and some cheese. No, correction…lots of cheese. Cheese is a great meal on the go. We’ve been eating a lot of cheese.

I stepped on the scale, too. Wow, that was a shocker. I guess the pumpkin spice lattes that I used to keep me awake as I pounded out those 50,000 words settled right on my gut. And hips. And thighs.

And my social life lately consists of “liking” people’s statuses on Facebook. That’s right, I don’t even have time to comment, I’m so busy I don’t even have time to comment (I think I said that already…a symptom of being too busy…I repeat myself a lot). Sorry, all you get is a LIKE. Forget hanging out or going to dinner or talking on the phone. I have a voice activated text feature on my phone so you might get a text…whether it makes sense or not is another thing. I had a conversation with hubby last week and instead of telling him to “pick up a card at the store”, it wrote out “eczema in the back door.” Don’t even want to know what that would mean.

So instead of a pat on the back, I probably deserve a swift kick in the butt. *Sigh* It’s becoming increasingly more difficult to be the perfect mother, the Superwoman that is expected. Every time I do one thing really well and I’m proud of it, I look around and see everything that I’ve screwed up in the process, in my search for perfection. I’m starting to believe that perfection is unattainable. I’m not going to be able to be the perfect mother, wife, writer, employee, sister, daughter, friend, etc., etc., etc. at all times. Hell, I don’t even think I can accomplish any of those things ever, let alone all at once.

But wait a minute…why do I have to be perfect? Why do I even have to strive to be perfect? Why can’t we mothers just be happy doing the best we can do without feeling like an utter failure if we haven’t done everything perfectly? We are only one person, yet we expect ourselves (and so does everyone in our house, come to think of it), to be infallible, to never need help, to never screw up, and to never, ever drop the ball. And when we do, we seem to beat ourselves up more than anyone else does. We never seem to feel satisfied celebrating our accomplishments or congratulating ourselves, because our failures are always glaring at us, overshadowing the good. Let’s stop expecting perfection from ourselves to the point of never being satisfied with anything. We are our own harshest critics and we need to give ourselves a break every once in awhile before we end up having strokes and heart attacks from the constant stress we are under. You can only do so much, so why not do it well? If your kid needs you to snuggle with them, give yourself permission to skip the vacuuming. If your spouse has had a bad day, forget about the grocery shopping and go out to eat. And if you NEED to go to yoga before you have a nervous breakdown, it’s okay to take care of yourself.

So therefore, I’m ignoring that pile of uncut coupons that’s glaring at me right now. I’m gonna put my feet up and catch up on all the episodes of Big Bang theory that I’ve been neglecting. I’ll worry about all the rest in the morning. Maybe.

 

Filed under: parenting humor Tagged: imperfect moms, superwoman moms