Heather Balog's Blog, page 33

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“Falling When the Bough Breaks” is the heartbreaking tale of #postpartum depression and the death of a child. It is the part of motherhood that no one speaks of; the pain nobody wants to ever face. Get it for £0.99 this week on #kindle.

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An Open Letter to People Without Kids

An Open Letter to People Without Kids.

Filed under: Uncategorized

An Open Letter to People Without Kids

Dear Kind and Opinionated People Without Kids; I know you mean well and you’re just trying to help in your own way, maybe feel like you are contributing to molding the future generation in some way. I see your Facebook posts and hear your comments in restaurants and feel your glares in the grocery store. I get it…I’m screwing up my parenting job. No matter how hard I try, I’m messing something up. Maybe Johnny is having a meltdown because I won’t buy him the toy he wants and you are appalled that a child that age should know how to behave in a store. Or perhaps Teenage Janie has refused to look up from her iPod during our entire dinner, earbuds firmly pushed in her ears, tuning out the rest of our family and you disagree with this because in YOUR day kids…(fill in the blank). Thank you for your concern. On behalf of parents everywhere, mind your own *#$&@ business.

Oh, too harsh? So sorry. But I don’t care if you’re pregnant or you’re a godmother or an aunt and you babysit on a regular basis. You still don’t get it. And you WON’T get it until you hold your child in your arms. You can’t possibly understand it until you’ve had that moment where you realize, “Holy crap, I’m responsible for this person!” And that realization fills you with terror and joy at the same time. Because this kid is essentially a clean slate. And remember when you were posting all that crap on Facebook? The “I’ll never” or “parents should…”? Well here’s you’re chance tough guy. And when you figure out the magic formula, please let the rest of us in on it.

Cuz these kids don’t come with instruction manuals. Once you figure out how to do something right, you realize you’re screwing something else up. Or when one kid is content, the other thinks you’re the worst parent in the world. It’s one step forward, two steps back. And they certainly don’t exist in a vacuum. Oh sure, the first few months they’re entirely yours to mold. Like a vase on a potter’s wheel. All yours to make whatever size and shape and texture you want. You stare at it as you mold it with your fingers, the perfect image you’ve dreamt of. But what happens when you take that vase off the wheel and you put it on the table to dry? Someone else can go to admire it and knock it off the table. Or fill it with water and flowers before it’s ready. As soon as you let it out of your sight, it’s open to damage from the world around it because you can’t protect it all the time.

Same thing with kids. They have so many outside influences, like grandparents who don’t agree with your methods, school, TV and other kids. There’s the added challenge of the internet and exposure to things many of us never had to deal with when we were kids. It’s a wonder anyone gets through childhood as a normal decent human being any more.

But they do…many kids are normal, decent human beings. They’re not perfect, they make mistakes. Teenagers rebel and seven year olds don’t brush their teeth every night. You may not agree with the way I’m doing this whole parenting thing, but until you’ve been there yourself, don’t tell me how to do my job. It’s not just a matter of remembering to feed and water them and pat them on the head. It’s a person with feelings and wants and desires.

I’m sure you can imagine the logistics of the job…how it’s difficult to keep schedules and you feel like you’re running like a hamster on a wheel all the time. Even childless people get that. We are all stressed in today’s society with too much pressure from jobs and family. We all have crap days. You get that. But throw in a small person who can’t drive themselves to practice and another smaller person with an ear ache who is having trouble in math. And then add in your own stomach virus and a soccer uniform you forgot to wash. (And its owner is making snarky comments about you not keeping up with the laundry.) What takes priority?

What about the emotional factor of loving someone so much your heart nearly bursts and wanting to beat them with a wooden spoon at the same time? Yes, that’s real. Those moments you can’t imagine or plan for. Every day my kids push me to the breaking point, challenge me and my decisions and I need to stand firm and love them at the same time. Even though they’re pissing me off.

And don’t give me the, “well you choose to do this.” Yeah. I did. And I would not change it for the world. But nobody tells you about those seemingly insignificant details that become a majority of parenting. The wanting to give your children everything, but at the same time wanting to teach them the value of money, hard work and not wanting them to be spoiled brats. The wanting them to be happy but knowing you have to teach them about disappointments. The understanding that sometimes you have to punish them, and it truly hurting you more than it hurts them. The feeling of watching your child struggle with something and knowing you can’t help them, that they have to do it for themselves, they have to learn.The having to chose between doIng the right thing or the easy thing. The realization that from the ages of 12-17 your child is going to say some pretty hurtful things to break your heart and you are going to want to say them back, but all you can do is hold on and bite your tongue, praying you’ll see the real version of your baby on the other side of adolescence.

It’s bad enough other parents put their two cents in. Every child is different…what worked for your kid might send my kid over the edge. Yes, there are truly bad and lazy parents out there…more than you can imagine. But I assure you, I’m not one of them, simply for the reason I CARE. Yes, I make mistakes. Yes, I’m human. Yes, my kids might suffer from a poor choice I make. But I love them with all of my heart and while you may love your dog, your cat or your grandmother, you have no clue what it feels like to love another human being more than yourself. I can’t even put e feeling into words.

So go ahead and criticize. It’s a free country. But just remember, a childless person telling you how to raise your kid, is kind of like a blind man telling you what color to paint your kitchen.

Sincerely,

A Really Great Mom who sometimes feels like a Really Crappy Mom and doesn’t need you making her feel worse

Filed under: parenting humor Tagged: Kidless people, Parenting fails, parenting hormonal teens, Parents making mistakes, People without kids giving opinions

Letters to My Sister’s Shrink

Bored? Want a book that makes you think? My (favorite) novel, “Letters to My Sister’s Shrink” is $0.99 on Kindle this week. Get it before it goes back up to full price! http://www.amazon.com/Letters-To-My-S...

Filed under: novels Tagged: 99cents, crazy sisters, kindle, twins

WHY is a four letter word.

It’s not even 9:00 in the morning and I have a headache. And I know it’s going to get worse. No, I didn’t sit in traffic or pump out a flooded basement last night like many of my neighbors did. My pain is being caused by an internal source…my child and her relentless questions and snooping. I swear to God I’m going to make uttering the words what and why punishable offenses in our household.

Yes, yes, children ask questions to learn and blah, blah, blah. I get that. When they’re three. We finished the whole, why is the sky blue, what do they put in play doh to make it taste so good and why do I have to wear pants to Shop Rite stage years ago. When they’re nearly nine and questioning everything, they’re either, A. Peppering me with questions to annoy me and break me down for their own evil purposes or B. Being a busybody. I’m pretty sure my daughter’s strategy is a combination of both.

Case in point: I’m currently working on a project for my mother that includes scanning a buttload of old pictures and downloading it to the computer to put on a DVD. It involves a lot of cursing, alcoholic beverages and carpal tunnel syndrome. So the other  night, I’m trying to organize the pictures in some sort of chronological order when I feel warm breath on my shoulder. I know it’s not the dog because then I’d be feeling drool on my leg. And it’s too tall to be my husband. The hairs raise on my arm because I know it can only be one person…The Queen of Q&A. My neck tenses, bracing for the inevitable interrogation.

“Whatcha doin’?” she asks as she leans on the chair armrest, jostling my arm. I’ve now put a picture of a cat in with my parents’ wedding pictures.

I resist the urge to give her a snarky response such as “Tap dancing” and grit my teeth as I reply, “Organizing the pictures.”

“Why?” she asks, spinning me in the chair. Now there’s a baby picture of my brother upside down.

“Because Nana wants these pictures on the DVD for her anniversary,” I explain, planting my feet on the ground and correcting the photo goof.

“Why doesn’t she do it?”

Well, probably because my dear sweet mother is completely technologically challenged. She’s sent me 429 pictures to put on this DVD and 421 of them have been upside down or had a flash of light over someone’s face. I explain that to my child. She points to the cat.

“The cat’s in the wrong place,” she tells me, a little smugly I might add.

“I know,” I growl. “Don’t you have homework to do?”

“Did it!” she calls out in a sing song voice, just as my cell phone buzzes. She grabs it before I do, despite the fact that I have admonished her numerous times for reading my texts.

“Give me that! Don’t touch my phone!” I snap just as she asks, “Why is Daddy asking you if you want to get dirty and take a shower?”

Turning red, I snatch the phone away. “Could you please just mind your business for five minutes?”

“But you already took a shower. And if you take another one, you won’t be dirty…” She is obviously perplexed and I am certainly NOT explaining the literal meaning to her.

“Can you just go away?” I beg, my head pounding with frustration. I have been at this for nearly an hour and have been interrupted ten times already.

She stomps off. I go back to picture hell. She returns.

“Can I have ice cream?”

“Whatever,” I reply, just to get her out of my hair, just as she planned. See? Evil genius.

She skips into the kitchen  and comes back with a bowl of ice cream. “What does den 4p mean?”

Confused, I look up at her. “What?”

“On the calendar, you wrote, Den 4p and you wrote it in Daddy’s color. What does it mean?”

I wrack my brain. I can’t remember…oh yes. “Um, he has to go to the dentist at 4:00 that day.”

“Why?”

“Um, cuz, he needs his teeth cleaned.” Duh.

“I need my teeth cleaned,” she informs me as she shovels spoonfuls of chocolate ice cream in her mouth.

“I know.” I try to return to the pictures.

“Why didn’t you make me an appointment?” Her bottom lip is quivering. “You don’t love me…”

“I will make you an appointment tomorrow,” I inform her.

“For when?”

“I don’t KNOW! I don’t know when they have an opening! Can you just…” I can’t even finish the sentence. She storms off again.

I get about two and half minutes of work done and she returns.

“What does GYN mean?”

I sigh heavily.  There are no secrets in this house.”I don’t know.”

“It’s in your color. How do you not know?” When I decided to color code the calendar, it was to help ME organize everyone’s schedules. Apparently it simply makes it easier for Daughter Detective to snoop into everyone’s business.

“I have to go to the gym,” I lie.

“You spelled gym wrong,” she remarks.

“I know.” I return to the pictures. She leaves and returns a minute later.

“I fixed it,” she informs me.

“Thanks,” I reply while making a mental note to change it back after she goes to bed or I will go to the gym instead of the gynecologist. Because I will not remember this conversation happened in about an hour.

“Can I have gum?”

“I don’t have gum.”

“Yes, you do. I saw it on your grocery list and you told Daddy not to forget the gum and then I saw you put it in your purse after he didn’t forget the gum.”

Ugh. “Fine. Have the gum.”

She leaves. She comes back. With a receipt in her hand. “When did you go to Justice?”

“Huh?” The cat picture is back with my parents’ wedding. I don’t know how it got there.  I am now humming “The Cat Came Back”. And it has a double meaning.

She waves the receipt in my face. “You bought an outfit at Justice on…April 16. Who did you buy it for?”

Truth is, I bought it for HER for her birthday but now I guess the cat’s out of THAT bag. “I forgot to give it to you. Didn’t I ask you not to go through my purse?”

“I was getting gum.”

“I’m sure the receipt jumped out and landed in your hand,” I snort sarcastically.

“I was looking for something else.”

I don’t even bother to ask what. “Ok well go…read a book. ” She leaves. “And stay out of my purse!” I call after her.

As I click to enlarge yet another picture my mother has shrunk down to the size of a postage stamp, I hear rustling in the area of my bedroom. I abandon my project to investigate. Sure enough Evil Examiner is riffling through my closet.

“What are you doing???”

“I’m looking for the outfit you forgot to give me,” she tells me while holding up a pair of shoes. “Are these new?”

“Oh my God! Get out of my closet!”

She sulks off. I go back to the computer.

My phone buzzes. The battery is practically dead. I sigh as I haul myself out of the chair and go upstairs to plug it in. The Interrogation Squad is parked in front of the TV. “Whatcha doing?” she asks as I plug the phone in.

“Belly dancing,” I retort as I leave the room. “Don’t touch my phone!”

I return to the computer with a refill of my wine. Soon, I feel warm breath on the top of my head. “What?” I growl. Hubby is standing there.

“Did you get my message?” He winks.

“Just go away,” I tell him. Really? He wonders why I’m grouchy?

“What did I do?”

“I told you she is a world class busybody. She read your text. Can you keep all the texts PG from now on? Hell, you know what…don’t text me.”

“What are you guys talking about?” I jump in the air, unaware that Query Queen had returned.

“None of your business,” I snap. Then I notice, she has my phone. Again.”Why do you have my phone?” I ask wearily.

“You got a message from someone. What does preggo mean?”

I bang my head on the desk and cry.

Filed under: parenting humor Tagged: Busybody kids, kids asking too many questions, kids who ask why, snooping children

$0.99 Kindle Deals

#kindle #99cents #kindleUK #HeatherBalog #romance #chicklit

For the next three months, one of my novels will be on sale for Kindle almost every day, either in the US or the UK. This week, my debut novel “All She Ever Wanted” is on sale in the UK. Starting Saturday, “Letter’s to My Sister’s Shrink” will be $0.99 for one week only.

https://kindle.amazon.com/search/books?keywords=heather+balog&start=1

I’m practically giving them away, so be sure to check them out and spread the word! Be sure to post a review on Amazon or Goodreads, too!

 

 

Filed under: novels Tagged: 99cents, kindle, uk kindle

Sleepless in the UK?

It’s after midnight in jolly old England, a place I would love to visit. Are you tossing and turning? Unable to sleep? Wish you had a good book but the library is closed? Well I’ve got great news for you! “All She Ever Wanted” is available for a mere £0.99 this week for Kindle! Don’t have a Kindle you say? You can download the app for your tablet! Awesome! Check it out…you won’t put it down till morning!

All She Ever Wanted

Goodreads Giveaway

Visit the Goodreads site and enter to win a copy of my newest novel…”Falling When the Bough Breaks”

 

https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/89892-falling-when-the-bough-breaks?utm_medium=email&utm_source=giveaway_approved

 

 

Filed under: novels Tagged: Goodreads, Novel giveaway, Win

An Egg-ceptional Tale of Easter Misadventure

In honor of Easter, allow me to tell you about why I hate the tradition of dying Easter eggs. Ok, that’s a little harsh…why I STRONGLY DETEST it. Actually, even if you don’t want me to tell you, you know I’m going to ramble on about it, so just get used to it. Grab a cup of coffee (or glass of wine), sit back and relax as I regale you with my timeline of misadventure this year.

Friday 9pm: I start to notice friends posting pictures of their kids dying Easter eggs all over Facebook. I leap to feet, race to the kitchen and throw open the fridge. We have no eggs. We have no egg dye either. Must get eggs and egg dye.

Saturday 9am: Fight crowds at grocery story and stand in front of egg fridge grappling with an earth shattering decision; 18 eggs or a dozen??? In my mind, I am remembering that every single year at least two eggs break in the boiling process and another egg or two breaks while dying. I decide to go with 18.

9:10 am: I am in the grocery line that stretches into the diaper aisle when I remember that nobody in my family eats hard boiled eggs except my daughter anyway. I go back for the dozen.

9:14am: I battle with lady in a robe and bunny slippers for last carton of a dozen eggs. I win, but break 4 eggs in the process. Grab the carton of 18 eggs.

9:32am: I am at the front of the line…finally. And I remember I forgot the Easter egg dying kit.

10:00am: Finally home. Daughter wants to dye eggs immediately. I explain they have to be boiled, cooled, yada, yada, yada. She pouts, I put eggs on to boil.

10:44am: “Mommy, what’s that burning smell?”. I forgot about the eggs. Drive back to store. Repeat above.

1:00pm: After boiling for appropriate amount of time, put eggs in fridge to cool down.

1:02pm: Explain to anxious child that it is too early to dye eggs; eggs must cool.

7pm: Return home after baseball practice, dinner, etc. etc… House reeks of hard boiled eggs.

7:15pm: Ready to dye eggs. Discover we have no vinegar. Modify instructions.

7:20pm: Invite family members to participate in egg dying festivities. Husband suddenly has to go to the bathroom; son sticks iPod earbuds in his ear and sulks; daughter is already eagerly waiting at the table.

7:22pm: Aforementioned daughter tells me I am “doing it wrong” and wails when I put the egg in the pink dye. I step away from the eggs while she happily colors them…alone.

8:00pm: Our eggs look nothing like the ones that friends have proudly posted pictures of on Facebook. Ours are a putrid shade of green and brown as the child has dunked them in every single color. They are adorned with stickers and sparkles and she has given them all names like “Señor Eggcellence” and Bob. Her hands are now bright blue.

9:00pm: Put child to bed, explaining Easter bunny cannot come if she is awake. Translation, “Mommy can not hide eggs if you are not sleeping, kid”.

10:00pm: Child is still pacing the house, saying she is too excited to sleep. Knowing what is in her Easter basket, I try to convince her that there is really nothing to be the that excited about.

11:00pm: Kid is still awake. Mommy scrolls through Facebook for the Easter Eve version of “how spoiled is my kid”. This is similar to the overwhelming number of Christmas Eve Facebook photos that parents post of the grossly obnoxious amount of presents that are sprawled out underneath their tree. Except with Easter baskets.

Midnight: Child mentions she is not still not sleepy. Mommy falls asleep on couch.

Sunday 2 am: Kid is standing over me telling me she still can’t sleep. I walk her back to her bed and promptly fall head first into mine.

4:14am: I awake with a start, realizing that “The Easter Bunny” has not hidden the eggs yet. I crawl (reluctantly) out of bed.

4:17am: I stare at the carton of 18 eggs (not one of which broke, btw) wondering where the hell I am going to hide 18 REAL eggs. I can’t put them too high; they may fall and break. I can’t put them too low; the dogs will find them and eat them. And my oldest is asleep on the couch in the living room, putting an extra difficult spin on the hiding game. I start shoving them in highly predictable places, trying to take note of how many are in each room.

4:23am: I am running out of places.

4:30am: Seriously, this sucks.

4:37am: I am finally done. I crawl back to bed.

4:40am: I can’t fall sleep now.

5:02 am: Ugh!!! You’ve got to be kidding me!!!

5:58am: I have finally fallen asleep.

5:59am: I feel someone standing over me.

“Hi, Mommy! Can we look for Easter eggs now?” How is she so damn chipper on 4 hours of sleep???

“No, go away. It’s too early.”

6:05am: “Is it later now, Mommy?”

6:20am: Child is now asleep at the foot of the bed. I sigh with relief and go back to sleep.

7:07am: “Is it time yet?” I awake with a start to find her hovering. I sigh as I lumber out of bed, but not before kicking my hubby in the leg. “Get up. She wants to look for eggs”

“Ugh,” he groans. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” My ass. He lies like a rug. He was blissfully snoring away the whole time.

7:10am: Wake up the Prince of Preteen Angst. “Your sister is going to get all the eggs,” I taunt him in efforts to get him to wake up.

“I don’t care,” he mumbles.

“Geez, what happened to your competitive streak? Go help your sister look for eggs,” I tell him.

He rolls over on the couch and I hear a muffled reply. “I don’t want to look for eggs.”

“There’s money in them,” I lie.

“Duh. They’re real eggs. How dumb do you think I am?” He goes back to sleep.

7:12am: I let her loose to find 18 eggs by herself.

7:13 am: The dog has found an egg that rolled off the window sill and is eating it, shell and all.

7:21am: All the eggs except for two have been located.

7:22am: Can’t remember where I put them!

7:25am: Found one but where the hell is that last egg???

7:35am: Tearing the house apart, muttering, “I knew I should have written it down.”

7:44am: Daughter points out that the missing egg is the one the dog ate. Sigh with relief. I will not be finding a rotten egg under the stove in June.

Following Sunday: Throw out 16 hard boiled eggs. Should have gotten the broken dozen

 

Filed under: parenting humor Tagged: dying eggs, Easter, Easter eggs, egg hunt

Life’s Tough, Wear a Cup

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 that there are not too many parent subscribing to this same policy. And that terrifies me. Because I am realizing that soon in the future we are going to have a whole generation of kids looking for praise when none is warranted. We’re going to have a lot of young adults content with mediocre work and no incentive to strive to do better. Everyone is going to want their participation trophy just for putting on a uniform and showing up.

Ok just so we are clear, I’m not “that parent”; the one screaming at their kid the whole game, vein bulging out of their neck. That’s just crazy and plain rude. First of all, you’re embarrassing your kid. Secondly, you’re undermining the coaches and third of all, you look like an ass. It’s just a game after all.

That not to say that I’m not pacing and chewing my nails, praying my kid doesn’t mess up. I think about yelling at my kid in my head sometimes, too. “Oh my GOD, you gotta cover second!” went through my head about ten times this morning. I may have even muttered it into my coffee cup a few times. But, I’m not going to start screaming it on the field. I feel that it is up to the coaches to tell my kid what she did wrong.

Except, today the coaches weren’t telling anyone what they did wrong. Instead, they were applauding every abysmal effort. A ball rolled right past my daughter while she made figure eights in the dirt with her shoe and they just clapped and said “you’ll get it next time!” Meanwhile, I wanted to scream, “wake the hell up out there shortstop!” (But I bit my tongue) One girl stood at the plate while three perfectly good strikes came right down the middle and she didn’t even swing. Everyone clapped for her and I’m wondering WHY? Well, I’ll tell you why. We have to clap because we can’t make anyone feel bad. We have to clap because we don’t want that girl to go home and cry in her pillow. We have to clap because God forbid, the girl realizes she has to try harder or do something else.

I know I sound like a hard ass. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want the girl to cry or feel bad, either. What I want all the kids to do is try their best, realize their full potential and LEARN. We don’t learn from our mistakes if nobody points them out. We don’t learn that we are putting up a subpar performance if someone constantly tells us that we did a good job, even if we didn’t. We don’t learn that maybe we are not as good as we think we are unless someone tells us we can do better.

I don’t blame the coaches either. They have to walk that fine line between pointing out what the kids are doing wrong and appeasing the parents. They don’t need a disgruntled parent keying their car. A good number of these parents want to tell their child, “you did great”, “there are no winners or losers” and other platitudes like that. Wrong! There are winners, there are losers! The sooner we realize it, the better chance we have to be one of those winners.

Not every one is a natural athlete. There are some kids that aren’t going to be good at softball and baseball or soccer. There are kids who are going to stink at basketball or karate or dance. Guess what? They don’t need to be good at those things! They can try other things! There’s kids that can’t swing a bat to save their life, but they are awesome at playing the piano or drawing or can hack into their teacher’s computer and change their grades. It takes all kinds.

My son has been an athlete for many years. A few years ago he brought home a musical instrument (and I can’t even remember what it was because I’m trying to block that portion of my life out of my memory). He was TERRIBLE. But people (like his teacher and my mother in law) lied to him and told him he was good and had potential. The only potential he had was to make our dog run from him in fear. Fortunately, he lost interest in the instrument (which often happens when you’re no good at something) and that went by the wayside. And I was glad, not only that I didn’t have to wear earplugs any more, but that he experienced failing at something, not being good at something. It’s an important lesson to learn. You will NOT be good at everything. You will fail. Practice makes perfect. There are losers and winners. You may suck at stuff. There are no participation trophies in real life. And most importantly, life’s tough, wear a cup.

Filed under: parenting humor Tagged: Kids and sports, Participation trophies, Sports parents