Heather Balog's Blog, page 34

Falling When the Bough Breaks

What does it mean when you lose your only child? Are you still a mother? Can you go on with your life as if the child never existed or will you always be missing that piece, unable to love another child the way you once loved your child?

This is not a hypothetical situation for Andrea Pringle. It’s her unfortunate reality and she is torn between love for her dead son and her desire to be a family after the birth of her daughter. She cannot seem to bond with the new baby, feeling an overwhelming amount of resentment for the simple fact that she is alive and her brother is not. No one understands her pain and Andrea feels that she is completely alone, Falling When the Bough Breaks.

Im taking a break from comedy as my newest novel explores the complexities of motherhood and postpartum depression after loss of a child. Check it out on Kindle.

Falling When the Bough Breaks

Note to Self: Change the Locks

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 I was getting out of the shower, I raced to answer it since I was sure it had to be the Fed Ex guy. Those damn shoes were supposed to be delivered yesterday and I’ve been waiting so patiently for them. I really needed them to come like, right now, since I planned my entire outfit for today’s interview around those shoes.

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

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

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

Simon leaned up against the wall, trying to appear cool. I bit my lip to suppress laughter. The building super had just painted that wall and Simon now had a big white line of paint on his sleeve.

“Ah, so no new chap? Still carrying a torch for old Simon then, huh?” He flashed one of his cheesy grins my way. God, did his audacity ever end?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How about Robert?” I suggested, ignoring his foray into the inane topic of nursery themes. Robert was Simon’s younger brother. He was a bit of a romantic drifter, but he did have a house in Long Island.

Simon waved off that suggestion. “He’s decided to live in Spain. New tart he met on vacation lives there and apparently he’s in love. Again. Remember Illyana? Yeah, this one speaks even less English than her. I bet all she knows is…”

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

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

“It’s April, Simon. You’ll be fine. Go find a refrigerator box or something,” I countered as I turned the doorknob. Much to my chagrin, it wouldn’t turn. What the hell? I gripped it tighter and tried again; sometimes it stuck when it was humid.

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

Simon chuckled as I desperately rattled the doorknob. “A bit of a pickle, eh?” His voice was full of amusement.

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

“Ah, what happened to your job, Lizzie?” Simon inquired with sarcastic sweetness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Simon. Keys usually open doors,” I replied sarcastically, refocusing my gaze and staring down at my feet. I could see that my hot pink toenail polish was flaking off. Great. Now I have to wear boots and it’s hot. I can’t even wear the open toed shoes if I wanted to. Even if they came before I was done getting dressed. I’ll never get the job with chipped toe nail polish. Ugh, I’ve got to rethink my whole outfit now. My mind was reeling as the clock ticked down.

“A key like this one?” Simon called, just as the elevator doors opened. My upstairs neighbor, Mrs. McIntyre was inside the elevator, gawking at me with her mouth hanging open. She clutched her purse and her stupid toy poodle, Cupcake, close to her body like I was some sort of crazed animal snatcher. Haven’t you ever seen anyone waiting for an elevator in a towel, lady? I spun around to see Simon dangling a key in the air. My key. On my Mets lanyard. Son of a bitch! I’ve been looking all over for that!

The elevator door closed with Mrs. McIntyre and Cupcake safely behind it as I stormed over and attempted to snatch my key from Simon’s hand. He was shorter than average, a fact he absolutely hated, but he was still taller than I was and able to dangle the key well out of my reach. Holding on to the towel, I tried to jump for it, lost my balance and my body covering in the process. Quickly, I snatched up the towel and held it to my bare body. Thank goodness it was a weekday and most of my neighbors were already at work.

Simon laughed with glee as he tossed the key on top of the junk pile my neighbor kept outside his door, despite the association regulation forbidding use of hall space for personal storage. Every weekend, Mr. Jackson attempted to clean out his apartment, dragging furniture and boxes into the common hallway. And every weekend, the poor dear became so overwhelmed by the process of sifting through his hoard, he would quit halfway through. I didn’t have the heart to report him and his mess even though the pile of rubble was slowly encroaching on my own hallway space.

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

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

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

Simon casually leaned against my door frame, resulting in a white streak on his other sleeve. “I can help you out there, Lizzie. In exchange for one teensy little favor.” A sly smile spread across Simon’s lips.

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

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

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

Pouting and casting his doleful eyes in my direction, Simon inquired, “How about just for a few days? Till I can find a new flat? I promise I won’t be a bugger.”

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

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

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

Simon bobbed his head up and down with comprehension. “No, no, I understand. I don’t want to get in your way.”

I smiled gratefully. See? Simon can be a normal human being sometimes. “Thank you. Can I have my key now?”

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

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

I pointed my finger at him as I spoke. “First of all, Austin is out of town on business, as I mentioned before. And secondly, he doesn’t have a key to my apartment.” I quickly clamped my hand over my mouth. The words had escaped before I could stop myself.

“Ah, so not as serious as you’d like me to believe, my dear,” Simon said with a grin.

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

Austin’s friends thought it was hilarious and teased me, including the player I had worshipped up until that very moment. But Austin was sweet and helped me to my feet. While his friends moved on to picking up a group of girls who couldn’t even be out of high school, Austin and I sat alone at the bar and lamented about our recent career changes. We knocked back shot after shot and I guess I was drunk enough to go home with him that night, something I don’t normally do. But he had been a major league ball player after all so that probably clouded my usual virtuous judgment.

I was mortified when I woke up the next morning, naked in his bedroom. I was certain he was going to kick me out when he sobered up, telling me how much he regretted our transgression. Instead, to my shock, he asked me to spend the day with him.

I did just that. We lounged in bed, talking, ordering take out Chinese and drinking wine. Turned out, he had all the episodes of my favorite show, The Wonder Years, so we watched about three seasons worth of that. And of course we had sex a few times, too.

The next day, we actually got up and got dressed and spent the day in Central Park playing Frisbee and having a picnic. It was the most fun I had in ages, so we’ve been dating ever since. I was pretty sure it was exclusive, but I never really asked. I didn’t want to pressure him into anything else right now. I had a feeling he was frustrated with where his life was taking him professionally and he wasn’t going to be able to commit to our relationship just yet. I mean, we hadn’t even said “I love you” to each other yet. Not that I didn’t love him. I definitely did. I didn’t want to seem needy and all that. And I was a little out of practice. Did I mention I hadn’t dated anyone since my breakup with Simon?

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

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

“Just dandy,” Simon remarked without enthusiasm. He never really gave a hoot about sports. “So if he’s out of town a lot, he won’t mind me staying here, then. It’s not like I will be in his way or anything.”

I shook my head defiantly. It reeked of a rotten idea.

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

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

“I swear to Christ I’ve changed, Lizzie. I promise I won’t be the wanker I was back then. Please? You won’t even know I’m about.” He gazed into my eyes like a gazelle being mauled by a lion as he pleaded.

I rubbed my temples. I could feel a migraine coming on. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I mean, it would only be for a few days and even though he’s a real jerk face, I can be gracious and try to forget the past. It’s not like what he did could ever hurt me again, right?

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

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

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

“Of course, of course. I wouldn’t dream of making this difficult for you.” He unlocked the door and stepped aside with a sweeping motion. “Ladies first.”

 

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Note to Self: Change the Locks

Play dates Make Mommy Drink

My daughter had a friend over today and I realized…play dates suck. For the most part, they’re like babysitting except you don’t get paid. You’re responsible for someone else’s kid for however long they’re at your house and you can’t yell at them or let them get hurt. In a way, it’s worse than babysitting.

My kid started laying the groundwork for this play date by annoying the ever loving crap out of me a few days beforehand. “Can Abby come over on Saturday?” (Names have been changed to protect the innocent)

I bit my lip. Saturday was going to be my “free day”; the day hubby was working and not following me around the house or insisting on accompanying me to the store. On free days I like to get my nails done and buy stuff online cuz he’s not breathing down my neck. I don’t have to get dressed if I don’t want to or even shower. I get to watch whatever I want on TV (once I bribe the kids to let me actually have the remote) I certainly didn’t need another kid thrown in the mix on a free day.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “We’re busy Saturday.”

“But whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?” She demanded to know. “What do we have to dooooooooooo?”

“Clean,” I retorted. “We have to clean.” And buy boots at DSW and get a pedi, I added silently. And take a nap. Oh, and go to the gym.

Before you call me selfish, just remember, she sees her friends five days a week at school. She’s on FaceTime with them for hours a day. I get one free Saturday a MONTH. One blissful day full of potential and it’s usually taken up by baseball games or some sort of practice. And cleaning. So nah nah nah poo poo.

Well, that didn’t sit too well with the princess. She cried, she stomped, she begged, she pleaded. She did her chores without being asked and cleaned her room. (Sort of)

After following me in the bathroom while waving the iPad with her friend on the other end of it in my face (yes, I WAS on the toilet), I finally broke down, scrambled to rearrange my “relaxing” day and let her have a damn play date.

That word makes me cringe, by the way. It sounds so…planned. I remember just hopping on my bike and going to friends’ houses. There was none of this formal arrangements. There was no discussing with the other mom. Ugh, that’s one of the things I REALLY hate about play dates; talking to the other mother on the phone and making idle small talk while you wait for the kid to find the shoe they’ve so conveniently “misplaced” when the mother comes and picks them up. Oh and that, “what time should I come and get them?” question. Grrrr. I don’t know how your kid is going to behave, lady. I might want you to come get them before you’ve even left the driveway.

Usually though, it’s NOT the other kid that makes the play date unbearable. It’s the circus in which I reside that makes me want to fling myself into traffic when I hear those two little cringeworthy words uttered.

First off, the dogs are a force to be reckoned with. The little one absolutely, positively does NOT like strangers in her house. She’s small and cute and kids who haven’t met her yet think she would be great fun to play with but by God they are totally wrong. She’s a Bitch with a capital B. I have to watch her like a hawk to make sure she doesn’t bite the kid’s hand off when they try to pet her.

The big dope is another story. He LOVES guests! He wants to sniff them and knock them to the ground so he can lick their faces and any other body part unfortunate enough to be exposed. Most kids are appalled by his 99 pounds lumbering at them and they do NOT appreciate their butts being forcefully invaded by his nose. I have to keep him in a restricted area which breaks his heart, resulting in him literally crying and whimpering for the entire play date.

If that isn’t enough, my daughter turns into a blithering idiot when she has friends over. Yeah, yeah, I know, that’s not nice, but it’s SO true. All of a sudden she is a hundred times more annoying and obnoxious than she already is on a normal basis. She talks in a squeaky baby voice. She wants to go outside and jump on her pogo stick in the rain. She drags the friend into her brother’s room and hides under his bed to spy on him which results in him screaming. She jumps on couches and leaps off of beds. She brings all the toys downstairs into the living room which results in my stepping on a Lego in my bare feet. I’ve even found her in my bedroom going through my underwear drawer once when she had a friend over. It’s like she is getting her rebel self out while she knows I’m not going to flip out in front of her friend.

Meanwhile, all I can think is that this kid is gonna fall and split her lip or the dog is going to rip her apart and she’s going to need stitches. I am all of a sudden sleepy with a headache and I can’t nap with another kid in the house or discover I need to run to the store and I can’t leave the stranger’s kid alone with mine. I smile when they ask for a snack. Of course, being the good nurse I am, I always make sure they don’t have allergies. I can just imagine the headlines: “School nurse gives allergic kid peanut butter sandwich for snack”. If it’s summer, I stare at them while they’re in the pool, certain that if I go to the bathroom, they’re going to drown. I clench my teeth and pace while I hold my bladder and count the hours till they go home and I can relax again. The whole thing makes me want to open up a bottle of wine.

I hate play dates. My stomach hurts just thinking about it. It’s too much responsibility! I can’t take it! That’s it…no more play dates…my kids will just have to be antisocial.

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Thank God My Ovaries Have Shriveled Up and Died

I babysat my 2 year old nephew the other day…overnight, and I’ve come to a conclusion. I’m too damn old for a toddler. Thirty eight year olds should not be chasing a two year old around.

Let me preface this by saying, my nephew is a normal toddler. He isn’t in need of a straight jacket or Ritalin as of yet. Which begs the question…how the hell did I survive not once, but twice with a full time two year old???

Maybe it’s because back then my house was child proofed and now I’m living with the “if they stick it in their mouth or electrocute themselves, they should have known better” kind of mantra . This kind of thinking doesn’t work with a two year old.

My sister dropped him off at 6:30 and I asked the kid in my high pitched sing songy auntie voice, “And what time will you go to bed?”

My sister avoided my eyes as she replied, “Oh, probably around 11…”

I glowered at her and I’m surprised she didn’t melt into the floor. 11:00 is basically what time I would go to bed on a night out. I am OLD. I am in my pjs at 9, tucked into bed by 9:30 and snoozing away by 10.

“We’ll see about that,” I retorted. (I had him asleep by 10 so I consider that a triumph)

Then, the chase began. I swear I got more cardio than a week of boot camp just chasing the kid around the house to preventing him from scaling the dresser drawers like Spider-Man or smashing my Precious moments to the floor just for the delight of watching them shatter.

First his eyes grew wide when he spotted my Scentsy. For those of you who don’t know, Scentsy is a flameless candle thingamabob that smells really nice and doesn’t put my firefighter husband into shock when he discovers I left it on all night. It’s very discreet and doesn’t even look like a candle but damn that kid was on my snowman Scentsy like it was a piñata at a birthday party. Within seconds he had the lid off and was dipping his fingers in the wax. I screeched in horror. Now, the wax isn’t hot, so I didn’t worry he was going to burnt himself or anything like that. No, I was more concerned that he was going to break the cute little carrot nose off of the thing.

As I was disconnecting that, Mr. Elusive dashed off towards the sliding glass doors of the dining room where my daughter had lovingly cut out snowflakes and taped them to the door in the shape of a snowman. Apparently, he was drawn to snowmen because before I could get into the room, I heard two distinctly different noises that made my blood run cold. Blood curdling shrieking from my daughter and squeals of delight from the two year old. Oh yeah, he ripped them all down and was stuffing the pieces into his mouth.

As I consoled the sobbing eight year old, I caught the escape artist toddling off. I followed him to the kitchen where his eyes grew wide at the sight of the overflowing recyclable bin. I snatched the wine bottle out of his hands before it met an untimely death at the hands of my ceramic tile. There was a drop left in the bottle. I didn’t want it to go to waste.

In that brief nanosecond it took to pour the drop down my gullet, he took off again. This time chasing our cankerous 10 year old dog. She was a puppy when the kids were little; happy to play and be chased. Now she was an old lady who wanted to be left the hell alone. Kind of like me.

“Crap!” I muttered, flinging the wine aside. She would bite him for sure.

Sure enough, he had her cornered and was attempting to pat her. With a shoe. She snarled and I snatched him away just in time. Her jaws latched onto the shoe instead of him.

It was at this point that my husband shouted from the other room.

“Can you keep it down in there? I’m trying to watch TV.”

I was tempted to go beat him with the shoe but instead I gritted my teeth and sat the kid down.

My sister claims all the kid does is sleep and watch TV at home. Apparently, my house is like an amusement park to him because he does none of that. Either that or she gives him coffee before he comes over and cackles as she drives off.

“Listen,” I said, trying to remain calm. “Aunt Heather is too old for this crap. Why don’t we sit down now and watch TV?” I suggested with that smile we all use on toddlers. The kid laughed in my face and took off again. I glanced at the clock, counting down the hours till I could realistically try to put him to bed. It was 7:02.

After chasing him relentlessly for another hour, in which he took a bite of all the apples in the bowl on my table, drove a match box car over the flat screen TV, broke off the ladders to all my husband’s fire truck, nearly choked after shoving an entire piece of garlic bread into his mouth and sat on the door of the dishwasher, I begged my daughter to watch him for five minutes while I sat down and took my pulse.

I slumped onto the couch next to my husband who was completely oblivious to the mayhem as long as it didn’t interrupt his TV show.

“Is he sleeping?” he asked me.

I stared at him in disbelief, but only for a second. Because just then, a crashing noise came from the kitchen followed by a wailing toddler. And I was off again…

After he left the next day, I wrote a poem:

Dear God,

Please ignore the curses,

That I slung at you,

Several years ago,

When I was quite blue.

I may have been mad,

At you at the time,

But now birth control,

Doesn’t cost a dime.

No rubbers or a pill,

No pulling it out,

The fact I can’t have more,

Makes me want to shout.

No heart palpitations,

Or little plus signs,

Will worry this girl,

If Aunt Flo’s not on time.

I love my little nephews,

And even my niece,

But the fact the go home,

Puts me at peace.

Since I am too old,

To chase little tykes,

Who stick gum in their hair,

And fall off of bikes.

I’m lucky for sure,

That I had my two,

Before I turned thirty,

And didn’t have a clue.

Thank you oh Lord,

For setting me straight,

And taking away,

My ability to procreate.

Filed under: Uncategorized

The Sneaker Freak

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 lazy to bring the socks upstairs because he also has an “emergency sock” collection stuffed in the couch cushions.

So anyway, he was so excited to show us these socks that were “the comfiest socks ever”, oh and by the way, they were $16 a pair. Uh, what??? He did not even blink an eye when he said this so he obviously did not think that was a ridiculous thing to spend his allowance on when I would be quite willing to buy him packages of Hanes that include 8 pairs of socks for $5.

We laughed it off…and laughed at him, but if he wanted “special” socks, we were certain the novelty would wear off soon.

Nope…it got worse. A few weeks later, we asked him what he wanted for his birthday. Like Ralphie in The Christmas Story, he rattled off some make and model and color of some shoes. Thrilled that he was finally giving us an idea for his gift, we asked for specifics, like where we could buy them and how much they were…you know, important stuff. It was then that he informed us that these shoes cost $120. $120 for shoes???? I don’t pay $120 for sneakers and I’m a runner. We laughed for a few minutes (okay, several hours) and told him to find something else. He flopped around, sulking for quite a few days, muttering under his breath about how unfair we were, blah, blah, blah, blah..

Then, the damn kid one up’d us. Since nobody knew what to get him for his birthday, everyone gave him money. What did he use the money for? You guessed it…the stupid $120 shoes.

We sighed, defeated, but we assumed it was a one time thing. How wrong we were.

A few weeks later, he came to me, waving his iPod in my face. “Look at these! I want these!” He was making me dizzy. I had to rip the iPod out of his hand to see what it was. My face fell when I realized it was another pair of shoes.

“Where did you get this picture?” I asked.

“Oh, its an app,” he replied.

“An APP?????? For sneakers?” I inquired incredulously.

“Yeah. It tells you the shoe’s release date,” he explained.

I had to sit down. This was hurting my head. “Release date? Like movies and music and books and stuff?”

“Yeah,” he nodded enthusiastically. “These come out Nov 5th and if we don’t get there at 7 am, they sell out.”

Oh, sell out…yeah, okay kid. Sure. Shoes don’t SELL OUT.

“I have enough money saved to buy them,” he volunteered.

“And how much would these be?” I asked while taking a sip of coffee.

“$140,” he deadpanned.

I spit coffee clear across the room.

Needless to say, we did not go to the mall at 7 am. In fact, we didn’t even go that day. And you know what? The stupid %&$ shoes sold out just like he said they would. In fact, they had a raffle to be able to have the honor of purchasing these shoes. Because apparently, my son is not the only teenaged boy obsessed with shoes. After he got the shoes he wanted for Christmas, he went out THE VERY NEXT DAY and brought another pair with his Christmas money. And of course, matching socks for every pair. He would look totally put together if the rest of his attire matched his socks and shoes. The other day he came downstairs with red and blue sneakers, red and blue matching socks, black and yellow hoodie and gray and green shorts. I turned to his father and said, “Get a load of that…he thinks he matches.” To which my husband replied, “He doesn’t???”

In the last five months I have stooped to a new low. I admit, I have scoured the mall(s) looking for the sneakers he wanted for Christmas (only because he won’t give us any other ideas). I’ve watch him proudly post pictures to Instagram of his newest kicks. I have tagged behind him on his sneaker quest many a Saturday afternoon. (The sneaker quests usually end in tears because “I told you we needed to get here when the store opened!”)

But anyway, why have we given into this obsession? Why have we allowed him to blow his shoveling money, gift money, etc.? Because, like anything with parenting, there’s a lesson to be learned here. He’s going to want something soon…to go to the movies, buy a girl a gift, a video game…something. And he’s going to be broke. And bored. But damn, he’s going to have the awesomest collection of shoes. That won’t fit him in two months because he’s growing like a weed. But that’s okay because right now the shoes he’s buying…are my size

My son crying because we won’t let him get yet another pair of shoes…

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Boys who love sneakers, Sneakers, Teenage boy obsessions

The Sneaker Freak

Get an Ebook 50% off this week!

Smashwords is my new favorite site for ebooks. Whatever ereader you have, you can find my books here. This week is eReader Week at Smashwords and I am offering a 50% discount with the promo code REW50.

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Letters to My Sister’s Shrink

I am venturing out into the world away from the comedy and into a darker venture with my new novel…check it out on Amazon and feel free to share with friends!

http://www.amazon.com/Letters-To-My-Sisters-Shrink/dp/1495266079/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1392948516&sr=8-1&keywords=heather+balog

Filed under: novels

When Did Valentine’s Day Come to This?

I have a complaint about Valentine’s Day. (I know, me with a complaint, imagine that, right?). I don’t actually have a problem with the day, although it does put unrealistic expectations on those in relationships and added stress. I think it’s nice to have a day to tell your significant other you love them, but it should be more about the acts of love rather than materialistic gifts. Oh and I think it sucks for people that are single and makes them eat more chocolate and ice cream than necessary.

Anyway, that’s not my problem with Valentine’s Day. My issue is with what the day has become.

My daughter made Valentine cards this year and the only reason she did is because on Monday when we went out to get the $4 box of Austin and Ali cards, they were wiped off the shelf. Really? Five days before valentine’s Day? So anyway, she had to make the cards which were cute and thoughtful. She comes home today with an overflowing bag of candy, puzzles, pencils and games that make her cards look like toilet paper. Uh, what??? Apparently, there was also heart lollipops and heart shaped cookies and cupcakes. I’ve apparently got to play “keeping up with the Joneses” on Valentine’s Day, too? Now while I’m not one to turn down a party, isn’t this holiday about ADULTS? Or at least teenagers crushing on each other? Since when is a day of celebrating your love about little children??? Like, why is it all of a sudden about kids and getting gifts for your kids and kids in school giving out insanely elaborate cards and gifts and trinkets??? Are they in love with each other? Forgive me if I’m wrong but isn’t this about love? And being in love with someone? Or at least having affection for someone? If the kids are all giving each other cards and gifts and stuff, doesn’t that dismiss the true meaning? They all have to give each other cards if they bring any cards in so nobody feels bad. Doesn’t it make it less special and contribute to those kids having unrealistic expectations when they are actually in relationships with someone? (Specifically, the girls??) Now I don’t want kids to feel hurt because that sucks, but maybe if we don’t put emphasis on the day it wouldn’t be an issue.

Seriously I don’t mean to be a grinch about this, but isn’t it on par with expecting a gift bag for someone else’s birthday? I mean, Valentine’s Day is NOT about children, at least not my understanding of it. Everything I google about the origins of Valentine’s Day talks about celebrating ROMANTIC LOVE and LOVERS, not a holiday to tell the girl sitting next to you that you are BBFs or the kid in front of you that he’s okay and he doesn’t make you want to barf.

I’m not saying kids shouldn’t give out any cards or eat a piece of chocolate on Valentine’s Day. I’m saying maybe kids in the ten and under set shouldn’t be making a huge deal out of a day that really isn’t about them. They shouldn’t get caught up in it anyway. There’s plenty of time to be disillusioned about Valentine’s Day later on in life.

Filed under: Uncategorized