When I found out my 14-year-old stiffed a server, I nearly fell off my chair. Here’s how we fixed it via When Your Child Stiffs a Server – Hot Mess Memoir
Apparently just like us, Satan has to eat. Unfortunately, Satan’s parents chose to eat at the same restaurant as us and sit across from us. Check out this example of bad parenting via An Example of Bad Parenting – Hot Mess Memoir
For our hard working teachers out there, I’ve made an adult mad lib, just for you! Click here to have some fun! via Mad Libs for Adults- Teacher’s Edition – Hot Mess Memoir
I’m just at my wit’s end in having to make lunches! I just have 4 more days to survive without giving them just ketchup packets via At My Wits End- Making School Lunches – Hot Mess Memoir
We’re diggin’ deep into subscription boxes and how I can’t wrap my head around it! Listen, like and follow via Subscription Boxes Podcast Episode 4 – Hot Mess Memoir
As my son slid gracefully down the basement stair steps, I kinda became envious and wanted to mimic him. Unfortunately, I did not have the same swan-like success. Here are the videos of him vs. me. 🙂 via The 10-Year-Old Vs. the 42-Year-Old – Hot Mess Memoir
Here is my post regarding a child being exploited in a town just 30 minutes away. It left me disgusted and outraged. Watch the video and decide for yourself. via Hot Mess Memoir – A humorous, honest, hot mess approach to life!
My 6 yr old son wet his bed last night. I’m over it. But he didn’t just wet his bed, he wet his bunk bed. For anyone who hasn’t had the honor of changing a bunk bed, allow me to paint you a picture: If I go to hell, my assigned job will be to change the top bunk of each and every inhabitant of hell. And they will all have bunk beds.
Changing a (dry) bunk goes like this: you stand at the top corner and rip off the fitted sheet and attempt to pull it to the foot of the bed. 99% of the time this will not work so you have to climb the ladder and yank off the stubborn foot corner. You throw the sheets on the floor in complete anger questioning why the hell you would buy a bunk bed in the first place. Oh yeah, the rooms of your home are about 12 x 5. Next you take the fitted sheet and gingerly wrap it around the top, left corner. You know this is in vein yet you attempt it anyway. You duplicate this by wrapping the right hand corner. You cringe as you see these new corners slowly inching their way up as you are pulling the 3rd and 4th corner to their respective areas. It’s like they are taunting you. As the 3rd corner is wrapped around the mattress, you now realize the conundrum you are in. How do you stretch the 4th and final corner? You “donkey it”. What I mean by “donkey it” is you literally kick your feet in the air (like you just don’t care) while swiftly attempting to wrap the final corner around the bed. It’s a moment you want NO ONE to see. This method is successful 66% of the time. The other times involve you ruining your cuticles as you squeeze your hands between the slats and the mattress, trying to tuck it all in. Frankly, Ru Paul has it easier.
C’s mattress is, um, sorry, I’m trying to find a word to describe it. We weren’t responsible parents and put a mattress pad on it 10 years ago. I’ll just be real. No, too much work. If I were to describe the mattress to you, I would say it looks like a mattress you would find in any well appointed crack house. Piss stains are all over it along with blood stains from bloody noses when the air was dry. I would say the only thing missing is a junky rolling off of it onto the floor.
Because I take initiative, I would like to also tell you that this mattress is a hand me down from his big brother. Big brother equally pissed in his bed on a regular basis. When bestowing it upon C we simply flipped it over to the lesser pee side and said “look at your brand new mattress!” Side note, for our oldest sons mattress, we did purchase and use a mattress cover. I’m sure C will be elated.
I’ve decided to treat the peeing in the bed like the factory that notes x amount of days without an injury. C just set the clocks back another 6 months. I told him I’ll buy him a new mattress after he can go 6 months accident free. He looked a tad discouraged about this news but quickly returned to questioning why our fucking elf on the shelf has yet to make his debut. Don’t get me started about the elf…..
Below is a story I turned in to a writing contest last year. The challenge was to write based on the following topic: Mommy I Don’t Like This. I never answer my phone or check my voice mails so if I won (which I probably didn’t), I wouldn’t know.
“Mommy, I don’t like this” were the five words I prayed would never be uttered as my son opened gifts in front of everyone at any of his birthdays. P was turning four, in preschool and somehow added words like pumpernickel and actually to his precocious vocabulary every day. I still don’t know where his intelligence comes from as I usually have to learn his math lessons before I help him with his 5th grade math.
Young children act like drunken grandfathers, giving their opinion honestly, openly and at the worst possible times. I knew my time was coming, it was just a question of when. The year before, when P turned 3, we had a Thomas the Train party because he was obsessed with those $80 cabooses. After opening about the sixth train, P fell back in his little wood rocking chair completely exasperated throwing his hands in the air exclaiming “Ugh, another train?”
This birthday was going to be different. I had a lethal combination of brainwashing and blackmail in store for P to reduce the chances of awkwardness. Two weeks from his Barney themed birthday party I began to coach him on how to graciously accept a gift even if it’s a duplicate or one he doesn’t care for.
“P” I began, “If you get something you don’t like it’s almost better. You know why?” His little blue eyes looked up from the Monet he was painting and asked, “Why?”
“Because then we go to the store, exchange the gift and you can pick out something you want!”
He found this idea agreeable and I was confident I had planted the seed. I continued, “So if you get something you don’t like, don’t say mommy I don’t like this. Simply pretend you like it, say thank you and then we’ll go exchange it. Cool?” He shook his head and went back to his masterpiece.
We had the same conversation every three days. As his birthday approached, I upped my attack by agreeing to get him a Build a Bear if he pretends to like gifts he does not. Closer to the date, I added dashes of guilt with phrases like “we don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings” or “how would you feel if you got someone something and they said they didn’t like it?”
The day had arrived. It was an unseasonably nice day for a Saturday in March. The party would be at our home and so far 15 kids had RSVP’d. We had games, cake and gift opening planned for the next two hours.
After all the kids were exuding signs of sugar highs, we thought this would be the perfect time to ask all of them to sit quietly around P to watch him open gifts they would never be playing with. If you’ve ever been to a kid’s birthday party you’ll find that placing your child in the center of a circle of children is like putting road kill in a circle of vulchers. After about the third gift, you have to play a cop at a criminal scene asking everyone to “move back” and “there’s nothing to see here folks.”
Half way into the gift opening he began to open something that resembled a book. From my experience at birthday parties and with my own children, there are 2 things you do not get kids between the ages of 4 to 10: books and clothing. I don’t know what this mother was thinking but I was secretly revoking her mom card for the day.
This would be the tester of everything I had taught my young padawan. Upon ripping the last bit of paper off the gift and flipping it over to see a Go Diego Go title, I knew right then and there, he was not happy. Simultaneously, I was trying to send him telepathic messages of ‘God help you if you say anything other than thank you.’
With a twinkle in his eye you could tell he was proud of what he was about to say. He looked up at all the guests, grinned at me then methodically announced, “Mommy, I’m going to pretend I like this.”
My face turned red yet I giggled quietly.
“No baby, Diego is great. Can’t wait to read this to you.”
‘I’m sorry,’ I mouthed to the mother that got P this stupid gift. She quickly swiped her hand and mouthed back ‘no problem.’
Fast forward 6 years later and now birthdays are ridiculously easy. Swear to God, every gift he received last year was a gift card. Either it’s the age or word spread after his 4th birthday about his faux pas.
As I mentioned in my last post, my oldest is a full blown hypochondriac. Often times I am trying to find a constructive, thoughtful way to convey that he needs to grow a pair.
3 weeks ago my husband called to ask for our insurance information. I was on my way to work….on a Saturday (that whole thing is for another post). He had just bought a car so I thought he was finalizing insurance things. Why he couldn’t reach into his own pocket and look at the shiny white card on his own was beyond me.
“No, our health insurance,” he corrected.
“Health insurance? What’s wrong?”
“I’m on my way to urgent care, we think P broke his foot.” And with that revelation, he hung up.
I began to call him back to ask the 20 questions I had but decided to wait a few minutes in case he was dealing with a squad or a triage nurse. A few minutes later he called back to tell me P’s injury happened during a soccer game (again, that I had to miss thanks to work) and that so and so’s dad has been in sports medicine for over 20 years and was certain it was broke.
It wasn’t even fractured. In lieu of Children’s Hospital Urgent Care, my husband went off a parent’s recommendation of an urgent care located pretty much in the ghetto. I think it was named something like URGENT KARE or URGENT KARE KIDZZ; like how care or kid is spelled to look cutesy but really makes it look like you completely bypassed all English classes.
Dr. Studio 54 had clearly received his diploma from the Sally Struther’s online school for doctoring. Only at URGENT KARE would the doctor have gelled hair, a thick gold chain around his neck and one too many buttons unbuttoned to reveal chest hair.
After the “doctor” left for a moment to do a line, I turned to my husband and asked innocently,
“Now remind me again why we are here and not Children’s? I thought we loved our children.”
So the doctor recommended elevating his foot along with ice. He had crutches and was told to use them for the next 24 hours.
3 days later he is still on the crutches. He is saying things to me (in the most serious tone), “I’m learning to walk again” or “Should we get a handicap sticker for the car?”
At the end of the 3rd day I heard Tiny Tim hobbling down the stairs attempting to use his crutches when all of a sudden there is a huge crash.
“That’s it!” I screamed as I come down the stairs like Joan Crawford.
“Gimme those, gimme those” I said as I snapped up the crutches.
“I have had a fractured foot twice now thanks to stilettos. I had to wear a boot but I have never needed crutches.You are not that injured. Your foot isn’t even fractured. If it hurts this bad we are going to the emergency room.”
He did not like this, gave me a dirty look and began to limp away. I felt like an asshole now and followed behind him a bit calmer, trying to explain my reasoning.
Being a martyr, he said, “no, no. You don’t want me using crutches, I won’t use them.”
And use them he did not because within 24 hours he was back to normal.
The other recent condition was his twitch. This twitch would only surface when he thought about it. After a few weeks I told him I would make an appointment for the doctor. Here is how that conversation went:
“Yeah, I’d like to make an appointment for my oldest.”
“And what are we seeing P for?” The phone nurse asked.
“Um, well, this is going to sound kind of stupid but he feels like he always has to move his hands and fingers when sitting down.”
As the words came out of my mouth, they sounded so stupid to me. Weren’t all children fidgety most of the time? “Um, my child is a living, breathing child” is what I felt like I was saying.
After a trip to the doctors it was determined that he had an extremely mild tick that would eventually go away. The irony is that since going to the doctor, the tick has disappeared.
I just got up to make C a peanut butter sandwhich. This woke P up from a nap and I shit you not, the first thing out of his mouth, “Oh my God, my thumb. It feels like it’s going to fall off. I don’t know whats wrong with it.”