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
I don’t think I ask for a lot from my kids. But when I ask for chores to be done, you’d think I’d asked for an addition to be built onto the home! Read about the struggle via Chores – 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
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!
Have you ever heard a man complain that he’s uncomfortable, sitting in a chair while his wife gives birth? Truely, these men need throat punched! This post was also inspired by my husband falling alseep when he was suppose to hold my legs as I gave birth. via The Pampered Papa – Hot Mess Memoir
The soccer mom life chose me….
And yet again another pouring morning I have the honor of sitting in for a soccer game. And for anyone that says “your gonna miss this,” no I’m not. I’m going to miss them being young and adorable sure but the go, go, go; sitting in the freezing rain? I’ll miss that about as much as I still miss Sister Mary Helen in 3rd grade which bordered on mental abuse every day in the classroom. This blows.
Ok, I want to hear from people with children and people who remember being children or find they are just an adult child. I need some advice on setting up chores for my sons.
Almost daily I ask the boys to unload the dishwasher. You would think I asked them to unload the dishwashers of a cruise ship after the formal dinner. What the hell? In my mind I’m thinking, ‘listen up Thing 1 and Thing 2, this is like the sole job I give you. We have a man maid for cryin’ out loud coming every other week. So God forbid if you help me with the dishes.
And would you like to see the extra time they take for putting away dishes, specifically the Tupperware cabinet?
I love how the blue water bottle is balancing “just so” on the Pyrex measuring cup.
I think part of the reason why I’m so bad with money is because I never had an allowance to manage. My mother gave me the option of a fixed weekly income or a “do your chores, ask for it when you want it and a good portion of the time, I’ll say yes.”
My father tried the allowance thing till I became a smart ass at the age of 11.
“Your gonna get $2 whole dollars every week as an allowance.” My Father declared.
“Oh wow, your too generous dad. Perhaps I could take those $2 dollars and buy 1 schrunchie a week at Rite Aide. Or I could save up for a banana clip. The possibilities are endless with this sort of wealth.”
He gave me the evil eye, tucked it back into his money clip and declared there would be no allowance. In fact, we would now be working for free.
‘Yeah, we’ll see about that,’ I said under my breath on my way to ask my mom to take me to the mall.
So here I am now with 2 completely ungrateful children who find the dishwasher a challenge and always “forget” that I asked them to clean something.
I need suggestions people! I found this great website: My Job Chart and we used it until the boys got their Nooks and were like “screw you mom, we got what we came for and we are outtie.”
So I’m thinking like $5 a week for the oldest (10) and $2 for the youngest (7). Oh my God, I just said a $2 allowance. I’ve turned into my father. No, I’m worse then my father. I got $2 in the 80’s. With inflation, $2 is now what? $10?
Here are the basic chores I would love to see them do:
- brush teeth (trust me they struggle with this)
- make bed
- unload dishwasher
- feed Chi-chi
- fold 1 load of laundry a week
- sweep the floor
Not enough chores? I’m open for suggestions. What did you guys do? God, I want to be the kid again and not worry about this stuff.
Every week I go to the grocery store. My son’s eat the equivalent of a heard of 50 oxen and sometimes I find myself apologizing to the checkout lady for how much shit I have to purchase. I try to make light of the situation.
“I’m buying for an orphanage,” I say jokingly. Her reaction is on par with me telling her I have coupons.
Because of weather, I did not feel like grocery shopping yesterday. Sunday is my typical day to do it. I knew I would regret my decision but I was going to live in the moment and type out another blog post (see my dedication).
After having to stop 3 times this morning to scrape ice off my windows; at one point sure I was going to be hit on the side of the road, I was already done with the day.
Since I chose not to get groceries Sunday I decided to do it directly after work. That was a really stupid choice especially when I suffer from hangerisism (becoming a complete bitch when hungry).
In the grocery store I came across my first prey that annoyed me. It was a “16 and pregnant-esque” matriarch in the soup/condiment aisle. Following behind her was probably her 12 year old sister and her 5 year old kid. She dressed appropriately in her pink and black polka dot pajamas with her hair swept up into a bun.
“Ess-cuse me,” she said as she rolled her eyes as if she was the Queen of England and I was clearly in her way.
I held my ground and stayed in my place as she and her court walked around me.
‘Just try me,’ I thought.
I was so annoyed and aggravated. I wanted her to challenge me at this point. I wasn’t on my period, yet I felt crazy enough to deal with this hot mess.
Next aisle? The caravan.
Shall we talk about the caravan for a moment? So your child gets to an age where they want to ride in the “car basket.” What is the car basket? Aside from the car basket being a complete germ infestation, it is single handedly the most dreaded contraption of all parents.
After you pick out the fruit snacks and make a futile attempt to wipe the car down with antibacterial wipes, your child usually finds a complete cookie at the bottom of the caravan and proceeds to eat it. Usally this cookie was handled by that child with green snot and a kool-aid mustache.
Uselessly you threaten your kid, “I’m cool with you driving the car but if you are going to drive the car you have to stay in it.”
23 minutes later, they are out of the stupid car, walking next to you, veering off every 3 God damn minutes demanding a bakery cookie.
At checkout you are usually a hollow individual at this point yet your child “wants to help” and how can you say no to that? They climb up the little part of the car and begin to remove all the groceries found on top of the car because they refused to let you place the items inside “their car.”
“Sticker, I want a sticker mommy!” is usually the next demand.
It’s with silent gratification that you slap a PAID sticker on your child in lieu of a Pokemon, Spiderman or Barbie sticker. If he thinks he is going to have all these demands then a neon green, PAID sticker is all they are going to get.
As you may have read, my family eats, sleeps and breaths soccer. My husband had the soccer gene (still does) and passed it down to the boys. My contribution was my one season on the middle school basketball team. My playing was cringe worthy. I managed to embarrass the family on more than 1 occasion by dribbling the ball to the wrong side of the court despite angry parents yelling at me to go the other way.
My oldest tried out and made a soccer team that is EXTREMELY good. This is a club where the coaches are former professional soccer players and know their shit. Currently both sons are participating in a weekly indoor practice with this soccer club. They are lucky enough to have the club director coaching. We will call him Baklava.
Baklava played professionally for England, Poland and Germany. He looks like Mad Mikkelsen (NBC’s Hannibal) and I put him at about 50. He is kind and passionate about the sport yet you can’t understand a Goddamn thing that comes out of his mouth.
Below is an overview of what I saw and heard at yesterday’s hour long practice for my youngest:
Baklava is standing in the middle of the gym and yells, “Where are mey babies? C’mon babies, c’mon!”
Seconds later, 6 little soccer players run out and circle around Baklava. Baklava spread his arms out wide like soccer Jesus and announced, “Here are mey babies!”
I leaned over to our friend who also had his son in training and whispered,”Somehow it sounds adorable and right coming from Bakalava. If you and C said it, you would come off like pedophiles.” He gave me a that isn’t really funny grin.
“Stresh!” Baklava called out.
I didn’t understand until all the boys simultaneously spread their little legs out and began to stresh.
“Now, we pasta bowl to each other. Pasta barillo to Ash,” Baklava said attempting to explain a new drill. The child he was referring to: Ash, is actually named Nash.
The boys began to dribble the balls around several cones while Baklava began to shake his head up and down yelling “Gout, gout, gout! Ball, ball, ball. PUMBA da’ ball!”
I giggled. I didn’t know we would be referencing the Lion King today. Will he be holding my 7 year old up, displaying him to the soccer mom kingdom?
“Puta! Puta! Puta,” he yelled. Language sir! I still can’t figure out what he was trying to convey.
As practiced continued, he asked my oldest son to join in on the fun and be the bald boy. When the little ones kicked their balls into the goal, P was to kick them back.
Next Baklava had the boys line up with their balls. They were to dribble the ball to him, he would then kick the ball 4 feet away and the boys were to recapture the ball, dribble and kick it into the net.
As each boy went on I would hear Baklava yell, “fasa, fasa!”
During one of the drills, he yelled out”Bob Villa” or “Vaudeville”. I don’t know which one it was, maybe both. Off and on since yesterday I’ve been pondering Bob Villa and Vaudeville, trying to figure out what that translates to with regard to soccer.
I’ve asked my sons if they understand what Baklava is saying.
“Not really,” P responded. “I ask J when I don’t understand but he just looks at me as if I’m stupid or he doesn’t understand either.” J is P’s teammate. Baklava and J’s mother are dating and live together so J has a leg up with regards to translating.
So that is my practice story. I found it funny and thought I would share it with you guys. Well, I’m off to fix some pasta and pick up some baklava.
I broke this post up into 2 so it didn’t turn out to be a book. If you didn’t read part 1, here it is: My Son Acted Like Bobby Knight. If you don’t want to read it, basically my son is in BIG trouble and we had to have an impromptu meeting with teachers.
After dropping off my youngest son to a friend’s house, we were off to the worst parent-teacher conference we have surely ever had. Once in the parking lot, my husband and I got out. P didn’t.
“Dude get out,” I said.
“No thank you, I’m good.” He responded, as if I had just offered him another spoonful of mashed potatoes.
“This isn’t an option,” I said firmly.
Begrudgingly, he pulled on the lever and hopped out.
Once inside, I rang the doorbell awaiting the usual Secretary to buzz me in. I stood there as if the door would magically open. 10 seconds later, my husband pulled on the door beside us that are never unlocked to allow passage.
‘I feel so decadent’ I thought, not having to be paraded through the office, sign a form then slap a visitor pass on my shirt that, without fail, sticks to 10 of my hairs. I don’t notice this till I’m removing my badge and rip all 10 hairs out.
As previously mentioned, this conference was to be with his teacher and the Intern ONLY. In reality, they felt this meeting required the following attendees:
- The Intern
- The Homeroom Teacher
- The Math Teacher
- The Science Teacher
- The Music Teacher
‘What the fuck?’ I thought. Was this really necessary? He didn’t throw a cat, he lied twice and has been a jerk this week. It needs dealt with but the Music Teacher? Really?
As we went around the half moon table sitting in our fun-size chairs, I realized I had not met the Science Teacher yet and she was the only teacher my son wasn’t fond of. I was giving her the evil eye in my mind while smiling sweetly at her.
‘This is it,’ I thought, ‘this will be what makes my son hate school.’ He will now go goth at the tender age of 10 and shut down completely.
I felt sorry for him as he sat in the middle with both of us on each side, facing the math teacher who wasn’t supposed to be there yet had quickly taken the role of Cruise Director. Cruise Director began to go on and on about how normally P has positive behavior but then it goes out the door in certain teacher’s classes.
‘There probably shitty teachers,’ I thought.
Then Music Teacher and her turtle neck decided to chime in. She had nothing of value to contribute and her “examples” were vague at best. She’s the type of person that probably joined P.E.T.A at some point, smokes pot frequently and has a disdain for ambition. After a few minutes, I got the feeling she just didn’t like my son.
After about 20 minutes of the teachers telling all of their super stories about how my son has screwed up in one way, shape or form, I wanted to take him in my arms while clawing all of their eyes out simultaneously. Again, P needed reprimanded/punished but this intervention like set up was idiotic at best for the crime.
So now that my son is scarred for life, he has fallen asleep upstairs with a book in his hand. His punishment? Well, he’s going to be Amish for the next 3 days. No phone, no Chromebook, video games or tv. I can only hope he doesn’t put black nail polish on the grocery list this weekend.