This Full House Archive

Author: Liz@ThisFullHouse

And if you voz to zee my Iriz…

Pardon me, while I tap into my Hungarian roots, here, but I love this time of year, minus the wet.

Some of my favorite flowers are blooming, RIGHT NOW, most of which we adopted from my parent's garden, before selling the house they spent 30+ years, rebuilding, literally, from the ground up.

It was just too much for them.

After 7 years of successfully negotiating dozens of hurdles that life continues to throw at them, my parents are still making beautiful things happen, in the dirt.

It's in their blood.

I've read that there are over 200 varieties of Iris (Irises?) but, that pretty little thing, there on your left, grows right outside our front door and, well, it just makes me smile…BIGTIME.

Aaaaand, that, right there, izzzzz a verrrrry gut ting!

© 2003 – 2011 This Full House

May 25, 2011
“Man”ifest Those Post Its, My Son

Glen is 12, going on boyteen and, being raised in a house, filled with females, he's grown used to navigating through a raging sea of hormones.

Also, rooting through an endless supply of feminine products, because, well, there has GOT to be a roll of toilet paper, in there, somewhere, DAGNABIT!

On the other hand, our house seems to be a breeding ground for random pieces of bar soap and I guess we could always recycle them into something fun and useful…but…EWWWW!

Aaaanyway, all bathroom issues aside (you're welcome!) my son remains light-hearted about growing up in a testosterone-ly-challenged environment…mostly.

Although, I do make a point of reminding him, that he is the ONLY person, in this house, who does NOT have to share a bedroom (doorless, as it is) with anyone.

So, I was upstairs helping my son put away his summer clothes (wishful thinking, I know) the majority of which do NOT fit, so we made a quick job of it, by the way (UGH!) when, a giant dust bunny rolled out from underneath his bed and scared our socks back to their original color.

Apparently, his version of "clean your room," is slightly different from mine, by definition (i.e. picking your clothes up from off the floor is clean enough) I blame his sisters.

One by one, we took stuff off, from on top of some other stuff, moved more stuff and, DANG, the boy REALLY didn't have as much room as, you know, I led everyone, here, to believe….sorry.

"Can we put any of this stuff in the garage sale?"

[shiver]

I know, I hate garage sales, too. Still. We need the room and he wants a new skateboard, so on and so forth.

"Sure, if you're ready to let it go."

It's not like when they were younger, when I waited until they were in school to get rid of stuff (sorry guys!)

Besides, I still remember feeling MORTIFIED when my mom found AND read my diary and, well, I really, really don't want to go there.

"Maybe we could move things around a bit, too."

Since, you know, Glen was at school, the last time I changed his room around, by myself…WHAT?…he was still in single digits, at the time (I think!)

FLASH FORWARD: 3 hours later (for real, I checked!)

TAH-DAHHHH…I helped Glen create his very own official man cave…please disregard the hearts and flowers border…it used to be my room…B.G. (before Glen) and, well, life is good, once again…or, at least, this one rainy weekend.

I took some clean clothes up this morning and saw that he's since included a bunch of post its on his mirror.

Upon closer inspection, I realized that it was his version of a vision board and, well, suffice it to say, we got to talking about a lot of stuff, in those 3 hours and, even though I would LOVE to show you, it's not my place to tell you.

Okay, just one: Stay focused.

I think it's a boy thing, but also admitted that, some adults, even parents (ahem!) have difficulty, dealing with too many distractions, so on and so forth.

[taking an even closer look]

Aaaand, there's this one: Get more Axe gel and deodorant!

It's okay, anyone who's raising a boyteen already knows why that particular "post it" was being referenced to, in the short term, of course!

© 2003 – 2011 This Full House

May 23, 2011
Life Balance, Take 17
Yesterday, we attended an art show, held at a local bank, supporting art in schools, featuring two of Holly's pieces.

You can't really tell from my cell phone, however the majority of this pen and ink drawing is stippled, with tiny little dots.

I remember, because I can still hear the, "…dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot…" of her tapping the pen well into the night.

The same with this one,"…dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot…" which explains the permanent dent in the poor girl's right index finger.

This piece, however, is still her favorite, she says, because it's the first, of many she's created (dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot) taking inspiration from her own life, rather than that of another artist.

It's her vision…of herself…and, well, my inner-17-year-old totally relates to the juggling act going on in her head.

I mean, I am her mother.

As her mother?

To be honest, it made me a little sad to think, man, that still seems like A LOT of pressure, doesn't it?

Even more sadly, I started to over-analyze stuff, in my own head, like:
- Why is she putting bills above love?
- She's only 17.
- Perhaps she meant budget?
- Great, now she won't want kids.
- Can I blame her?
- No, I'm her mother.
- Should a 17 year old be thinking of this sort of stuff?
- I never did.
- Did I?
- Apparently not, see first bullet.
- Why aren't there any more foot holds?
I did ask her about the bills thing, considering that she may (or, may not) have read my last post.

That's when….

Warning: you're about to enter a proud mom-type blogging moment and, if this sort of stuff makes you itch, I don't blame you. However, considering that I am her mother, stuff like this just seems all the more amazing, you know, so indulge me this one time, okay?

….she quickly pointed out that the closest thing to her heart is family.

"Read from the bottom up, not the top."

TAKEAWAY: Seems we're ALL well passed refrigerator art and graduating into deeper, smarter waters, now.

[second glance]

GAH…quick, someone throw me a dingy, PLEASE!

© 2003 – 2011 This Full House
May 20, 2011
I.O.U.

Our oldest is a junior (I know, still not sure how THAT happened) so, my husband, Garth (not his real name) and I attended a financial aid workshop at the high school, last night.

Because, you know, she's a junior, in high school and, well, this whole, "Holy Hannah Montana, I got a junior in high school," thing really didn't seem like such a big deal…when she was in kindergarten.

Long story, short (as of now, anyway) and 6 hand-written pages worth of notes, later (old school, I know) our best takeaway from the night?

We can now continue to talk about our kids, continuing their education, without throwing up.

Good thing, too, seeing as we'll be very, very busy, filling out paperwork, for the next 16 years.

Yes, I know, we have 4 kids and, yeah, this is EXACTLY the sort of stuff expert-types tell us we should have…you know…talked about…sooner.

Aaaand, it's totally what I expected the very expert-looking dude to tell us, last night, too.

Although, we kind of sort of, you know, already knew.

Still, the workshop was free and I was thankful to get any advice, coming from people, who get paid good money, to tell other people, you know, they don't have any money.

So, I sat there, kept my mouth shut (which, anyone who knows me, knows, quiet makes me itch) watched the expert-like dude fire up his power point, "Helping Students Pursue Their Educational & Career Goals," and cringed in anticipation

"It's never too late to start planning for college."

[heavy sigh]

I should have known, better. He wasn't wearing a tie!

Morale of the Story: "Remember, an expert is a person who tells you a simple thing in a confused way to make you think the confusion is your own fault" ~ William Castle (producer of Rosemary's Baby, so, yeah, he should know!)

Thanks, I.O.U. one, expert-like dude, along with everyone else, for the next 16 years.

© 2003 – 2011 This Full House

May 18, 2011
Just Don’t Get Me Monologuing, Okay?

I sat down at my desk this morning and, well, you ever have one of those days when your mental to do list is about a mile long (closer to two, even) but, you don't EVEN bother taking the time to find a pen (that works, I mean) because, well, you can't even see the top of your desk, for one thing, until you shuffle some papers around, looking for something to write on (IF you had a pen) only to expose a couple of coffee stains and maybe even a chocolate wrapper (or, twenty) speaking of which, you could probably use another cup of coffee (or, chocolate) right about now, right?

Go ahead, I'll wait.

Better? Good. What was I saying? Oh yeah, so, the weekend was a blur of errands and, well, today, I'm fighting a monster case of procrastination.

Or, what I've come to call…Frankenmonday.

[shiver]

Aaaaand, it's winning.

I should be working.

In fact, if I had started earlier, when I was supposed to, I could have accepted that last minute lunch invitation.

{Sorry, Gina!!!}

Would have even had the time to take a shower for it.

Instead, I sit here, procrastinating, feeling overwhelmed, shuffling papers, pretending I had a pen, oh, hey, wait a minute, what's this?

Well, seems my middle girl thought I would find her interpretation of a Super Mom a bit funny and, at second glance, the broom, purse, heels and canister of wipes prominently fixed on her utility belt, she's right.

SNORT!

Actually, I feel sort of, you know, invigorated.

[cracks knuckles]

In fact, I've got a whole half of the day left and soon ALL will tremble before me.

[blows bangs out of eyes]

Now, if only the dog would quit snoring on the couch, so I could hear myself think…INCREDIBLE…where IS mah super broom?!?

© 2003 – 2011 This Full House

May 16, 2011
Nothing Beats a First Snot-Swapping!
My husband, Garth (not his real name) attended a business-related event, last night (yes, without me, go figure) so, the kids and I were on our own for dinner (codeword: pizza) and then settled in to watch one of my most favorite movies of all time.

All 3 of my girls were absolutely enthralled with the idea of 50 First Dates and sort of fell a little in love with Adam Sandler's character, as he attempted to make Drew Barrymore's character fall in love with him…every day.

My 12-year-old son, however, thought Rob Schneider's performance as pure genius, of course.

"Didn't you say you dated a guy like that, once, Mom?"

Long story, short (you're welcome) no, it's not the first time we've watched this movie together and yes, yes I did, although he had both his eyes, the dude was missing a couple of teeth and wore Elmer's glue, instead of hair gel, don't judge.

"What was your first kiss like?"

"Well, his gums were a little slippery and his hair kept poking me in the eye."

[eyes go wide]

"No, NOT HIM and EWWWW, I mean with Daddy?"

I knew what she meant. After approximately 8 years worth of no sleep, trust me when I tell you messing with teenagers is AWESOME!

"Actually, I don't remember."

Yes I do. But, seeing as my oldest girls are well within acceptable dating range (mine, not my husband's) they don't need to know, right?

"I do, I do!"

My 9 year-old, however, was born old and, well, being the youngest of 4 just makes having to explain the birds and the bees stuff a whole lot easier, you know?

"You sneezed snot all over him, right?"

Not quite.

Even longer story, shorter (seriously, you should be thanking me) here's a quick synopsis:
- We met on a blind date.
- Went to the movies.
- Movie turned sad.
- I cried.
- Movie turned sadder.
- I sobbed.
- Clearly, they called it Dead Poet's Society for a reason.
- I blew snot.
- Garth (NHRN) handed me his handkerchief.
- HONK!
- Tried to hand it back to him.
- Told me to keep it.
- I was hooked.
- The end.
2 months later, he proposed. Garth (NHRN) and I were married 13 months after our first date and, well, 4 kids later, suffice it to say we've both sort of grown comfortable with each other's snot.

"Do you still have the handkerchief?"

[frowns]

"Ummmmm…I don't think so."

[one beat, two beats]

"Good, because that would just be SOOOOOOO weird!"

Yes, yes it would and apparently, according to my kids, even for me, go figure.

© 2003 – 2011 This Full House
May 13, 2011
Insert Blog Post Title, Right Here…

So, my husband, Garth (not his real name) was ironing his dress shirt the other morning.

Okay, he irons his dress shirts…every morning.

Because, I don't have the patience…especially, when it comes to completing intricate little domestic duties…that require the use of both hands…at the SAME time…plus, I hate ironing…oh, and mornings.

[takes deep breath]

Aaaaanyway, as usual, my eyes were glued shut (stupid allergies!) so, I tried to, you know, un-glue them and that's when the conversation turned, well, sort of weird.

[looking into mirror]

"The left one kinda looks crusty."

[one beat, two beats]

"That's what SHE said!!!"

Buh-dum-bum.

SNORT!

[sound of crickets]

Guess you had to be there. Still, we both thought it was ALSO pretty funny. How, even the most innocent sentence in the world changes when responded to as:

"That's what SHE said!"

SNORT!

Because, I am ALL about making blogging fun (shuddup!) I thought…HEY!…I bet we could do this with blogs, too.

Want to play?

The rules, they are easy — all you have to do is leave a comment here:

1. List your latest blog post title.

2. Followed by, "That's what SHE said!"

That's it. Feel free to play this on your own blog, too. The more the merrier, right?

"That's what she said!!!"

Orrrrrrr, just make something up, I'm easy.

"That's what SHE said!"

Buh-dum-bum.

© 2003 – 2011 This Full House

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May 11, 2011
The Gift of Nothing

I woke, like most mornings, with extreme dry mouth, the ability to breath through my right nostril (ONLY!) a major case of bed head and the deep, roasty smell of a freshly-brewed pot of coffee.

Aaaand, against ALL laws of this mother's nature (i.e. no one, who knows me, can call me a morning person, EVER!) I allowed myself to be escorted to the breakfast table, eyes shut tight (stupid allergies) and well, I couldn't help but giggle when my youngest daughter announced:

"I was going to pick you some flowers, but the bees are a little cranky, this morning."

Regardless of how hard jewelry stores try to convince us, it's the little things that keep me going, as frazzled, frantic and frequently frustrated by poorly manufactured zippers, as I am.

Not to mention, less than supportive bras.

Don't EVEN get me started on stray facial hair.

Oh, and what rocket scientist thought it would be a good idea to put adhesive wings on sanitary napkins?

Seriously.

Mother Nature can be a real witch, sometimes…um…where was I…oh, yeah…these days, doesn't take much to make my heart go all, you know, squishy.

Like, finding my plate surrounded by freshly-picked blossoms from one of our neighbor's azalea bushes…kidding, it's on our side of the property line…I think.

Or, one of the treasures from our latest beach-combing excursions carefully crafted into a pretty reminder, for my desk.

Well, unlike me (DAMMIT!) this sort of stuff just never gets old, you know?

[bites lower lip]

My 12 year-old son, however, would beg to differ.

"What's with the face, Bub?"

Never one to let sleeping dogs lie…which reminds me…GET OFF THE COUCH YOU BIG DOOFUS-DAWG!…sorry about that…so, where was I…oh, yeah…nothing.

"Nothing!"

Warning…morale parenting dilemma ahead.

"Glen helped pick the flowers…yeah, and he helped me decorate the shell…yep, and he helped me cut the fruit…"

[frowning]

"No, I didn't!"

Phew! Dilemma avoided. Although, I'm not happy my daughters felt the need to lie…for my son. Still. Even my husband, Garth (NHRN) thought it was sort of nice that, you know, the girls were indeed covering for their brother.

"I did nothing."

The gift of guilt, however, lasts a lifetime, no?

"Yes, but nothing is EXACTLY what I asked for, isn't it?"

[one beat, two beats]

"Heh, you're welcome!"

Forgive me for feeling all meh about Mother's Day.

Especially, all of you new moms, out there, with your adorable little mini-selves and even though I really do miss that fresh new baby smell, sometimes.

Quite frankly, I want nothing.

Except, for a little peace.

Also, quiet.

Or, for the person who found my tweezers and forgot to put 'em back to, you know, put 'em back.

Oh, and maybe even a second cup of coffee.

Now, THAT…cough-cough-Heather…would be REAL nice.

Little things like that, right there.

But, mostly, nothing, thankyouverymuch.

"Well, then, you're gonna LOVE what I got you for your birthday!"

Yay, as long as it doesn't have a zipper, I can't wait…NOT.

© 2003 – 2011 This Full House

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May 9, 2011
I Heard it Through the Grapevine

My husband, Garth (not his real name) and I planted grapes about two years ago (I think) when I was sort of toying with the idea of channeling my Hungarian roots and making my very own, you know, homemade wine.

Until, last summer, when the grapes died, along with most of our tomatoes, cucumbers and whatever else the stupid ground hog missed, before the rains came and washed his furry little butt away (out to sea, I hope) along with half our neighbor's yard and, well, I would have been happy with a small jar of jelly, really.

Then, the birds ate the rest and, well, got to love nature, right?

Still. I refuse to give up, DAMMIT. So, last weekend, my husband Garth (not his real name) unlocked the tool shed and not because he's afraid of the kids hurting themselves, or anything.

Seriously, even my almost-ten-year-old knows that giant, ferocious, probably child-eating sort of bees live in our shed and, well, she may, or may not, have heard it from a somewhat reliable source, in an effort to keep kids from touching MY stuff, don't judge!

Aaaaand, there was this one time, during summer vacation, when I nearly electrocuted myself so, well, oh, look…up there…is that REAL raspberries?!?

Okay, not yet…but, soon (I hope) along with a crop of blackberries we planted, last weekend, on the other side of the shed (not shown, because, you know, bees live there) and look what else Garth (NHRN) helped me build.

Like it? It's my first. What do you mean, what is it? Why, it's a…uh…well, not quite a shed…um…more like a peaceful place to pot things in.

Not to mention, hide the stuff we've recycled, from other people's yards.

YES, with their permission, of course, sheesh.

SHEESH!

It took us all day, last Sunday, but, you know what?

It felt, really, really good, too.

Okay, so maybe not in a, "Oh, look, I'm saving the world, ya'll" sort of way, I admit.

But, dang it to h-e-double-hockey-sticks if we can't, at the very least, teach our kids to help make the world, look just a wee bit prettier, right from our very own backyard, either.

"Wow, YOU made this, mom?!?!"

Yes, yes, it's my first, and I did it recycling a couple of grape vines, dead as they are.

"Ewwwwwwwww!"

[eyes go wide]

"Oh come on, it's not THAT bad, is it?"

Seriously, seeing as she is the only one, of all four of my kids, who likes to be outside, on purpose, I thought that at least my almost-ten-year-old would appreciate the effort.

"No, look, you're bleeding!"

So, yeah, I'm NOT the greenest mom on the planet.

"Ewwwww, and what's that on your nose?"

Aaaand, I seemed to have misplaced my gardening gloves (AGAIN!) good thing I also happen to look better in red, anyway.

[blank stare]

I know, still, you'll never be able to convince me there's a global benefit to allowing poison ivy to grow, all over the danged place, EVER, either.

[sound of crickets, chirping]

Oh, look, up there, is that a REAL grape vine wreath!?!?

[SLAM!]

Happy Mother's Day weekend, everyone and don't forget to lock up your power tools…oh, and for heaven sakes, wear gloves…I hear poison ivy is quite the mood killer, trust me…also, will someone PLEASE tell Garth (NHRN) we need more wine, thanks!

© 2003 – 2011 This Full House

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May 6, 2011
Because, Kindess Really DOES Matter

As parents (tired, wigged-out, sleep-deprived, frazzled and frustrated as we may seem) my husband, Garth (not his real name) and I continually try to teach our kids to, you know, do the right thing.

It's not easy.

Trust me — having been involuntarily drafted to the receiving side of some pretty crappy interceptions, from folks coincidentally resembling the wrong end of a horse — I know.

What, you too, isn't it ironic, totally stinks, too, right?

Still, every now and again, a person comes along, most likely when you least expect it and…WHAM!…reinforces the urge to become a lifelong member of the human race, through a random act of kindness.

Even a simple one, like, after complaining about the rash of winter storms, ripping the h-e-double-hockey sticks out of your beloved American flag (my father has flown one since as far back as I can remember…yes, THAT long) followed by a synopsis of your entire life's story (he can't help it; the man's a storytellah!) and, thinking that you've lost your audience, as she ducks out of the room and runs for cover, then, feeling a gentle tap on your shoulder and receiving the gift of a new flag, from a brand new friend.

That, my friends, will produce tears and make a man's face fold up and fall right in on itself.

"Thank you, SO MUCH!"

Personally, I find the sensation quite exhilarating, I hope it lasts!

You're turn: did you know May is National Military Appreciation Month? According to NMAM.org, there are at least a dozen easy ways to support our military, the easiest one being:

WHEN YOU SEE A PERSON IN A MILITARY UNIFORM, SHAKE THEIR HAND AND SAY, "THANK YOU FOR SERVING OUR COUNTRY"

My kids and I did and, well, it felt AWESOME!!!

There are 27 more chances (including today) to thank a soldier and, don't worry, you STILL have plenty of time.

Go ahead, I'll wait.

© 2003 – 2011 This Full House

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May 4, 2011