This Full House Archive

Category: Who’s Parenting Who?

  • Failing On MY OWN Terms, DAMMIT!

    Warning: I’m about to dump a bunch of raw words into your feeds, but I really need to throw my intentions out into the ether, you know, to make sure that shit sticks.

    Leaving

    Okay, now that the straights are gone, I can open up and speak a couple of truths, and if you're still here, thank you!

    I walked away from my “dream job” a year ago: A position that allowed me to financially support our household, while GarthNHRN and I continued to help care for our handicapped parents.

    I turned my back on people (team members/friends) who trusted me to do my job well: I still feel real shitty, even after calling my team (in tears) to let them know I was resigning that evening, each of them reassuring me that they "get it" and proving to be perfect examples of what it means to be good humans, ending the call with words of encouragement, because there is nothing worse than losing control of your own failure.

    I spent most of yesterday re-working my resume (AGAIN!): To make it all clean and shiny and help me stand out among the hundreds of others submitting theirs for positions I'm applying to, as well.

    The number of emails in my "rejections" folder is growing: Currently, I've received 13 (that's 1 rejection per month since leaving my job) not counting the number of submissions and follow-up emails that still remain unanswered.

    On the one hand, I get it: Learning how to fail is THE HARDEST life lesson, isn't it? 

    On the other hand, I still feel real shitty: There's a thin veil between moving passed an unsuccessful situation and allowing failure to define us.

    WHICH IS WHY WHAT I'M ABOUT TO PUT OUT INTO THE ETHER IS LITERALLY SCARING THE EVER LIVING WORDS OUT OF ME!

    Oldest girl (getting home from work, walking into my office, and finding me hunched over a keyboard): What'cha doing?

    Me: Updating my resume, AGAIN!

    Her: You should be writing your book.

    Me: Everyone (and their Mother) is writing a book.

    Her: Yeah, but they're not writing YOUR book. 

    Me: Who would read it?

    Her: Me, my friends love your writing, a lot of people think your words are inspirational, and you have a story to tell, right Heather?

    Middle girl (passing through to use the bathroom): What?

    Oldest girl: Mom's book.

    Middle girl: Oh, yeah, JUST WRITE IT, ALREADY!

    So, I'm filing this post under "Who's Parenting Who" and setting a daily reminder to "JUST WRITE IT, ALREADY," because the fear of failure is pretty much like succumbing to defeat and I am NOT going to let THAT BITCH define me — if I fail, IT WILL BE ON MY OWN TERMS, DAMMIT!

    [rolls up sleeves, blows bangs out of eyes]

    Moral of the Story: Intention-throwing is hard, man. 

    Don't waste your time on shit that doesn't stick, or something like that, yo!

  • Bing translator comes up with some crazy sh*t on Facebook.

    Me and my Daddy

    My dad and me, as seen on Facebook.

    My 3 oldest kids are on Facebook; once my youngest turns 13, I will probably allow her to create a Facebook account, too.

    Aaaaand, just like her older siblings, I will also insist that she "friend" me on Facebook, because I believe in being a fair and equally annoying parent to ALL of my children.  

    Then, my parents got online and it wasn't long before I introduced my dad to Facebook. 

    It's been fun watching my Dad reconnect with family members (who mostly live in Hungary and Austria) and he really enjoys keeping up with what his grandchildren are doing on Facebook.

    Which has proven to be a wonderful filter: don't post anything that would embarrass your grandparents on Facebook.

    Apparently, some of my Facebook friends seem to be having lots of fun trying to make sense of the Hungarian to English translation.

    I love clicking the "see translation" button on your dad's comments, Bing comes up with some crazy sh*t! The only thing that would make it better is if I knew what he was really saying to compare it to said crazy sh*t it says he said, lol!

    Because I am SUCH a people-pleaser, here is the crazy sh*t that Bing said, he said.

    (more…)

  • Dealing with mean girls (and boys) from a teenager’s point of view.

    2 days into the new school year and my youngest has already had to deal with 7th grade (a.k.a. the birthing ground for mean) girls, who seem to be prepping themselves to be catty women when they grow up (if ever), and it’s breaking my heart.

    Unfortunately, it’s easy for us parents to say things like, “they’re just jealous” and “because the new boy talked to you at lunch, first” or “they see you as a threat” because we’ve ALL been there, right?!?

    Aaaaaand, therein lies the rub.

    You see, my kids have a real hard time understanding (or even believing) that their parents may or may not have dealt with mean behavior, at some point in our lives, and that at least one other person in the bathroom/class room/gym/hallway/lunchroom imagined it to be really funny, at the time, too.

    In this case, calling your name out loud, turning their backs and then giggling their little fool heads off or just walking into a room…

    [cue: giggling little fools]

    …then casually glancing down at yourself, wondering if you’ve mistakenly put your pants on backwards or something and, well, as if being 12 years-old wasn’t difficult enough, right?!?

    So, having lived through a couple of mean moments (or twenty) of their own (dammit), I asked my two oldest girls (they are 19 and 17) and my son (he’s 14) for their thoughts on dealing with mean girls (or boys) from a teen’s point of view.

    Because I am very open-minded, not to mention they are MUCH smarter than me, like that! 

    (more…)

  • Pushing Buttons, On The Facebook

    It's official, my parents are now on the internet. Or, at least, the 20 minutes of what I was able to show them Sunday night, because it took my husband Garth (not his real name) 2+ hours to actually get them online, which (to folks older than 20) is 2 hours, too long.

    Apu on Facebook

    A few weeks back, after introducing my father to Facebook, Apu immediately began sending messages to family in Hungary.

    It was not the introduction to the internet my parents were expecting — especially, after everyone and my brother insisted that my parents really need to be on the internet — and my father also suffers from "Let's see what happens when I push THIS button" (he's a criminal in elevators) which is pretty much never a good thing, especially on the internet.

    First I showed them how email works, although my mother was the director of the purchasing department for a large packaging corporation (a.k.a. my cosmetic hook-up) pre-retirement, so Anyu was already pretty familiar with it.

    "What's that button do?"

    As far as I know, short of sitting on one's hands, there is no cure for LSWHWIPTB and, combined with the distraction of shiny, pretty, blinkies on sidebars, it can be downright debilitating.

    "What else would you like me to show you?"

    My father is now on "the Facebook" and, as far as I know, he hasn't broken the internet, which really shows a LOT of restraint on Apu's part and, well, I'm pretty proud of him for that, too.

    "Did you show Papa how to leave a comment, or respond and *like* a wall post, on Facebook?"

    [blank stare]

    Aaaaaand, that is why I don't teach people how to use the internet…for a living.

    "Papa also mentioned something about starting a blog, like you, too."

    Although, I do suspect it may have been a defense mechanism on my part.

    "He said, to tell people when they're not doing stuff right."

    I'm not quite sure if the internet is ready for Apu.  Then again, it will certainly keep him occupied — especially, with winter and cabin fever just around the corner — and perhaps even keep my father from pushing my mother's buttons, or vise versa, right?!?

    I'm sitting on my hands, just in case.

     © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • Planes, Migraines and Insensitive Asshats

    I don't often go away, heck it's a gosh-darned event just to be able to get out on a date night with my husband….but, when I do…I drink Dos Equis…PSYCH!!!…just kidding, I hate beer.

    Aaaaanyway, what was I saying?  

    (Looks up at ceiling, blows bangs out of eyes)

    Oh yeah, so this week I was traveling….as in, I physically got on an airplane and flew over several states….after double-dosing on Dramamine, of course….but, the last time I traveled….in an airplane, over several states…my youngest kid passes out while visiting Grandpa in the hospital…and, well, now maybe you know why I was seriously second-guessing my getting on an airplane….at all….let alone, tempting the powers of #FUBAR….right? 

    (Blank stare)

    Long story, short….NOTHING happened….UNTIL I sat down to have breakfast with Busy Mom (don't be jealous) and my cell phone rang.

    (more…)

  • Hey You Guys, Get Off My Kids’ Lawn!

    I remember walking home from school with my brother (uphill, both ways, bare feet, in the snow, etc…) and both of us running past the abattoir (exotic-like name for slaughter house) as if being chased by zombies.

    Living around the corner from a slaught..I mean…abattoir was scary enough (and downright disgusting, in the middle of August, enough said) however, I can't begin to describe the old lady who lived next door without feeling as if I need to get up and run away, real fast, right now, because LOOKOUT!!! SHE'S COMING!!!

    Thinking back on on her blood-stained apron and pack of hell hounds (some sort of beagle mix, from hell) I'm guessing she worked next door at the abattoir, at least I hope she did, because the alternative explanation of someone walking around wearing a bloody apron…well…LOOKOUT!!!  SHE'S COMING!!!

    We were upsetting her dogs, you see (more likely, walking to close to where the dead bodies were hidden) either way, I hated walking home from school and often times remind my kids about how lucky they are to have their own personal car service (that would be me!) not to mention, NOT having to live around the corner from an abattoir.

    Day 1 of Heavy Machinery on My Lawn

    Well, good morning sunshine(s)!

    According to Melisa, I should have been all…WHAT THE?!?…and, considering we've had plumbing problems since the beginning of summer and they've been ripping up our street consistently for the last two weeks, I was sort of…MEH, WHATEVER!…about it.

    Until the kids started waking up:

    • What are those guys doing on our lawn?
    • OMG, can't they fix it right the first time?
    • Hey, they're ripping up the flower bed!
    • We worked TOO HARD for them to mess it up!

    It took me a few minutes to calm them all down — seriously, ALL four of them were ready to go outside (in their pajamas and everything) to holler at the poor guys who, really, were just doing there jobs and, honestly, probably don't give a fig about peonies.

    "Don't worry, I'm going to write a letter to the water company and the town."

    My 13 year-old son continued to stare out the dining room window for about…oh, I don't know…however long it took me to drain the rest of my coffee mug.

    "Nope, I'mma get my baseball bat!"

    SNORT!  Talk about role-reversal, seriously, and I couldn't help but imagine my kids wearing bloody aprons.

    Doofus-Dawg, however, would make a terrible hell hound — although, he WOULD lick them to death.

    They did eventually put my peonies back, however, the shock of being ripped out of the ground by a bulldozer, I swear I can STILL hear them screaming.  The peonies.  Not the workmen, who were unusually quiet, btw.

    Their heavy machinery, not so much.

    They DID, however, move their heavy machinery to make way for my kids' car service (me, remember?) and yes there ARE perfectly nice people here in Jersey…dammit!

    Day 2 of Heavy Machinery on My Lawn

    They're baaaa-aaaack!

    HEY YOU GUYS, YOU BETTER GET OFF OF MY KIDS' LAWN!!! BEFORE THEY WAKE UP!!!

    Aaaaaand, I'm hiding the baseball bats, just in case (you're welcome).

    Stupid plumbing.  Dumbass heavy machinery.

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • Maybe She Knows Something I Don’t Know

    Tulips

    What do you call the flower that grows between your nose and your chin?  Tulips.  Get it?  Sorry, watched way too much Little Bear when my kids were little-er.

    A friend of mine called me yesterday and this is where my father would insist that…NO!…I don't have friends, I just know people AND after having said that would laugh the hardest (yeah, good one, dad!)

    Aaaaanyway, her youngest and my youngest are best friends, as of yesterday, as far as I know, anyway (they're 10 year-old girls, enough said.)

    "I've been very worried about you."

    Long story, short (you're welcome!) she saw our two girls walking together after school and later asked her daughter, "I haven't seen Mrs. Thompson this week, how is she?"

    "I can't tell you."

    Her mother, as any mother would, wanted to know, you know, why the heck not?

    "It's a secret."

    (more…)

  • Like the Little Kidney Stone That Could, I Continue to Serve As a Cautionary Tale for Moms (and Dads!)

      Hospital Room

    I told the E.R. nurse I was feeling cruddy for over a week now (give or take a bathroom stop, or twenty) but, I just shrugged it off as the kids sharing a stomach bug, or something, as she continued to draw my blood and nod her head very sympathetically.

    I stared at the ceiling (I’m not a very good bleeder) recapping my symptoms, the first of many more times to come:

    • Stomach pain, radiating to my lower back
    • Pressure in lower abdomen, similar to contractions
    • Feeling sick, nausea
    • Frequent bathroom stops

    All of which I promptly ignored, coming downstairs the night before to make myself a place on the couch so as not to disturb my husband, thinking this too shall pass.

    The next morning, I made an appointment for my youngest daughter’s well visit (true story, it’s on my Facebook timeline) and then made a mental decision to just continue to work right through the pain.

    Until, my oldest walked through our front door and found me, while trying to talk on the phone with my husband, doubled-over and gasping for air.

    (more…)

  • Aaaaand Now a One Act Play
    Performed by Two Turtles

    One of the many perks of raising older kids, besides the fact my husband and I have seen each of ours reach double digits and are STILL amazed at our even being able to, you know, count that high.

    Okay, mostly me.

    Aaaaanyway, we've tried to raise them to be independent, or at the very least, able to pretty much take care of themselves (get dressed, feed themselves, remember to brush their teeth, take their showers before bed and use soap, the last three being mostly for my son) if need be, and work as a team, if necessary.

    This week, the need be necessary.

    I have been in and out of the house, helping out a dear friend of mine, all week, in fact, I'm not home, right now.

    I was, for a few minutes, long enough to pack an overnight bag, kiss Garth (NHRN) when he got home from work (on the lips, REAL HARD!) and, well, then I left.

    On the one hand, it's nice to be able to focus my attention (used in the singular, on purpose) wherever it is needed the most, at any given moment.

    On the other hand, ummmm, what was I saying, again?

    Aaaaanyway, I bought my laptop along, thinking this would be the perfect time to catch up on reading some of your blogs and, in turn, allow you guys to, you know, help keep me amused (thankyouverymuch!)

    So, once my friend settled in for the night, I fired it up.

    Grrrr… even though we recently invested in a new desktop, my kids STILL insist on accidentally borrowing my laptop on purpose.

    Seriously, sometimes being away from home, alone, is good.

    Until, I read the note pinned to a new document:  Hope's Madlib, in case you get bored, I hope you like it.

    PATIENT: Thank you so very much for seeing me, Doctor Thompson, on such pretty notice.

    DENTIST: What is your problem, young Bruno?

    PATIENT: I have a pain in my upper big bow, which is giving me a severe belly ache.

    DENTIST: Let me take a look. Open your heart wide. Good. Now I'm going to tap your Gabi with my dog.

    PATIENT: Shouldn’t you give a cat killer?

    DENTIST: Its not necessary yet. Yeah! I think I see Walmart in your upper neck.

    PATIENT: Are you going to pull my earring out?

    DENTIST: No I'm going to sneeze your tooth and put in a temporary globe.

    Patient: When do I come back for the ugly filling?

    DENTIST: A day after I cash in your tennis ball.

    On the one hand, it's a simple little Madlib and, well, big deal, right? 

    On the other hand, the fact that it was supposedly performed by two turtles, yeah, doesn't change things much, unless, you know, they're naked (Gawd, I love that kid!)

    Thankmeverymuch.

    © 2003 – 2011 This Full House

  • Serving as an Unspoken Example to My Children Since 2003

    I wrote my very first blog post 8 years ago (Happy Belated Blogivesary to me, heh) on September 2, 2003 (at 3:38 p.m.) and poop may or may not have been involved.

    My youngest was still in diapers and, well, it's understandable, really.  Raising 4 kids, under the age of 10, life revolved around my being the center of their world — handling poop was a large part of it — which, thanks to the internet, had just gotten a whole lot smaller.

    I now had the ability to communicate, with other people, over the age of 10, unwashed and in my pajamas (as far as anyone knew!)

    To be given the opportunity to put my thoughts (scattered and nonsensical, as they may have been) into actual words (thanks to spell check) blogging felt empowering AND downright intoxicating, really.

    Minus, the poop, of course.  Especially, for a self-professed, semi-professional, poop-handlers (like me) you know?

    We've shared a lot of stories in 8 years and, now that my kids are older (me, too) perhaps even managed to work in a title, involving just about every major bodily fluid and/or function known to the universe.

    Because, contrary to what most people think (about moms, who happen to write a blog, or twenty, too) it's not ALWAYS about the poop.

    "Grandma's on the phone and she sounds upset."

    My in-laws were in Massachusetts, on their way back home to Jersey, they got hit by another car and my husband could hear the emergency crew trying to get her side of the car open, they got there THAT fast (thank you Holyoke EMT!)

    While my husband showered and prepared to break the record for driving, round trip, thru MA, CT, NY and NJ traffic (enough said) in 9 hours (it CAN be done) my kids took to task.

    My middle girl Googled information for the local authorities, hospital and hotels, while the youngest wrote the information on sticky notes.

    Aaaand, for all the worries about kids today and their fascination with the internet (not to mention, the moms who blog about them) I have to say, it was nice to see mine use their cyberpowers for good in the time it took me to find my dumbass phone.

    Only, because my oldest used her cell phone to call it.

    Gramma & Grampa

    Then, she texted this picture to my husband's cell phone and, I am very,VERY happy to tell you, they are ALL back home and doing fine.

    Morale of the Story:  Potty-training is hard, raising tweens and teens is like [insert bodily fluid and/or function, of choice, here!] in the wind.

    Beeeeeecause, you NEVER know what's gonna get thrown back at you AND it's not always about the poop, anyway.

    Don't believe me?  Rather than telling you about the rest of our horrifically emotional weekend (you're welcome!) I did a quick search:  PUKE WINS!

    Aaaand thank YOU for allowing ME the chance to, you know, share.

    © 2003 – 2011 This Full House