This Full House Archive

Tag: raising teens and tweens

Do You Know This (or That) Mom?
Not unlike most days, her morning does not start out very well: in fact, she cannot remember the last time she did not have to holler at someone:
- GET UP!!!
- GET READY!!!
- HURRY UP!!!
- ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY SURE YOU HAVE EVERYTHING?!?
- DON'T FORGET YOUR LUNCH!!!
- YOU'RE GOING TO MISS THE BUS (AGAIN!)
- WAIT, SO WHOSE BACKPACK IS THIS?!?
Then her phone will ring; she immediately recognizes the number and begins to feel the first pangs of regret when wondering, "What now?!?"

Another migraine; she will listen and then she will silently nod her head, as the nurse asks for a verbal approval, knowing very well that she did so send in the paperwork, twice before, because all she ever wants is for the pain to stop.

She hangs up the phone and mentally begins to plot out her day, which may or may not include a 90 minute drive to pick up a sick teen.

She hollers (once more) to her kids, to make sure they wear comfortable shoes, because she will NOT be driving them to school.

Then her phone will ring (again) and now she begins to wonder, "Could this day get ANY worse?"

Yes, yes it could and if she had a dollar for each time she's hollered, "AREN'T THOSE SHORTS A LITTLE TOO SHORT?!?" she'd be able to afford to keep up with her children's growth spurt(s).

At this point, she begins to wonder if her kids are trying to kill her, and she may or may not have said it, out loud.

She will then sit in the cold metal chair, where thousands of others (very much smaller than her, btw) have waited for disciplinary actions, mentally willing herself to sit straight-backed and sure, when she swears she feels as if she is beginning to melt from all the disapproving glances, feeling as if she were 12 years-old, all over again.

Her almost 12 year-old daughter will walk into the office, her head down in a futile attempt to hide the streaks of dried tears (seems she did in fact, say it out loud) and she will feel as if yet another small piece of her has died.

She will then hand her youngest child a pair of pants, along with her science book, stroke the back of her head, look straight into her chocolate-colored eyes and say, "See you later, sweetie."

She drives home in silence, wiping away the tears at every stop light, hoping that she does not pass anyone she knows.

A car blows its horn; she waves and smiles.

Then her phone will ring (for the third time, this morning), but this time she tells the nurse that she will be there in about an hour.

She will then take a few minutes, to herself, and write it ALL down.

She grabs her purse, puts on a pair of sunglasses and, for the first time today, will begin to forgive herself for being that mom.

© 2003 – 2013 This Full House

New and improved with a fan page on Facebook and everything!
May 3, 2013
Tell Them About My Name

My kids love hearing the stories behind their namesakes and each still pretty much like their given names, except for our youngest: while playing a name game at a friend's baby shower, Hope insisted she wanted to be called Robin.

"How come my name doesn't start with a H, like the girls?"

For two reasons: naming your children with the same letter sounds harmless enough, until you try hollering for one of them, and can't seem to remember their names, without sounding like an idiot…each and every blessed time…because, I'm smart like that.

There is also a pretty neat and totally goosebump-worthy story behind the reason why we chose to name our son, Glen.

One of my husband Garth's (not his real name) earliest childhood memories was from the summer when he was about 4 years-old: he fell into a rose bush, ten times his size (as he remembers it) when a really big boy from the neighborhood ran over and, without hesitation reached in through the thorns, lifted him out, brushed him off and then walked him home.

The really big boy was a 19-year old, his name was Glen Bates — a few months later, he was killed in Vietnam.

But wait, my story is about to get a whole lot goosebump-ier.

(more…)

April 29, 2013
Middle School Drop-Off, Dropout

Get thee to the bus ON TIME!!!

With multiple kids in school for the last thirteen years, we are at that point in our lives when — rather than referring to pregnancies as a timeline — my husband, Garth (not his real name) and I are beginning rely on graduations to help us remember stuff.

Don't even get me started on the years when we had kids attending four different schools (redistricting, halfway through, yeah, THAT was fun!) and, well, a large chunk of that time is still a little fuzzy.

I do, however, remember spending at least two hours…every day…either dropping off or picking kids up from school and a bulk of that time was spent witnessing/experiencing carpool lane ashattery of epic proportions.

Entering middle school: I waved each of my kids off to the bus stop and may or may not have reinacted the entire first scene of the Sound of Music…four times.

[cue heavenly ray of light]

Unless, my two youngest miss the school bus and…HOLY HANNAH MONTANA…I thought the elementary schools were bad?!?

Middle school drop-offs are a whole OTHER level of hell.

Then my oldest started driving and offered to help out getting her siblings to school on the days they miss the bus.

[cue choir of angels]

Until this morning when, upon entering the seventh level of hell, where everyone else's kid also seemed to be running late, she came home and then proceeded to blow a gasket.

"How did you NOT go insane?"

Yeah…

"How did you NOT get into a car crash?"

…um…

"Seriously, the way THOSE people drive?"

…I…

"I can't believe you did THAT for ALL those years?"

…know.

"Seriously???"

I showed her a couple…HUNDRED…previous blog posts to, you know, back me up.

"Well, g'head and blog this then: CARPOOLING SUCKS, I QUIT!!!"

Which reminds me, my son is graduating 8th grade. He'll be a "walker" again in high school (bet you didn't know hell actually had 8 levels, huh?!?) AND first period begins at 7:25 a.m.

[face palm]

Well, it WAS nice while it lasted…YO!!!

© 2003 – 2013 This Full House

New and improved with a fan page on Facebook and everything!

April 10, 2013
Who Knew Flashcards Could Be Soooo Funny?!?
The 50 nifty, funny states.

With all the technology available at their fingertips (even our school district started going paperless, two years ago) it is sort of refreshing to see my kids revert to using low-tech, old school study tools.

For example: making up their own vocabulary flashcards.

What's so funny about vocabulary, or flashcards, you ask?!? Absolutely nothing, I say. Unless, I am helping my youngest study for a BIG test on naming the capitals of all 50 states, using flashcards she made up with special keywords (in parentheses) to help her remember and then acts all surprised when I start laughing…real hard…which made it EVEN funnier.

Okay, fine, I'll show you. This is some of what comes to the mind, when identifying the capital city of each state, to my 11 year-old:
- Arkansas: (Arken saw a _______) little rock and it was good.
- California: (Sock sack) don't remember the reasoning behind this one and I sort of don't want to, either.
- Georgia: (Real housewives) SNORT!!!
- Kansas: (Peek at toes) clearly, they're a bunch of toe-peek-ahs, her Jersey is showing.
- Michigan: (I like to sing) lan'sakes, so do I 🙂
- Minnesota: (Holy) sort of like St. Nicholas, only not.
- New Mexico: (Christmas) speaking of Santa, must be his favorite vacation spot.
- Ohio: (Found America) still up for debate, but we'll go with it.
- New Hampshire: (Another word for wire) took me a while to figure this one out, shuddup.
- North Carolina: (Really?) yes, raleigh.
- Virginia: (Bill Gates) he is rich…mon…duh.
Aaaaaand, the one that made me laugh-snort:
- Alaska: (I know) enough said!
[sound of crickets, chirping]

Clearly, I have the sense of humor of an 11 year-old and who knew people in Alaska speak so funny?!?

© 2003 – 2013 This Full House

New and improved: with a fan page on Facebook and everything!
April 5, 2013
A Clean House Is a Sign of a Cluttered Mind
Artwork currently displayed in our library (a.k.a. bathroom)

If I had to describe our house to you, in one word, and focusing on the positive, rather than ALL of the other annoying stuff that accumulates, when blessed, as a homeowner <—– that last part was for my husband, Garth (not his real name) —–> who sometimes needs help looking past all that other annoying stuff, bless his hardworking and very squishy heart.

Sooooo, what were we talking about?

[blows bangs out of eyes, stares at yet another big old water stain, on the ceiling above the dryer, don't ask]

Oh yeah. Focusing on the positive. Right. So, I would most likely agree with what other folks have described as some sort of super power for creating: cozy.

[glances at laundry, closes eyes]

Clutter, on the other hand, is my kryptonite.

I was raised in an even smaller house: 6 rooms (including the bathroom) so, we learned to be very creative when hiding stuff; especially, whenever friends and family would come over for a visit.

Of course, unlike me or my children, my mother was MUCH better at remembering where she put stuff. So, after 20 years of raising 4 kids and killer dust bunnies, spring cleaning has become quite the adventure.

Every year, I find stuff like:
- Family photos dating back to about 20 years — you know, the ones I've been meaning to put into that scrapbook I started, 20 years ago.
- School pictures I meant to mail out to family — so THAT'S where they went!
- A couple of years worth of report cards — before our schools went paperless (cue choir of angels, singing)!
- OH LOOK!!! One of my husband's Christmas presents — shhhhhh, I put it away for Father's Day (SCORE!!!) don't tell him, okay?!?
- Pairless shoes, socks and a couple of bras — don't ask!
- Petrified, sometimes unidentifiable, food — see previous bullet.
- Stuff that looks like it may or may not have been alive, at one time.
- What the?!? Never mind. I don't EVEN want to know.
It's at this point, I begin to feel weak and imagine myself as an unwilling participant in some sort of twisted scavenger hunt.

[pausing to allow those with younger kids and/or childless individuals to click away…QUICKLY…while you can]

WAIT!!! All is not lost. There are times when I happen upon a real gem — like a poem, gifted to me by my teenage son:

No matter what happens you are always there,
You make us dinner,
You clean our clothes,
You help us with homework,
You are always there,
No matter what happens we can trust you to help,
When you try and cover up pain we see it,
You do not realize how much you mean to us,
Please know that we will love you forever,
You are an amazing Mother
And you will always be there.

I hung it in our bathroom…I mean, our library…because, I sometimes also need help looking past all that other annoying stuff that accumulates, when blessed, as a parent.

Aaaaand, it happens to hide the hair dye…I mistakenly splashed ALL over the wall…really, really well…too.

Because, I am multi-functional like that.

© 2003 – 2013 This Full House

New and improved with a fan page on Facebook and everything!
April 3, 2013
Some of Them Are Revisiting Their Childhood, Already?

She insisted on going "back to childhood" because, you know, it was sooooooo long ago (snort!)

The kids are on their spring break from school, which is sort of funny considering it snowed, this week and, well, now that they're older (me too, dammit!) let's just say I'm sort of cursing myself for ever having uttered the word: staycation.

Excuse me while I start shaking my virtual cane, but spring break used to be SO MUCH easier…when they were way younger.

Give me clear skies, a full tank of gas, an empty playground and we could go for hours without even one mention of So-and-So's family ski weekend or What's-his-Face vacationing in Disney…again.

"Where are we going?"

Yesterday, we were reminded…once again…that the sky is actually more blue-ish than gray-ish.

"I don't know, we'll see."

After I fill the car up with gas, of course.

"You guys go ahead, without me."

Long story, short (seriously, with teenagers, a person could go on and on, you're welcome!) my 19 yo got called into work (earlier than scheduled) and if you have teens (most especially, teen girls) or have ever had to wait on one of them (see previous parenthesis), then you know: going out in public takes a bit of an effort and my 17 yo was just not feeling it.

Aaaaaaand then, like a cement block to the head, it hit me: our days, of spending any length of time together as a family, are truly numbered.

My heart may or may not have squished, just a little.

"Okay, so where do YOU guys want to go?"

I watched my 14 yo and 11 yo look at each other through the rear view mirror and I knew, right then and there, they were pretty much onto me.

"How about the battlefield?"

Where other families escape to warmer climates on spring break, my kids enjoy revisiting areas known for their history of colonial skirmishes…here in Jersey…where it's still sort of cold, in March.

"Mom, STOP!!!!!"

Aaaaaand, scaring me half-to-death.

I used to worry about my kids climbing too high, now I can't help but feel as if my youngest has grown out of her shoes…way too fast.

"Smile, it's frickin' cold out here, already!" she said through clenched teeth.

On the other hand, the fact that my son still allows me to be seen with him, out in public and everything, and then share it on Instagram…priceless.

It was left up to a vote: World of Warcraft or Dr. Who edition of Monopoly (raises hand) I lost 🙁

Aaaaaand, then there are those rare nights, when we can ALL sit for hours and be happy to be able to just laugh with each other; usually at my expense, but I'm okay with it.

I'll just keep on shaking my virtual cane…like a boss 🙂

© 2003 – 2013 This Full House

March 27, 2013
Parenting Tip #45,371,381: Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff – Shove a Slushy Snowball Down Someone’s Shirt, Instead!

My husband, Garth (not his real name) is really good at not panicking, especially dealing with an emergency situation; when, considering I took to Twitter when my middle girl's butt exploded, clearly I am not.

On the other hand, I have made it my life's mission to NOT sweat the small stuff AND have consistently failed said mission (it was more like a guideline, anyway, really) for the last…ummmm, let's see…how old IS my oldest kid, again?!?

Aaaaanyway, point being (and I really do have one, promise) Garth (not his real name) and I have taken to handling this whole…parenting teens is hard, YO!…by tag-teaming each other, sort of like professional wrestlers would…during a no holds barred steel cage death match.

Blindfolded, with one arm tied behind our backs and buck-naked.

Like, the other night, when my youngest asked for help with an essay and then kept insisting on either disagreeing with or fighting me on ANY and ALL help that was being offered.

My husband walked in through the front door just in time to hear me holler, "Then, why BOTHER asking ME for help?!?"

[ding-ding-ding]

He rolled up his sleeves, loosened his tie and pushed me…every so gently, yet firmly…you know…out of the way.

"I got this!"

Or, whenever Contradictory Boy shows up (a.k.a. our 14 year-old son's alter ego) and clashes with the gravitational forces on my husband's forehead, causing a massive facial implosion and one gosh-darned scary-looking unibrow.

[ding-ding-ding]

"Sooooooo, how DOES one go about creating a character in World of Warcraft?"

We ARE the King and Queen of Distraction (a.k.a. SziSzi of Pandaria) and, well, whatever works, right?!?

So, this is happening (RIGHT NOW!) and, well, the groundhog lied…the little jerk!

Long story, short (you're welcome!) I've been driving our oldest to and from work (she's saving for a car, we live in Jersey, enough said!) sometimes even on the days when I don't need to use the car (see last parenthesis) unless it snows.

"You don't want to transfer your fear onto her, do you?"

Now that we have a kid driving (and ANOTHER one driving, this spring) the panic that sets in goes way beyond the fact that I don't do snow and, well, Eastern-European-types aren't very good at keeping a straight face; we pretty much suck at poker, too.

"Noooooo, but don't expect me to stop worrying…DAMMIT…and ANOTHER thing…"

[ding-ding-ding]

Aaaaand, that's when he shoved a slushy snowball down the front of my pajamas.

"WTF, dude?!?!?!?!?"

Although, it worked long enough for me to stand there and forget just what in the heck we were talking about, I am STILL a little confused by his tactics.

© 2003 – 2013 This Full House

March 8, 2013
Girl Scout Cookies Are Evil, We Must Eat Them!

My husband, Garth (not his real name) and I went food shopping, together (I know, don't be jealous!) and it was a really big one (that's what SHE said)!

So, after quickly scanning the sales receipt, to make sure we didn't accidentally purchase another child, or something, we were all, like…oh yeah…THAT'S why we haven't been to Disney (yet!) and I suddenly heard someone holler the 3 most scariest words in parenting.

Girl scout cookies.

Long story, short (we can only hope, right?!?) I broke up with girl scouts a few years ago and, well, it was a really difficult time for me.

Each of my girls enjoyed their run with the girl scouts (my middle girl lasting the longest at 9 years) and I actually looked forward to each of their troop meetings (sort of) as a reason to get together with OTHER moms, at least once every month.

Selling girl scout cookies, not so much.

I used to dread cookie time, but not as much as the leaders and I'm pretty sure we STILL have a couple of boxes (or twenty) left, out in the garage, too.

So, we walked by…REAL FAST…and then it hit me…the G.U.I.L.T…like walking into a revolving door…the wrong way…aaaaaaand, please tell me I am NOT the only one who's done that!

Seriously, as an ex-troop mom, I know how hard these ladies work.

My husband, Garth (not his real name) must have felt it, too (after 20+ years of marriage, you sort of start sharing the same brain, it's sort of weird, really!) he shoved some money into my hand and told me he'd meet me at the car.

"So, how much ARE they?"

All of the girls manning (girling?) the table hollered out "FOUR BUCKS!" at the same time, making me jump and swallow my gum.

[cough-cough-cough]

"But, if you buy 5 boxes, you can enter a drawing for a grand prize!!!"

Dammit.

"Ohhhhhh, HEY YOU!"

Yep, I knew the troop leader. My youngest was supposed to be in her Daisy troop in kindergarten, but she didn't know any of the girls, so I asked Hope be moved into another troop of pre-school friends and, well, moms have a weird way of remembering this sort of stuff.

Then I remembered: she also happened to be Hope's class mom, pretty much all through elementary school, I think.

"I'll take 5 boxes, please!"

Even longer story, shorter (seriously, I know you're busy and everything!) I am a BIG believer in karma and, well, suffice it to say that my husband and I could really use a little cosmic intervention, right about now.

"Don't forget to fill out your entry form."

Fine, so while filling out the entry form, I casually asked about the grand prize…hoping that maybe it would a trip to Disney, or something…it COULD happen.

[one beat, two beats]

"5 cases of cookies!!!!"

Stupid girl scout cookies, dumbass Karma.

© 2003 – 2013 This Full House

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March 4, 2013
Don’t Have a Speaking Paper, GET ONE!
The warm-ish, cold-ish, back to warm-ish, make up your mind, already, ding-dang weather has kicked off Hope’s croup (a.k.a. the creeping crud), which usually means:
- She will cough the entire night
- She will lose her voice
- And then she will throw up
Lovely, yes? Don’t worry, she’s used to it. Me? Not so much. I don’t do well with throw up. Never have. When it comes to the kids getting sick, Garth (not his real name) has been my go to, as the…ummmm…throw up handler? Puke wrangler? Chumming buddy?

[blank stare]

Soooooo, aaaaanyway, poor thing got sick in school. On the way home, I asked her if she was able to keep her lunch down.

“Yes, until I coughed up the goober that got stuck in my throat and my lunch decided to play follow the leader.”

I love this kid. She just cracks me up.

“Aaaaaand, I had to write a speaking paper.”

Long story, short (you’re welcome!) Hope lost her voice in school and decided it would behoove her teachers that she make a list of common phrases she uses throughout the day:
- Can I go to the bathroom?
- Can I get a drink?
- Can I go to the nurse?
- Can you repeat that?
- I don’t understand.
- Thank you!
I thought it was soooooo funny (especially, the part where she thought “I don’t understand” not as rude as asking people to repeat themselves!) until I wondered (out loud) what would be on MY speaking paper, to which she answered:
- Where is your ding-dang coat?
- What part of “pick up your wet towels” do you NOT understand?
- The dishwasher IS DIRTY, dangit!
- Did you do your homework?
- Get up, you’re going to be late! (may or may not be used separately)
- What do you MEAN you don’t have ANY homework?
- Throw me a bone, people!
Aaaaand, she would have gone on and on…if I hadn’t reminded her that…you know…I would be the one taking care of her, for the next few however long it took for her to get over the creeping crud.

[blink-blink-blinkety-blink-blink]

She then pointed to the last bullet of her Speaking Paper and, well, now that I think on it some more, I really SHOULD send a thank you note to her teachers, or flowers, maybe even a box of chocolates, a butt load of cough drops, or something, right?!?

Cheeky kid.

© 2003 – 2013 This Full House
March 1, 2013
Ice, Ice, #Nemo

We heard it was coming, a few days after experiencing our first earthquake and it was supposedly to be one of the biggest storms to hit Jersey in recent memory: Hurricane Irene blew in late Summer of 2011, which suddenly sounds like a really long time ago.

Aaaaand, then Superstorm Sandy hit the east coast last October, nearly knocking us back into the stone ages, changing the face of New Jersey, forever.

So, yeah, I was a little nervous when tracking our first major winter storm since even before the hurricanes hit, especially one named after a cheeky fish.

Nemo was much kinder to us than our neighbors in North Jersey, but I'm pretty sure that friends and family in New England are STILL digging their way out.

I spent the first few hours of Saturday morning, peering out our front door, willing the snow to melt, hoping that it would thaw out in time for me to take my oldest daughter to work.

You see, I don't do snow, or at least I don't drive in it very well. I had a pretty bad car wreck the first year I started to drive (YES, they had rubber wheels back then, be quiet, child!) and, well, I can still hear the CRUNCH in my ears, as my car was being rear-ended and my forehead hit the steering wheel.

I woke up in the hospital to find out that…YES!…apparently, a person can so sprain their esophagus.

"Do you want me to drive, Mom?"

My oldest is super-soft spoken (no, she does NOT get it from me!) but, I still jumped as if my daughter was talking into a bullhorn and nearly swallowed my coffee mug.

"No, I would much rather you call in sick."

Yeah, great role model…I know…and I realize that she has been driving for over a year now and will need to practice driving in snow, sometime, just not nearly a foot and on her first attempt.

Good thing she wasn't scheduled to work at the hospital until midday, it took all morning for my son to chip away at the ice and snow that Nemo dumped all over our car (another advantage to having older kids, free labor!) and only now do I realize the irony: the daughter of the world's clumsiest and most accident-prone woman WOULD work in a hospital.

"C'mon Mom, you're just making yourself more nervous, you'll be fine."

Aaaaaaad, that very fine line between parent and child (trust me, it's there) was blurred, once again, by my inability to shake stuff off and get over myself, already.

"Besides, you're the one who taught me how to drive…remember?"

Yes, yes I did and she's a gosh-darned good driver (in spite of it) so I guess there is still a little hope for me, yet.

"Hang on a second, I'll grab my coat."

Besides, the last time I attempted to drive in weather like this, I abandoned my car in the school parking lot and walked home, with all four kids in tow, while snow continued to fall…sideways…and I didn't have a coat.

But, NOT this day.

"Thanks Mom, I'm proud of you!"

Tell you the truth, having made it there in one piece AND without embedding my fingers into the steering wheel, permanently, I was pretty gosh-darned proud of myself, too.

"I'll see you after my shift!"

Nope, but I didn't bother to tell her that her father would be picking her up, later that night, and I really shouldn't have to explain why…this LATE in the game…now, do I?!?

Stupid ice, dumbass Nemo.

© 2003 – 2013 This Full House

February 11, 2013