This Full House Archive

Tag: raising teens and tweens

  • Together Counts: Desperately Seeking Healthy Living Through Energy Balance

    TogethercountsAs a mom of 3 teens and with our youngest insisting that I quit calling her the baby (she’s turning 12 this year, enough said!) I feel it safe to tell you that the secret to balance is really quite simple, because there is NO secret: balance is all a matter of perspective.  

    Maintaining a healthy lifestyle, while running in 6 different directions (sometimes, all in the same day) and having to plan meals around our collectively busy schedules — not to mention, those late night, last-minute school projects, due yesterday — without one (or all) of us experiencing the proverbial crash and burn is a challenge my family and I face, every day.

    That is why I am very honored to partner with TogetherCounts.com as an ambassador and contributor blogger to the Together Counts blog for 2013.

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  • It’s Not The Years, HONEY – It’s the Mileage!

    My husband, Garth (not his real name) and Wayne (also not his real name, see what I did there?) met sometime around 1st grade.  They lived a couple of blocks away from each other and, throughout their elementary, middle school and high school years, remained the best of friends.

    Then Garth (NHRN) asked Wayne (NHRN) to help him move into his college dorm, inviting a mutual friend along (Tia, not her real name either) knowing that his friend Wayne (NHRN) had a secret crush on her and that the feeling was mutual.

    Note:  I feel it safe to say, having successfully conveyed the fact that no one in this story would willingly care to be associated with my blogging (no, I can't say as I blame them), I feel it unnecessary and quite cumbersome in my continuing to use the (NHRN) acronym (you're welcome!)

    Wayne and Tia were married a few years later and asked Garth to be their best man.  Garth and I were dating for about a month when he asked me to attend the christening of Wayne and Tia's first born son.

    Garth and I were engaged a few months later (he had me at, so you want to go out to dinner or something?) asked Wayne to be the best man at our wedding and then, a few years after that, we asked both Wayne and Tia to be Godparents to our middle girl.

    Wayne and Tia moved back to the old neighborhood to raise their kids, into a house down the street from my in-laws, while Garth and I had two more children, catching up to Wayne and Tia in requesting a table for six (or twelve, on those rare occasions we would eat out, all together).

    At this point in time, we started referring to our pregnancy time lines to keep track of each other's milestones or whenever we'd share stories about the summers our families spent vacationing together.

    Then, one day, something changed and we did not speak or see each other for the next ten years.

    What the hell happened?  Honestly, I couldn't tell you.  Garth and I still don't really know and would be hard-pressed to come up with an answer that would make any sense.  

    The only thing I can tell you, for sure, is that Wayne and Tia had disconnected themselves from most everyone, at that time (especially, family) and, as awful as this is going to sound, Garth and I took some solace in wondering (more like, hoping) maybe it wasn't "just us".

    Still, all was NOT lost, as we continued to exchange Christmas cards and then leave our happy birthday wishes for each of their kids…on the answering machine.  

    Then we stopped calling.

    Garth and I would see Wayne, from time to time, while driving past his and Tia's house (considering they still live down the corner from my in-law's) and catch glimpses of their kids, who would wave at us and perhaps wonder if we had moved or where we had gone.

    Then they stopped waving.

    Even longer story, shorter (seriously, I'm almost done) Garth and I received an invitation to Wayne's suprise 50th birthday party with a note:  although there has been distance in our relationship, you are both forever in our hearts and the boys and I know Wayne would love to have you at his party — hope you will join us!

    Garth and I were both silent on the drive to the restaurant on Saturday night, wondering if we would know any of the people attending the surprise party, whether or not anyone would recognize us and just what in the hell WAS it that robbed these two best friends of the last ten years, anyways?!?

    We walked into the restaurant, were greeted with a roomful of blank faces and, as terribly awful as this is going to sound, again took solace in knowing (or, at least, we were pretty sure) nope, it wasn't "just us".

    Garth hugged his Godson and asked if there would be any family attending the party?

    "You're it, Uncle Garth."

    [lump meet throat]

    Then it hit me, like a well-deserved bitchslap upside the head:  years after moving out of the house I grew up in, I never quite understood why my parents insisted on visiting "the old house" and then call to tell me just how bad it really looks.

    Until, the day the kids and I took a quick detour, were stunned into silence and then spent the rest of the drive home…remembering.

    It's sort of the same with Wayne and Tia:  no matter how broken, battered or beaten-up life gets us (seriously, a lot can happen in ten years, yes?) our friendship has good bones.

    Aaaaaand, yes, they happen to be getting older and more fragile by the minute (our bones, I mean, and us too, I guess) but, we STILL look good….DAMMIT!!!

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

  • Taking a Backseat

    Traveling with younger kids is hard, trust me, I know.  Our minivan has plenty of battle scars — not to mention, unidentifiable stains, which will stay that way, because, seriously, I don't even WANT to know!

    I am STILL finding petrified food, circa 2006.  

    My husband, Garth (not his real name) refers to the minivan as the S.S. Movable Feast, ever since the ant infestation…that ONE time…and who knew ants have a very keen sense for fishy crackers, right?!?

    [sound of crickets, chirping]

    I have clocked in a lot of miles, driving kids to and from…well…everywhere and spent countless number of hours…sitting in traffic…or fighting my way through parking lots, sometimes ALL in the same day.

    I grew accustomed to it, pretty quickly, and often times would steal a brief glimpse of my kids in the rear view mirror, staring at the back of my head or slumped in their car seats, fast asleep.  

    I also became quite adept at back-handing them their juice boxes (fishy crackers, not so much) while we discussed real meaning of life sort of stuff.

    Like, what happens when you hold your nose, fart and sneeze at the same time?  Would your brain ooze out of your ears or your eyes bleed boogers?

    The answer, by the way, is:  not yet.

    My kids grew up in our minivan (me too!) and, now that my oldest is driving and with the middle girl applying for her learner's permit this spring (HOLD ME!), I am slowly beginning to get used to the idea of not having to drive…especially, if I really don't want to…sort of.

    View from the backseat

    Today, I feel it safe to say:  traveling with grown kids is even harder, because this is what happens when your 14 year-old reaches 6 feet on the measuring wall.

    Guess I should start getting used to this view, eh?

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

  • Sometimes at night, I can still hear Karma laughing

    I have a pretty good sense of humor about stuff, to the point of annoying other folks (or possibly even scaring a couple of children)  into silence while thinking, "What IS that woman grinning about?!?"

    Then again, I live in Jersey, it's probably more like, "Wha'chew lookin' at?!?"

    [one beat, two beats]

    Willis.

    [sound of crickets, chirping]

    Aaaaanyway, I can't help it, it's like there is a sitcom playing in an infinite loop, in my head.

    Frankly, with 3 teens, 1 pretty much teen, and sometimes even other people's kids hanging around, there is almost ALWAYS stuff going on and, well, I would much rather consider all my maniacial laughing as an effective defense mechanism.

    For example, this morning.  Long story, short (you're welcome):

    • Middle girl missed her bus
    • Her school is at least a 30 minute drive
    • Because, in Jersey, we calculate the time it takes to get somewhere, rather than mileage
    • Oldest needed my car and leave for work by 8:00 a.m.
    • My husband needed his car back to leave for work by 8:15 a.m.
    • It is now 7:15 a.m.

    [cue maniacial laughing]

    Aaaaand, apparently, it's hereditary, as we drove past a broken down school bus on the highway.

    Daughter:  You know what would be REAL funny?
    Me:  If that was YOUR bus?
    Daughter:  EXACTLY!!!!
    Both: Bwahahahahahahahaha!!!

    [blank stare]

    Wha'chew lookin' at, Willis?!?  I mean, really, this IS the part of my story, where you begin to feel really, really lucky, about your NOT being able to see inside my head.

    "You left your purse in my car, I saw it when I got to work."

    See what I mean?!?  Seriously, you could ALMOST hear the "sad trombone" AND Karma laughing, right?!?

    "Guess I'm stuck here at home…all by myself…oh darn (grin!)"

    My husband still hasn't texted me back.  Poor guy, must have left his sense of humor at home.

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House 

  • Good Night, Miss Gracie

    Miss Grace

    A view of Miss Grace, outside my kitchen window.

    Our next door neighbor passed away, last week.  She was 104 years-old.  Although everyone who knew Miss Grace would agree that she had indeed lived a full life and perhaps not be at all surprised by her passing, I can't help but feel sad, knowing that her house sits empty and looks even more abandoned than usual.

    I still remember meeting Miss Grace for the first time.  It was a few days after we moved in, I was pregnant with our oldest, I waddled down the small hill that separated our properties and asked if her dog bites.

    She leaned forward in her lawn chair and answered, "Not if I don't go and tell her to."

    It's then I learned that her dog Sheba was very old, probably had less teeth than Miss Grace (according to Miss Grace) and that she would be the last dog that Miss Grace would ever have to bury.

    Needless to say, Miss Grace was indeed "a font of interesting anecdotes," to quote my friend Donna via Facebook.

    So, forgive me if I begin to burp up a few stories and Miss Grace-isms, here and there, like the time she chased a couple of hooligans, who were bombing her house with pears, away from her pear tree…with her favorite rake.

    Stories of Miss Grace are known to nearly every family to have settled in our town, having lived here all her life and the scourge of the neighborhood children…some 50 or so years earlier.

    "I never did take no nevermind, to no youngins."

    She raised her children and countless numbers of others of the families she worked for and, well, even my kids learned pretty early:  you best be on your best behavior around Miss Grace, or risk a phone call home to your mother.

    Most of all, Miss Grace will always be remembered as enjoying working in her yard.  She mowed her own lawn up until her knees "turned bad" around the time she turned 100.  True story.  Still, it was ding-danged difficult to keep up with the woman.

    Lawnmower Mom was my first published article, outside of this blog, back in 2004 and it too was inspired by Miss Grace, along with many more blog posts, some of my favorites being:

    All that's left now is the house next door, which I am afraid will be razed to make room for many more (her property is even larger than ours) and I can't help but feel…well…sort of like I have just finished the last chapter of a very good novel.

    Which reminds me, I once asked Miss Grace if she remembered the famous shark attacks, here in town!  She did.  I then questioned whether she knew that they also inspired Peter Benchley to write "Jaws".

    Her response:  "I never had me no time, for no books!"

    She was too busy, living one.  I wonder if I will ever stop looking for her, outside my kitchen window.  Bless you, and your rake, Miss Grace.

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

  • Wordless Wednesday: You Don’t Scare Me, I Have Teens and a Fleece Blanket.

    That awkward moment:  when you go to pull your blanket up higher and accidentally punch yourself in the face.

    Snuggles Are For Grownups

    Me and my snuggler in crime, during scary movie night.

    Yeah, that hasn't ever happened to me either, but I hear your eyes don't stop watering for a solid 3 commercial breaks.

  • 19 Years of Motherhood And Still Not Doing It Right

    Holly and What is Left of Athena

    11-12-12: Holly and what's left of Winterstorm Athena.

    My oldest turned 19, last week <—– seeing that in writing makes the fact that I am now a mother of a 19 year old all the more WHAT DO YOU MEAN I AM A MOTHER OF A 19 YEAR OLD <—– seeing that in UPPERCASE pretty much sums up what I feel about THAT, in a nutshell.

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  • Becoming THAT Crazy Cat or Dog Lady

    One of the reasons I started blogging….back in the days of  when posting pictures of your kids on the internet was bad and way before those same kids started posting pictures (and videos) of themselves….on the internet….was my being able to connect with other parents on the internet.

    I still do, but now that my kids are older (me too, dammit!) it can be real difficult keeping stuff all lighthearted….most especially, here at This Full House of extreme hormonal imbalance and severe teenage angst….sometimes.

    Okay, most of the time.

    Fiiiiiiiine, I sort of get why really, really, really old people (you know, folks much, much, much older than me) are crazy.  Their kids made them that way. 

    Then, they dress up their pets and buy them organic food and stuff and maybe one day I will be that crazy cat or dog lady, too.

    Just, NOT TODAY!

    For example:  Doofus-Dawg has this funny way of thumping his tail when he's in the middle of…well…what I imagine to be a real kick-ass dream.

    [thump-thump-thump-thump-thump]

    Aaaaaand, then the kick-ass-ness gets real intense and the thumping gets quicker.

    [thumpity-thump-thumpity-thump-thumpity-thump]

    Then the dream goes full on…SQUIRREL!!!!!

    [THUMPTHUMPTHUMP-THUMPITY-THUMPTHUMPTHUMP]

    No lie.  This time, I happened to have my phone charging while working at the desktop and I hear:  thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

    So, I grabbed my cell phone and then, sure as you'll find hairballs under our couch, secured my rightful place in parenting hell:

     

    You see?  Et tu Doofus-Dawg?  Totally made a total liar out of me.  The REAL funny part is he came right back and marched his hairy butt straight to the couch.

    The Revenge of Doofus Dawg

    Hahaha, real funny, now I triple-dawg dare you to try and get me from off the couch, b8tch!

    Normally, Doofus-Dawg isn't allowed on the couch.  This time, I made an exception, because I am nothing if NOT inconsistent with my parenting skillz, too.

    Besides, those are my son's clothes….he never did take them upstairs, like I told him to, this morning….and, well, the clothes are going to end up on the floor…eventually…or my son will throw them back into the hamper…clean or not, who cares?…anyway.

    Aaaaand then feed me strained carrots….eventually…but NOT today…DAMMIT!

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • In Blog Years, I Should Be Friggin’ Rich!

    9 Years

    9 years ago, I had a momfriend over for a playdate (remember those?!?) and, while we did share stories about our kids, fueled by tall glasses of spearmint iced tea and assorted kid-friendly snacks (probably fishy crackers and gummy bears, don't judge!) my friend and I waxed poetic about the days when we both dreamed of becoming famous writers.

    Okay, mostly her, because she was (and still is) a screen writer (for real) and I just liked to pretend as if I were just as…you know…writerly.

    "Have you thought about writing in a weblog?"

    Smiling politely, I slowly refilled her glass and effectively acknowledged the fact that I had NO IDEA what a weblog really was.

    "What the frig is a weblog?"

    I'm from Jersey, enough said.

    Aaaaaand, the rest my friends is…as they say…hysterical.  No, really.  Looking back at those first few posts, I swear, it's pretty obvious that I am in no way, shape or form as writer-ly as I pretended to be.

    Still, living out my life online, sharing stories that I now treasure (okay, more like cling to like a forgotten child) and the extreme privilege of getting to know and eventually meeting some of my best friends in world…priceless.

    Something that, up until this very day, a lot of folks still can't seem to wrap their heads around and that's totally okay.

    It's hard to explain, I guess I'm just not that writer-ly.

    So, for your reading pleasure and in celebration of my 9th blogiversary, my first blog post ever with no revisions, left as is when I first wrote it, one big friggin' paragraph of misspellings and all:

    9/02/2003
     
    Every pillow in my house has been relocated to the center of my
    living room. Why? The oldest of my four children, who is 9, has a
    playdate and it's raining outside. Enough said?!? My daughter's little
    friend is a well mannered, intellegent little girl who happens to share
    in my daughter's facination for pretend. One would think that at 9,
    thanks to Brittany Spears, Bratz Dolls and belly shirts, MTV would hold
    their interest rather than the giant maze totally constructed of pillows
    growing ever taller behind me. I mean every pillow, down to my
    youngest, who is 2, crib pillow. She was not very happy at first, but
    with a lot of reassurances made by her older sister, she gave up her
    pink frilly pillow for a promised entrance into the once completed maze.
    Everyone is in the act. My second oldest girl, who is 7, is busily
    adding her inventory of pillows. My son, who is 4 and the only boy in
    this house besides the two cats at the moment, has been accepted into
    the fold as well, light saber in hand. Play dates are very difficult to
    control in my house. With good intentions, I invite the 9 year olds,
    the 7 year olds and even a 4 year old friend (my son is in desperate
    need of male bonding) for some summer or after school fun. I have a 9
    room house, 2 of which are bathrooms, 2 of which all 4 of my children
    share as bedrooms, 1 of which is my room dedicated to stock piles of
    clean and dirty laundry. This basically leaves the main part of the
    house (where, by the way my desk is smack dab in the middle of) open to
    attempted organize play. We bought this house because of its,
    "kid-friendly" potential. Today, I find myself retreating to my
    computer and reflecting on the mountain of pillows, soon to be
    dissassembled if anyone even thinks about getting any supper placed in
    front of them. My four year old son, who is half naked with a feather
    sticking out of his head, is screaming somewhere toward the back end of
    the house ("He's an indian for goodness sake!" I only asked.) My 2 year
    old is happily slamming the bedroom door upstairs ("She's thunder! We
    need thunder 'cause it's raining outside!" Again, I only asked). My 7
    year old is bent out of shape ("They never want to play what I want to
    play!" No, we cannot have Kaitlyn over this afternoon.) The 9 year
    olds are running back and forth between the upstairs and the downstairs
    bedrooms screaming, "Can you hear me now?" ("The commercial is totally
    hysterical, Mom!" I didn't ask this time.) I look at the clock and see
    that the play date has an hour and a half to go and so do I, because
    thunder just pooped!
    – posted by Liz @ 9/02/2003 03:38:00 PM

    See, I told you.  Not very writerly-ish, right?  To me?  PRICELESS!!!

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

  • 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