This Full House Archive

Tag: Raising teens

  • So, what’s with the Susie Homemaker thing?!?!?

    Cinderella's Castle

    Proof that I used to bake, for real:  my oldest daughters 3rd birthday Cinderella's castle cake, I'm just as surprised as you are!

    My husband came home last night to find a few disturbing signs:

    • Furniture and/or rooms moved around (again)
    • New doorknobs on the bathroom, the pantry (formerly known as the linen closet) and the girls' bedroom door
    • And me cooking; furiously whisking up a honey mustard glaze, with every other burner firing on the stove.

    In the past, this sort of behavior usually meant one of three things:  someone is sick, dying or having a baby.

    Although I have ZERO intentions of becoming "the oldest pregnant blogger" and shut your mouth for even thinking it [shiver] in this case, having experienced the other two (in just one weekend) I seem to have gone into some freaked-out and totally irrational form of nesting.

    Aaaaaand, if you've ever experienced any of those things (especially, at the same time) I feel it safe to say we ALL deal differently with suckage (of which, cancer sucks hairy donkey balls).

    Some folks scream, cry or beat the hell out of drywall, like it owes you money AND yes I have done ALL of those things.

    Because, IMHO, internalizing that shit is toxic.

    I also clean house (figuratively and literally) while simultaneously attempting to mentally and physically purge myself of…you know…suckage.

    Lately, however, I've been internalizing a lot of shit: which means the house is very, very clean AND organized.  

    Aaaaaand, while cleaning out the girls' closet (for the eleventy-hundrendth time) I found a couple of old photo albums, then I lost my shit.


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  • So, What’s the WORST That Can Happen?

    I have a hard time believing that my husband, Garth (not his real name) and I have been together for 24 years:  we met on a blind date in July of…[reaches for calculator]…1989 and were engaged by November.

    Because any man who hands his date a handkerchief…in the middle of blowing snot during one of the most saddest movie endings in history…and then takes that same handkerchief back from her…all snotted up and everything…is worth hanging onto, verdad?

    Long story, short (you're welcome!):  what makes our relationship work (most of the time) is that Garth (NHRN) is very good at dealing with an emergency.  

    My husband has this awesome ability of assessing almost any situation in a very calm and rational Jedi-type manner, while my approach is much more apocalyptic in nature.

    Which makes me LOTS OF FUN at the end of the world-type disaster movies — World War Z, Walking Dead, I live there, every single day!

    Because, raising teens and a 12-year old who knows MORE stuff than I do, jumping to the worst possible conclusions is about the only exercise I get, these days.

    On the other hand, I am an expert at not sweating small stuff:  because I've already imagined the worst that can happen.

    For example:  hypothetically speaking, say one of our girls were to be asked out on a date, for the first time…like in, EVER!!!…my husband and I would both handle it very, very differently.

    Garth (NHRN):  if I am not home from work, make sure he comes in to meet your mother.

    End of story.

    Me?  Totally different scenario:  okay, so I'm going to visit with your aunt and you're going for sushi and the sushi place happens to be a couple of blocks from your aunt's house, so if you find yourself feeling uncomfortable or the date goes all weird on you, text me and I will call you back with some sort of emergency that requires you to come home right away and…WHAT?!?…why are you looking at me all funny like that?!?

    This is NOT your child and you know we're talking totally hypothetical, right?!?

    [one beat, two beats]

    Fiiiiiiiiiiiine, at least I don't have to worry about what we're having for dinner tonight, the other 3 kids LOVE sushi.

    [sound of crickets, chirping]

    Aaaaaaand, thank goodness we live right on the water, don't even get me started on the subject of seafood sustainability in landlocked states (you're welcome)!

    © 2003 – 2013 This Full House

    With a fan page on Facebook and everything! 

  • I’m Not Needy, I’m Just Giving Others the Chance to Be Helpful!

    Softball Mom's View

    She wears bright colors to help her mother find her on the field.

    I'm not very good at asking for help.  What, you too?!?  I know, me too!!!  Is there anything I can do to help?!?  Anyone I should call?!?  I know people.

    Aaaaaanyway, my SIL was over the other day.  I'm not sure which one, exactly.  I mean, I knew which SIL (she was in my wedding and everything) exactly which day it was, not so much. 

    They all sort of blend into a muted shade of "What the hell day is it, anyway?"

    Aaaaaand, we just came off a long weekend, which means I swore Tuesday…was really Monday…at least half a dozen times before my second cup of coffee, even.

    Ummmmmm, what was I saying?

    [glances at wall calendar]

    OH YEAH!!!  Sooooo, my SIL asks me about my youngest daughter's next softball game and I'm all, like, she plays softball?!?

    Heh, just kidding.  I like messing with people.  Which makes me calculatingly indecisive…albeit, equally annoying…and I really didn't know when her next softball game was…lack of surprise, notwithstanding.

    "It's on Wednesday, Aunt Pat."

    Thankfully, as the youngest of four, Hope is used to my NOT knowing this sort of stuff (off the top of my head, anyways) which is why I make sure to leave several pencils (with erasers intact) by our wall calendar and at least all of us can pretty much…you know…read Hope's writing, without much trouble.

    "Isn't my dentist appointment on Wednesday?"

    Seems my son has been keeping tabs on his schedule, as well, the little traitor.

    "Sooooo, we'll be a little late to the game."

    I can't be the ONLY one realizing that their car is running on empty (AGAIN!) a little too late, right?!?  RIGHT?!?

    Riiiiiiiight.

    "I can take Hope to her game."

    So, for the first time in, like, never, I took my SIL up on her offer to help with a solid, "Maybe, I'll let you know, okay?" and, well, it's nice to know someone has my back.

    I mean, other than my husband Garth (poor guy, I knew him well or at least four times anyway) nah'mean.

    "Do you need me to pick up Hope for softball, today?"

    My SIL just texted me a few minutes ago and, well, seeing as these last weeks of school are about to get a little crazier (more than usual, I mean) I really do appreciate her continued confidence in my knowing whether or not Hope has a softball game…let alone, remembering what the hell day it is…I truly do treasure my SIL.

    "Oh, no, thanks, that was yesterday."

    Suprisingly, I made it home from the dentist's office AND was able to get Hope to the game in time to notice that there were two different t-shirt colors on the playing field and one of them was…you know…NOT hers.

    THERE WAS NO GAME YESTERDAY…IT'S REALLY TODAY…YO!!!

    "Besides, Garth (not his real name) already promised to take her tonight."

    Because, I'm helpful like that.

    © 2003 – 2012 This Full House

    Freshly-brewed elsewhere:  Partnering with International Delight in sharing a chance to win $1,000 for a kitchen makeover…DUDE!!!!…I would SO ENTER if I could 😉

  • Aaaand a Very Happy Motherversary to Me, My Friend!

    Seventeen Happy 17th Birthday, Holly!

    I remember the first time I saw your round little face.  I stroked your tiny fingers, one by one, tracing a path along your elbow, then across the funny little folds in your neck and finally found my way up to the most perfect pair of lips I had ever seen.

    I tickled you.  You wrinkled your nose.  I noticed your dimple (only one, it's still there, on your left cheek) and then I fell in love with the idea of holding you…my…baby…girl…forever and ever.

    I never imagined, all those hours, days, weeks, months, years ago, that you would grow up and, well, look at you now.

    But, now, I can't help and wonder, STILL.

    Did I hold you enough?  Maybe I should have let you climb the monkey bars, higher?  Did I not feed you enough vegetables?  Maybe I should have let you stay in your crib a little longer?  Did I give you enough attention?  Maybe I should have waited a year, or two?  DAMMIT!  Did I love you enough?

    Then, again, you ARE seventeen.

    "How do I look?"

    As I watch you, right now, deciding on exactly which outfit to wear, on your birthday, all the shoulda, coulda, just doesn't seem to matter, as much, anymore.

    "You look beautiful!"

    Because, you ARE seventeen!

    "Wait, my butt doesn't sag…does it?"

    Seventeen years ago, at about 4:30 in the morning, a new mother was born and, although, there are days when I can't help but miss that sweet little baby girl (one beat, two beats) it seems I have also made a brand new friend.

    "Honey, you're seventeen, your butt does NOT know how to sag."

    Aaaand, you STILL wrinkle your nose when you laugh.

    "I love you, mommy!"

    Happy 17th Birthday, my sweet baby girl; my friend!

    © 2010 This Full House Blog / TFH Gone Shopping

    Stopdiabetes

    Updated to Add:  Here's the first "Happy Birthday" blog post I wrote for Holly's 10th birthday, way back in 2003 — nice to see my writing style hasn't changed, um, much.

    HW7XT5TRWUM2

  • The Blog Post My Husband Will Most Likely Hate – If He Read My Blog, I Mean.

    Let the Sunshine In, PLEASE!

    One day, last week (I forget which, exactly) I opened the front door to let the sunshine in and I kept it open, all day. 

    The birds were chattering (loudly) and the temperature, outside, hovered around 40 degrees. 

    As the dog watched the dust bunnies frolic, in and out, from underneath the couch, I allowed the calmness of the moment to wash over me and wring my heart free of all the troubles that have claimed squatter's rights for the last few months.

    It was glorious.

    Then, the clock on the wall began mocking me (BEYOTCH!) a squirrel ran in front of the door (RODENT!) and the dog nearly made my husband's wishes come true, by giving me a heart attack, when he ran, head first, into the glass storm door.

    Stupid dog!

    Garth [not his real name] has been making light of the fact that perhaps it is time that he looked for a new wife.

    "Since, mine seems to be breaking down."

    Oh, he didn't mean it, not really, and it's not like he was trying to be mean, or lying, for that matter, it's just that, well, I am…feeling quite broken, at the moment.

    "You hate me, don't you?"

    Of course, I don't hate my husband — although, I would be tempted to click the "unlike" button, upon occasion, if life was really like Facebook — on the contrary, I often times admit (yes, out loud) that I could NEVER do, you know, what I do, without having Garth [not his real name] on my side.

    Until now.

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