This Full House Archive

Tag: sandwich generation

NaBloPoMo 2015: Happy ThanksgivingChristmasNewYearsValentinesEaster!

I used to be a planner, also super-organized (and this is the part where my husband would insist otherwise and I would end any possibility of a long, drawn out debate, by insisting back "WAS SO!" Because I am a great debater, like that!), but those days seem so long ago.

I knew if I just held out long enough, mismatched plates and glasses would become a thing (are so!).

In our house, the holidays were my Olympics! I researched recipes, collected odds and ends for binge-crafting sessions with the kids and made lists for ALL things holi"daze".

This year? I'm lucky if I remember to wear matching earrings, and leaving the house with shoes on, and I can't tell you how many times I've caught myself wondering if I had remembered to use shampoo after already having gotten out of the shower.

My mommybrain is all grown up and waiting for someone to strain my carrots, dammit.

Now with Dad in and out of hospitals and rehab centers, since the end of August, I can't seem to think past remembering to eat lunch. Our parents play a large part of our celebrations and, now that our kids are getting older, (us too!) I keep reminding myself that every day we spend together is a gift.

"What's gonna happen on Thanksgiving?"

Thanksgiving has ALWAYS been my son's favorite holiday and now that he's turning 17 (ugh, really?!?) and has the appetite of a 17yo (a.k.a. never NOT hungry) he's taken over the menu-planning 🙂

"I haven't even thought about it, so don't know what we're doing, Bud!"

Truth be told, I'm still trying to figure out where September went.

"Well, if Papa is still in the hospital, we'll just have to bring Thanksgiving to him, that's all!"

[one beat, two beats]

"I mean, it doesn't matter where we have it, or if we cop a squat in the corner and eat off of trays, as long as we are together, right?!?"

I'm still trying to clear the massive goober that has formed in my throat, so I have yet to get back to him on that one, but I think maybe he already knows the answer and it was more of a rhetorical question, because these kids are way smarter than me.

"Wait, is that Christmas music you're playing?"

My oldest daughter, on the other hand…

"YUP! Don't judge!"

Gahdfuhbid, it's like she doesn't EVEN know me!!!!

November 10, 2015
Growing Old, It’s For the Birds
The kids and I took a ride to visit my folks on Sunday — Holly was scheduled to work this weekend and my husband Garth (not his real name) stayed behind to try and get some work done here at home — and, as soon as we walked into the kitchen, my mom began to show me some of the new tricks she learned during rehab:
- She can reach her arm behind her back: which, only a few short weeks ago, the pain of attempting to do so would have caused her to pass out (me too)
- She can cross both her arms in front of her: see previous bullet
- Oh, and watch this: she grabbed her elbow and gestured in an "Up yours!" sort of way, Jersey style
Mom stood there grinning like a school girl, after we whooped and wowed, as if she just finished showing off some super cool new cheer-leading routine and I half expected the woman to drop down into a split.

"Wow, I am SO proud of you!"

Aaaaaand, then it happened.

Me: What is up with ALL the birds?

It was a weird sort of Freaky Friday moment, which started out innocently enough: I looked out the window and, I swear to you, there had to be about two dozen birds hanging out, in and around the bird feeders.

Mom: I know your father just filled up the feeders, this morning.

What IS it with senior citizens AND birds?

Me: But it's already half-empty!

Honestly, my in-laws are the same way. They'll eat a bowl of crackers soaked in warm milk…[blech!]…for dinner, but don't think twice about dropping some major bucks on a 50 lb. sack of gourmet bird food, they can barely lift.

Me: You know, those dumb birds don't know how good they have it.

Aaaaand, that's when my father's bionic hearing kicked in.

Me: I mean, they eat WAY better than you guys do.

I was able to crack that last little ray of sunshine off before my dad finally limped his way into the kitchen.

Dad: Yeah, but they make your mother happy and I would pay anything for that.

Aaaaaand, I had just been served up a lovely peace of humble pie (accented heavily with rolling r's and w's that sound more like v's) for dessert and, well, when did our lives go so crrrrrrriz-crrrrrrroz epple-zauze, eny-vays?!?

Mom: I think maybe she's right.

Who? Me? Really? I looked around to make sure no one else was standing in the kitchen, just in case.

Mom: Maybe it's time the birds went on a little diet.

So, my parents decided it would be okay to feed them every OTHER day and, well, those dumb birds really don't know how good they have it.

Dad: Oh, and we picked up a strawberry short cake for the kids too.

Notice how he said "for the kids" which is perfectly fine with me and not because I don't like strawberry short cake — it's my favorite.

Me: Sounds awesome, thanks!

I was already sort of full of, you know, humble pie.

Me: I'll make the coffee.

[one beat, two beats]

Mom and Dad: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Heh…yeah, right…some things, however, NEVER change…including my inability to make a decent pot of coffee…damnit.

Hope: I'll do it!

My ll year-old, on the other hand, makes an AWESOME pot of coffee and, well, good thing too.

Hope: Dad taught me how.

Because my husband, Garth (NHRN) is going to have his hands full…I mean, he IS married to me…and I really don't care for the taste OR even the thought of warm milk…[blech!]…no matter WHAT my kids say.

© 2003 – 2012 This Full House
October 9, 2012
Remembering Union Street

7 years ago (next month) I sold my childhood home (approx. 30 minutes outside of NYC) and moved my parents "down the shore" to live in "the village" or what my kids warmly refer to as "Camp Mama and Papa."

So, a week before the move, we took our kids up for one last visit and my husband started to take a couple of random pictures.

At first, I couldn't quite understand why. Although, yes, the gardens were magnificent and often times my parents would receive compliments from passersby.

My kids grew up here visiting with their grandparents nearly every Sunday and yet I couldn't help but look forward to watching each of them (and us) make many more memorable moments in Mama and Papa's shiney new home.

The last I heard, the house on Union Street was being rented (AGAIN!) and, living 90 minutes away, my parents sometimes STILL visit, insisting that, you know, they just happened to be in the neighborhood.

A few weeks ago, I drove up north to run a few errands (okay, only one, the Hungarian butcher is still there, enough said) and did EXACTLY what I told my parents NOT to do.

I drove up Union Street, right passed the house and, I swear, I could hear my heart break a little.

The foot bridge, the lamp post, the rose-covered arbor, the greenhouse that my father built using leftover materials recycled from various landscaping job sites, it was ALL gone.

I did NOT recognize it, anymore.

Today, I'm heading out to check on my parents (my dad tore a ligament in his "good arm," yesterday) but, not before I make a quick stop for them at the Hungarian butcher…ONLY!

So, yeah, thank you, Garth (NHRN) this is EXACTLY how I will always remember Union Street.

© 2003 – 2011 This Full House

September 13, 2011