It’s a “Full House.”

While I religiously watched this sitcom growing up, I would always change it when it got to the ending to avoid the anger it would stir up in me.  Stephanie or DJ would do something terrible like steal dad’s car and crash it or something age-inappropriate like make out with a boy, drink alcohol or other things we young ones eventually do. 

What makes me angry, is when my parents would come in my room at the end of a dramatic 23 minute (minus commercials) drama, no one calmly sat on my bed (tune into heartwarming, forgivey music) and explained the consequences of my “unwise decision.”  Then promptly hugged me and told me they loved me endlessly and then hold hands and decide to clean up whatever mess together.  NO. Wrong.  Wrong.  ALL WRONG.

My parents would be in my personal space so fast that I’d hardly have time to formulate my words, and they would treat my unwise decision (this time ironing a shirt with worlds hottest iron on a nice kitchen table) as the same as discovering drugs in my laundry or all of sudden uncovering I’m secretly a gambler, or the Wilton prostitute.  Seriously, guys.  Not cool.  Ikea tables never burn and I’m pretty sure that you’re world’s hottest iron would light an IRONING BOARD on fire. 

Either way, this is not how we handle these situations where I “act out.”  No, we yell.  In this case, Laura and I left hate mail on top of the burned remains of the table for each other to read on their way out of the house the next day, 5 or 6 am.  The sun hadn’t even risen and I’ve already considered how to really act out just to be a shit head.

But this time, the music of love and forgiveness came on when I walked in the house that night.  “Laura, I’m really sorry for ruining your table.  I won’t begin to make excuses.  And Im sorry for leaving mean words like a 5 year old.”  And then I told her that the reason I was defensive was not the table at all, but feelings of not fitting in since I can remember.  And here I was, desperately trying to blend into this house like I belonged. The woman was upset about her table.  I fit in just fine, if not perfectly.  The drama was not in burning the table, the drama was in my head.  I’m such a drama queen.  I’m sure you’re so surprised.

We had a beautiful talk and the time went by and soon enough, dad drove in the driveway.  We hugged, “lets not fight anymore.  Lets love each other like no one in this family loves.”  When it comes to love, it’s ALWAYS just like that.  I may not have 3 dads like the Tanner family, but they were certainly on to something.  AND…my step-mother had already fixed the table.  She’s fuckin’ Macgyvor.