Middle school—two words that for many people bring back some of the most awkward moments and memories. Since Emma’s graduation, I’ve been steadily taking a poll among friends, sisters, and neighbors about what they remember about middle school. “How’d you describe your years at middle school?” I asked.

What a loaded question and what a reaction.

“Completely insecure,” “Mean girls,” “Awful, just awful,” and “You couldn’t pay me enough money to do that again,” were just the highlights of a commonly shared perspective—for most people, middle school sucks.

It got me thinking back to my middle school years. Truth be told, I didn’t attend an official middle school. Instead, I went to St. Mary’s Catholic Grammar school with grades kindergarten—eighth. But there was something quite different from the 7^th—8^th grade wing from the 5^th—6^th grade wing. It seemed overnight that cliques became tighter and some girls transformed from carefree and independent to boy-crazy and desperate-to-be-popular.

I was in a different category.

As a 7^th grader, my brain seemed hard-wired to focus on all my physical flaws—bucked teeth, awful haircut, undeveloped body and a wardrobe of pathetic clothes. At twelve years old, I had perfected the art of self-loathing. If I had been given a magic wand, I would have made myself disappear for a few years until I found my groove in high school.

Once in a while, my mother would notice me sulking around the house. As her twelfth child and seventh daughter, Mom had seen plenty of mood swings and pre-teen angst before I came along. For the most part, she’d leave me alone—which was a smart move. The few times she asked, “What’s wrong, Kerry?” I’d glare back with an icy chill and snarl, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Translation—Go away. You’re from a different planet and you have no idea what I’m going through.

Of course Mom did know what I was going through—she’d seen my older sisters suffer through their years of being their own worst enemies. Yet somehow, we all survived. As I wished for a super-power remote to fast forward through all of it, Mom knew better—it was just a phase of life.

For all of my awkwardness during those years, there was an incredible thing that happened. I found my best friend, Meg. As the youngest in her family of seven kids, Meg and I had a lot in common. Together, we forged ahead as partners in the 7^th grade science fair, the Social Studies debate teams, and even dared to try out for cheerleading. Finding a friend like Meg during those years proved to be a priceless gift. With Meg, I learned that someone always had my back and I always had hers—no matter what. Twenty-eight years later, she’s still my best friend.

As Emma transitions into middle school and onto her teen years, I can’t help but wonder how different things will be for her. In some ways the cliché, the more things change—the more things stay the same, will likely ring true. Having grown up watching the John Hughes classic movies, Pretty in Pink,  The Breakfast Club, and Sixteen Candles, teens were easily categorized into distinct groups—the jocks, the popular crowd, the geeks, the burnouts, and the cheerleaders. Today’s teens still tend to separate into these same groups, but there’s one big difference—they’re armed with technology to inflict emotional damage on each other. Instead of passing notes, crank calls, the rumor mill and gossipy whispers, they use smart phones and Facebook to taunt, tease, and alienate each other.

In the movie Mean Girls, the popular girls known as the Plastics, operate under a three-step daily routine—get dressed into designer clothes, skip breakfast and sharpen their claws for delivering precision-cut emotional strikes on girls who cross their path. While movies tend to exaggerate everything, I hope that Emma stays clear of any group of girls that resemble the Plastics.

At the same time, I can’t be naïve. I fully believe that no one escapes her middle school and teen years unscathed. Everyone has her ups and downs and gets her share of emotional bumps and bruises. But these are also the things that can make you stronger and help you to figure out who you are and who you aren’t.

So here’s my simple wish for Emma—hang in there and try to enjoy the ride.  I hope you’re lucky enough to find a true-blue friend, a girl who will always have her back, your own “Meg.” And if you ever give me one of those icy looks that I gave your grandma, I’ll do my best to ignore it and remember that’s what I did. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

But no matter what happens, you’ll always be my baby girl.

While Jessie heads up to Massachusetts this spring break for house hunting and countless other families travel to sunny destinations, I can’t help but wonder—am I the only mom with no place to go? Are we the only family embracing a spring break staycation? My three daughters seem convinced.

Spring break— two words that conjure up lots of foggy memories for most people. Back at Rutgers in the early 90’s, spring break for me meant scrounging up a couple hundred bucks for a week of craziness in Cancun. To this day, I feel blessed that there wasn’t any Facebook, Youtube, or smart phones with video. My kids will never have any visual proof of mommy’s record-breaking speed of slamming down “Yards” at Senor Frogs.

Fast forward to 2012 and somehow spring break has evolved into a guilt-inducing motherhood experience. “Mom, why aren’t we going anywhere for spring break?” Carly, my nine-year old complained for the fiftieth time last week.

“Yeah, Mom, how come we’re not going to Disney World?” Morgan, my six-year old chimed in.

“And the McKeons are going to the Bahamas,” Carly added for good measure.

We’d been having this same conversation for weeks, when it suddenly hit me—since when did it become the norm that spring break automatically meant traveling to a sunny destination with school-aged children and dropping a boatload of cash? That was it. I was tired of feeling guilty about our lack of travel plans.

“Well, good for the McKeons. But guess what—we’re not the McKeons. We’re staying here and we’ll make our own fun,” I said.

“Our own fun? Staying here?” Carly whined with her hand flagrantly on her hip and in-your-face-attitude. Now, she had done it. She had given me the green light. As Dr. Phil would say, my kids needed to “get real” about spring break. My automatic defense mechanism kicked in—they were going to get a dose of my magic silver bullet—an anecdote from my wacky childhood.

“Well, if you don’t think we can make our own fun, we can do what I did when I was your age.” I said luring her into my trap.

“What did you do?” Carly innocently asked. I smirked—she had taken the bait.

“Grandma put us to work. We ripped up flooring, painted the house, tore off wallpaper, weeded our sidewalk—you name it, Grandma made us do it. Now doesn’t that sound fun?” I said with a subtle laugh.

Her jaw dropped. She stared at me in disbelief, then sheepishly grinned and said, “You know Mom, I think I can figure out something fun to do.”  I smiled and thought, another victory–courtesy of my mother.

Okay, before you jump to the conclusion that my mother was a child-labor-slave-driver, here’s the back story.  I grew up in family of 13 kids in the suburbs of New Jersey.

Yes, 13. I know..insanity.

But as any mother can attest, having a houseful of children for a week vacation with nothing to do creates boredom, whining, and in my case—an occasional fist fight with my sisters. Looking back, my mother was brilliant. Not only did she get us focused on a specific home improvement project, it was exhausting, back-breaking work. After a few hours working on one of mom’s “special projects”, we were often too tired to fight with each other. Pure genius.

I recently published a memoir about my childhood, Life Lessons from a Baker’s Dozen, which pays tribute to the phenomenal job my mother did in raising all of us. (Sorry for the shameless plug.) On the days that I feel like I’m at the end of my rope, I remember that somehow my mom managed to get through each day with ten extra kids. So if my mom could survive decades of staycations with 13 kids, surely I could manage with just three?

But don’t worry. No need to contact Child Protection Services—my daughters won’t be ripping up my kitchen floor over spring break. Instead, Carly will tackle a home improvement project of her own choosing. For months, she has been begging me to rearrange her room. I’ve hesitated taking this project for a big reason–she’s a pint-sized hoarder who specializes in crafts.  In our family, she’s known as the craft-MacGyver, transforming household trash, paper, beads, and tape into mugs, vases, necklaces, and other “treasures” and filling every square inch of her room with them. Don’t believe me? Here’s a sample of her work.

I made Carly a deal—if she wants to rearrange her room—she has to throw out several bags of stuff. She reluctantly agreed and is now on a mission—clearing the junk under her bed, dresser, and other mysterious hiding spots in her room. And she’s happy about it.

So cheers to the spring break staycationers. Enjoy a guilt-free week of staying local and when your kids complain about being bored or start fighting, have your to-do list ready, and let them pick one of mommy’s “special projects.”