Almost 3 years ago, I watched my oldest daughter leave the house, for the first time, as a freshman in high school and I thought to myself…PHEW!…1 down and 3 to go!
Heather's 8th Grade Formal
This year, Heather (she's my middle girl) celebrated her last year of middle school by attending the 8th grade formal.
Glen's 5th Grade Graduation
Glen (my only son) graduated 5th grade and is officially now the 3rd Thompson to hit the middle school…in 5 years.
Happy 9th Birthday, Hopey
Aaaand, my youngest daughter just celebrated her last year, before hitting double-digits and was SO excited during her 4th grade orientation, knowing that her sisters and brother attended the same school, and happily admitted to her future new principal, "Nope, I'm the LAST one!"
What? I forgot to get the candle and 8 + 1 = 9, right?
The cake was supposed to say, "Happy Everything!" but, I didn't bust my husband's chops about it (see caption) honestly, I was just too busy stumbling around…feeling all dazed and confused…okay, it's been like that for the last 7 years…but, I am STILL blogging…there, I said it, can I go home now?
As you can see, it is written all over my face (the years, since I started blogging, I mean) still, I can't help but feel that with all these changes (the aforementioned happening ALL in the same week, btw) I have reached a milestone, of my own.
No, it hasn't gotten any easier (nuh-uh, sorry!) but, at least now my kids are now old enough to realize that…nope…life isn't always perfect (I know, act surprised anyway!) however, as their mother (yes, they are ALL mine) I have also learned to embrace those imperfections (mostly) and I truly believe we are ALL stronger for it.
If you have a kid graduating/promoting/stressing over her hair for the 8th grade formal/and/or, celebrating a birthday, this week…then, you know I meant the Pepto Bismol, right?
On the 174th day of our school daze my true love sent to me…an email that had absolutely NOTHING to do with the our 10th grader's finals, 8th grader's graduation, 5th and 3rd grade promotions, or the fact that Hope is turning 9 years-old on Wednesday (i.e. my youngest's last year in single digits) oh, and the fact that my camera AND my beloved HP laptop are fubar…YO!
[inhales deeply, exhales in total denial]
So, how DO you know if a person (like me) is REALLy from Jersey? Besides, the fact that I know how to order a pork roll (with cheese, duh!) I mean? Easy…you recognize or can relate to at least 10 of these:
You've been seriously injured at Action Park. [Banged my head on a waterslide!]
You know that the only people who call it "Joisey" are from New York (usually The Bronx) or Texas. [waves to Jenn!]
You don't think of citrus when people mention "The Oranges." [Nope.]
You've ordered a hard roll with butter for breakfast. [Not in a while, but, YUM!]
You've known the way to Seaside Heights since you were seven. [My kids do, too!]
You've eaten at a diner, when you were stoned or drunk, at 3 am. [No, NOT this mommy…um…but, ask me again at BlogHer!]
Whenever you park, there's a Camaro within three spots of you. [Nah, I live in a minivan world, my friend.]
You remember that the "Two Guys" were from Harrison. [Ohhhhh, yeah *snicker* nevermind!]
You know that the state isn't one big oil refinery. [Yep, been blogging it for years!]
At least three people in your family still love Bruce Springsteen, and you know what town Jon Bon Jovi is from. [Yep, I even showed Dana his house…okay…the front gate, but close enough, right?]
You know what a "jug handle" is. [Yeah, and they're STOOPID!]
You know that a WaWa is a convenience store. [Aaaaand, they make THE BEST coffee, or cawfee, if you're from Jersey!]
You know that the state isn't all farmland. [Not if they keep building those McMansions…dangit!]
You know that there are no "beaches" in New Jersey – there's "The Shore," and you don't go "to the shore," you go "down the shore." and when you are there, you're not "at the shore," you are "down the shore." [I'm down with dat!]
You know that "Piney" isn't referring to a tree. [Well, sort of.]
Even your school cafeteria made good Italian subs, and, you call it a "sub" not a "submarine sandwich" or worse yet, a "hoagy" or a "hero." [We can be heeeeeeeroooooes, just for one day, we can beeeeeeeeeee…sorry, teenagers are on a Moulin Rouge kick, lately!]
You know how to properly negotiate a Circle. [Yes, see jungle handle.]
You knew that the last question had to do with driving. [Yep, also STOOPID!]
You know that this is the only "New…" state that doesn't require "New" to identify it (like, try …Mexico, …York, …Hampshire (doesn't work, does it?). [See title of post!]
You only go to New York City for day trips, and you only call it "The City." [Unless, you're attending BlogHer, like me, WHOOT, then I'll see you in the "cit-tay!"]
You know that a "White Castle" is the name of BOTH a fast food chain AND a fast food sandwich. [a.k.a. rat burgers and/or sliders!]
You consider a corned beef sandwich with lettuce and mayo a sacrilege. [Mustard and sauerkraut, baby!]
You can see the Manhattan skyline from some part of your town. [waves to NYCityMama!]
You refer to all highways and interstates by their numbers. [Take 36 to 35 to 440 to 9 to 139 to 78 to get to Mom-101's house, I think!]
Every year, you had at least one kid in your class named Tony. [Yo, Tone, so, how you doin'?]
You know where every "clip" shown in the Sopranos opening credits is. [Yeah, but I would NEVER drive there…especially, at night….psych!…just kidding…mostly!]
You've gotten on the wrong highway trying to get out of Willowbrook Mall. [Stoopid, jughandles!]
You've eaten a Boardwalk cheesesteak with vinegar fries. [Midway Cheesesteaks rawk!]
You have a favorite Atlantic City casino. [Specifically, the Blue Mercury Spa at the Tropicana would make a GREAT 20th Anniversary getaway — hint, hint, GARTH (not his real name) are you listening?!? ]
You start planning for Memorial Day weekend in February. [January would be better, just sayin'!]
And finally… You've never pumped your own gas. [Not in Jersey….anyways!]
Hopey's puppet of a mean principal that's supposed to be a clown (says, she was told to think out of the box) displayed at the coffee counter (or, caw-fee, if you're from Jersey)
Last week (I think) our school district held a book fair at our local Barnes & Noble and my two youngest children were invited to read their persuasive writing pieces.
My 11 year-old son's piece was a little closer to home.
"Mine is about convincing you and dad to give me a door!"
We have doors. Lots of them. There's the front door, the back door, the bathroom door.
[takes breath]
There's the door that leads to the girls' bedroom and the h…e…double…hockey…sticks that is [gulp] their bathroom!
"Because, you know, everyone ELSE has a door."
My son's bedroom is upstairs, like mine, but his is at the top of the stairs and, well, long story short (you're welcome!) no, he doesn't have door.
[gulp]
"You didn't write anything that would, you know, embarrass mom, or dad, right?"
Because, heaven knows, I sure as heck wouldn't (ahem!) and, well, everyone knows that karma is a witch, right?
Riiiiiiight.
Even longer story, shorter (seriously, you should be thanking me!) oh yes, there was lots of lamenting about stuff, like:
(a) Being the only boy, stinks.
(b) Having a bedroom without a door, stinks even more.
(c) Having the litter box…in his room…you guessed it…stinks, BIGTIME.
(d) His sisters are barging in all the time.
(e) Refer to (a) above.
In hindsight, I should be glad that their readings were held in the cafe.
"What did he just say?"
Aaaand, that the blender was really, really loud.
"He can't keep the girls out of his bedroom!"
[eyes go wide]
"No, I don't think he means regular girls…dear."
[one beat, two beats]
"Oh, well, no wonder his parents won't give him a door!"
Not for nothing, but you gotta love senior citizens (they were sisters, I think) but, I don't believe a hearing aide would have made a difference, either way and I shudder to think what the sweet old lady meant by "un-regular" girls.
"What is your boy's name?"
[bites lower lip]
"Harry…Harry Potter."
Aaaand, he's moving…to the closet…under the stairs…next week!
This is what happens, when you go to work and one of your kids "accidentally" finds your Flip camera and attempts to video tape one of her sisters "not on purpose," of course!
[snort]
Such drama, eh? Love that she mentions my blog:
"Do you think I survived, or do you think I died (i.e. she got busted and her sister killed her) leave your answer on ThisFullHouse.com!"
Can't wait to see what happens during their summer break, if it EVER gets here, I mean!
The American
Cancer Society is working tirelessly to eradicate cancer and to ease
the burden of those living with cancer. With your support, the American
Cancer Society is saving lives by helping people get well and stay
well, funding lifesaving research, and empowering people to fight back
against cancer.
Thank you again for your support.
Elizabeth T. H. Fontham, MPH, DrPH
President, American Cancer Society, Inc.
I don't have a sister, so I can't say that I know what they are going through, but raising daughters is, well, sort of like what I would imagine boot camp would be like…for parents.
After a while, stuff tends to get a little sweaty, a bit sticky and, sometimes, very, very, painful, but in a good way (although, sweating, especially in certain places where a person ought not, you know, stick together, is NEVER a good thing) and then it's weigh in time.
"What do you mean I gained 320 pounds!?!?"
The estrogen levels, in our house, alone are enough to scare my husband, Garth [not his real name] into thinking, you know, maybe he and the boy should move into the shed.
Glen and my brother, Steve [yes, it's his REAL name
Because, there's just NO MORE ROOM in our garage — or, something.
"I HATE MY *insert body part here, or family member here*!!!"
No, they don't always like each other (or, me) and that's okay (sort of) but, every now and again, I need to remind myself, you know, it isn't easy being a girl.
Unless, it is a really hot day.
Aaaand, there is a sprinkler nearby.
Throw in a couple of teenagers.
Well, it's pretty easy to see that there is this tiniest spark of a woman inside, just waiting to burst out.
Aaaaand, for a brief moment, I'm allowed into their world and then, suddenly, the girls are okay with the fact that, you know, I'm their mom.
Me, too!
Like my youngest daughter's favorite pair of sneakers, I really do hope it lasts.
Them liking me, I mean, 'cawse, one day, they're going to find someone ELSE to love (maybe, even more than me) and that's okay (sort of) but, for now, they are MY peeps and I am totally keeping them!
One in three women will get cancer in her lifetime.
Considering my twin brother, Steve (yes, his REAL name) has been battling cancer for a few years, now (AND WINNING!)
I am committed to finding and sharing ways in which women can lead a healthier lifestyle.
Especially, moms like me – I mean, we do tend to put our children's needs first, right?
So, in lieu of sending me birthday presents (ahem) I thought it would be nice to do something special, right here, on my blogger-with-children-who-does-not-blog-about-her-children-mostly-type-um-blog.
[sound of crickets chirping]
So, in honor of my older brother (by 3 minutes, still, older than me) Steve:
For every comment I receive on this post (because, you know, some folks STILL read blogs) I will donate $1.00 of what I've saved through BlogHerAds, this year (up to $100) to the American Cancer Society.
[NOTE: I would be THRILLED with the usual 3 comments — thankyouverymuch — but, feel free to pass the word along; I am donating the whole shuh-bang, anyway!]
I will leave comments open for 1 week (because, I know that you are busy) and then post a copy of my donation receipt.
Why?
Because, it's My birthday, being nice matters and cancer sucks wet poodle (der!) oh, and Happy Birthday, mah bruh-thuh!
One of the ladies at the gym watches The Good Wife and keeps insisting that I would probably love it, too.
"I dunno."
You see, besides feeling as if I couldn't possibly relate to anything using the words "good" and "wife" in the same sentence ("big" and "dork," probably) I also have commitment issues with television.
"What time is it on?"
By the time I get home from work, eat and get the kids settled for the night (i.e. get them to at least admit that, you know, it IS bedtime) it's too late.
"Did you watch, last night?"
[slaps forehead]
"D'oh, I forgot it was on."
Actually, I was probably too busy inspecting the inside of my eyelids and/or fighting Doofus-Dawg for the couch.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but…"
This week, however, I learned that work won't be as much of an issue, anymore. In fact, my schedule is about to lighten up, considerably, from 6 months ago.
"…the owner has decided to close up shop, at the end of the month."
Everyone in my family has made sacrifices (trust me, they will ALL tell you, I'm sure) and, well, it will be nice NOT to have to worry about feeling guilty, sort of.
"I'm really, really, sorry."
Long story, short (you're welcome) yeah, sure, the money helped (stupid braces, dumb car insurance, silly college fund) but, my working and being away from my house, 4 days, every week, was putting a real strain on my house.
"If only I had known, ahead of time."
So, in a way, losing this job is really [gulp] a good thing.
"I certainly wouldn't have offered you the hours!"
Having to call the ladies I recently hired (like, just 2 or 3 weeks ago) and tell them that, you know, they are now, un-hired…not so much.
"I'm really, really, sorry."
In fact, way too much.
"It's not your fault."
I am (or, was) the manager (and I use the term very, very loosely) I sorta knew his business wasn't doing very well. Still, I had such GREAT plans and worked really, really hard to keep his customers and employees happy.
"I feel like SUCH an a**hole…"
Man, un-hiring people really, really, does suck. By Tuesday night, I was SO done. I poured myself a glass of wine (i.e. turned the tap on the box) kicked the dog off the couch (sorry, Doofie) and just stared at the television.
"I like you…I didn't start off liking you."
Aaaand, then the part of the The Good Wife came on (see above clip) which made me think of an earlier conversation I had, with a longtime employee, who took pleasure in pointing out the stuff…I did wrong.
"One of the machines is in the wrong place."
Didn't matter if I re-arranged the ENTIRE gym (which, you're supposed to, once a month) without anyone's help and that she could have corrected it (her own self) right?
"You're not the a**hole, here, in fact, we ALL know you worked your a** off, Liz."
Look, I'm not comparing myself to The Good Wife — that character is a lawyer and I am, well, you know — however, working lots of hours, being away from her kids and having to work EXTRA hard, feeling as if she has to prove herself, to EVERYONE, because she's a mom.
[bites lower lip]
Yeah, I felt her pain – still do – sort of.
"Shouldn't HE be making these calls?"
My poor husband, Garth [not his real name] what a good guy he is, really.
"Why are YOU apologizing?"
I mean, I already quit trying to be the best wife, or the perfect mother, years ago and he's seems to be okay with it.
"Because, I am a good manager…DAMMIT!"
Or, at least, I was — now, at least I can keep on pretending to be a good blogger/writer/whatever, right?
[sound of crickets chirping]
Sorry, I just can't seem to quit YOU…Internets…so, I guess you better start getting used to, you know, being stuck with me.
Dear Liz,