tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13927834024392752112024-03-18T05:47:53.612-04:00Outsmarted Mommy By Jennifer LizzaJennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.comBlogger113125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-89253782731288221862022-03-01T09:28:00.001-05:002022-03-01T09:28:15.291-05:00If You Ask Me To Go For Ice Cream<p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you ask me to go for ice cream, I'll always say yes...</span></p><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's true what they say, the days were long, but the years, the years went by so quickly. </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;">I remember filling our days with trips to the park or the playground. I would put you in your car seat when we were done, and you would smile and say, "can we go for ice cream mama? '</div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;">I always said yes, knowing one day I would miss it so much. You would inevitably wind up covered in ice cream, with that big smile of yours. I would wipe your hands before putting you back into the car, and you would give me a big kiss to say thank you. </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we were driving home, I would see you fighting the urge to drift off to sleep, but you always gave in eventually. My sweet little boy, with the chubby cheeks sound asleep in the backseat was one of my favorite rear view mirror views. </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;">The years passed by faster than I could have ever imagined they would. You sit in the front seat now. Every so often I catch myself looking in the rear view mirror, knowing full well that the seat is now empty, but the memories are full. </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;">We talk in-between the silent moments while you Snap your friends. </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every so often we both agree that this is in fact a great song, and I turn it up. You put your phone in your pocket, and for those moments it's just me and you kid. I like to tell you a story about those little years. Sometimes it's one that makes us both laugh, like how you used to say, "PU mama I smell a stunk!" I never corrected you because stunk was way cuter than skunk. Sometimes it's a story that makes us both miss those simple days, like how we used to pick up your great-grandmother and go for ice cream. She always claimed she wanted to take you, but I knew she wanted ice cream just as much. </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, today when you asked if we could go for ice cream, I said yes. We sat on a bench for a half hour talking and laughing. I have perspective now, and I know one day years from now I'll be driving, and the seat next to me will be empty. I'll still see you there, my teenage boy, smiling and saying, thanks for the ice cream mom. </div><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;">And just so you know, if you ask me to go for ice cream, I'll always say yes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghtHQW6XziMOUmhlKjlo4_mJSe-SEJEzO9a8nJZ3Zypu_ngXOolouEWWeITwpGd9OiUujyrJ4XK7cY3p5OUZHRjIKBlT8SuOeai5Fn5nFtSm3V5Qg_K4fFZGeMdHkkOj_zMt7mCcds2uXguOeQKp3qXdfRDQMX_wSPagqZvmtGeOK8c5W454TEdN8Q=s1734" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1734" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghtHQW6XziMOUmhlKjlo4_mJSe-SEJEzO9a8nJZ3Zypu_ngXOolouEWWeITwpGd9OiUujyrJ4XK7cY3p5OUZHRjIKBlT8SuOeai5Fn5nFtSm3V5Qg_K4fFZGeMdHkkOj_zMt7mCcds2uXguOeQKp3qXdfRDQMX_wSPagqZvmtGeOK8c5W454TEdN8Q=s320" width="266" /></a></div><br /><div dir="auto" style="animation-name: none !important; background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; transition-property: none !important; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></div>Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-81871909943434984682019-04-20T17:53:00.000-04:002019-04-20T17:53:09.683-04:00Wash, Dry, Fold, Repeat<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;">I know you hear me complaining. I know you hear me when I sigh and say the laundry in this house never seems to end. It's true, you know, it doesn't. It started out small. Little socks for little feet. Tiny shirts for my two little boys. Blueberry stains, applesauce spots, orange juice spills. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;">Wash, dry, fold, repeat. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21;">As the years moved on, the hamper seemed to fill faster and faster. Bigger sock</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline;">s for bigger feet. Larger shirts for bigger boys. Grass stains, ketchup spots, grape juice spills.<br />Wash, dry, fold, repeat. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline;"><br />Before I knew it you had both grown so much that you needed your own hampers. Soccer jerseys, baseball pants, ski clothes. Different clothes for my boys who were changing and growing right before my eyes.<br />Wash, dry, fold, repeat. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline;"><br />The truth is that behind my complaining is a mom who is desperately trying to remember the smell of your baby pajamas. I remember folding rompers and bibs. I remember losing baby sock after baby sock because there was no way something so tiny was surviving the sock monster that clearly resides in our dryer. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline;"><br />I remember cleaning skinned knees and kissing boo boos, then hoping that the bloody knee spot would come out of your new cute toddler pants.<br />I cheer you on at your baseball games knowing full well that the hamper will be full of grass stained pants, ketchup stained shirts, and smelly socks. Sure I roll my eyes, but the truth is I will miss this. The other day as I grabbed all of your clothes out of the dryer I had a flash back to the days of the two of you lying in the grass, waiting for dusk so that you could catch fireflies. I remembered the smell of your clothes after a full day outside. I remembered folding the clothes of my two small boys and feeling happy and content about the day.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline;"><br />The truth is one day I will open that dryer and it will no longer have your socks, or your shirts for me to fold. The two of you are already helping so much with your own laundry, but late at night when you have both drifted off to sleep, I sigh and open the dryer. I sit and I fold your baseball uniforms. I look at the piles and I know that one day they will no longer be there. I look at the piles and I see the both of you. I see your hobbies. I see your favorite shirt that I beg you to stop wearing every other day. I see your pants that you are about to outgrow. I see your sweatshirt you begged for on vacation. I see you. I see who you are, and I remember who you were. As I drift off to sleep I see two little boys lying in the grass waiting for fireflies.<br />Wash, dry, fold, repeat.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/JenniferLizzaWriter/photos/a.542302782477021/2867497009957575/?type=3&theater">For more like this follow me on Facebook</a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline;"><br /></span></span>Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-71719459288146576972019-04-20T17:48:00.000-04:002019-04-20T17:48:22.293-04:00Dear Mom, Before They Were Mine, I Was Yours<span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; outline: none; width: auto;" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mom...<br />Before they were mine, I was yours.<br />Before they wrapped their tiny little hands around my finger I wrapped mine around yours.<br />Before I knew how to walk you taught me I could fly.<br />Before I learned to doubt, you taught me to always believe. <span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"><br />Before they were mine, I was yours.<br /><br />Mom...<br />When the world felt too big, you made it feel like home.<br />When the journey felt too long, you reminded me to take one step at a time.<br />When the heartache felt unbearable you reminded me to breathe.<br />When my dreams seemed far fetched, you helped me reach higher.<br />When the world felt too big, you made it feel like home.<br /><br />Mom...<br />When it rained, you made me look forward to the rainbow.<br />When I felt stuck in the storm you handed me an umbrella and told me to dance in the rain.<br />When the sun was shining you made sure we soaked it in together.<br />And together, we jumped into the ocean, and leaped into the lake. Together, we chased fireflies, and picked dandelions.<br />When it rained, you made me look forward to the rainbow.<br /><br />Mom...<br />Before they were mine I was yours.<br />Before someone called me mama, you showed me what it was to be a mom.<br />Before I felt my heart grow, you taught me it was possible.<br />Before I held my sweet baby boys for the first time, you told me they would be the best gift I had ever received. You were right.<br />Sometimes when I hold their hands, I remember holding yours. I remember you brushing my hair, and telling me the world was waiting for us, and sometimes, I remember our days at the lake...when the world stopped for us.<br />Before they were mine, I was yours.</span></span></div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-31757729464011034662018-09-09T22:15:00.000-04:002018-09-09T22:15:26.384-04:00The Space Between<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was a time that I counted your little toes because the
time seemed to allow for it. There was a time that I used to pull your head
slowly into my neck so I could breathe you in. Oh how I miss that. There are
pictures that remain in my mind, and they are full of baby pouts, chubby
cheeks, and moments that seemed to move in slow motion. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are moments I didn’t realize I should
have been recording. They are the moments that defined me as a mother. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Somehow, despite the amount of warnings I received telling
me just how fast time was going to move, I didn’t quite grasp it until I myself
was caught up in the time warp. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So here
I am watching you. Here I am trying to figure out this time we are currently
visiting. There are all these people talking about babies, toddlers, teenagers,
and college kids, but you don’t fit into any of those groups. You are somehow
residing in the space between. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You are still a little boy, but you are trying to navigate a
bigger world. You are holding onto your forever friends, while finding your
crew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are still excited to see your
mom and dad, but equally excited to wave goodbye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The funny thing is, you’re aware that the
wave goodbye makes me sad. You are still okay with making sure we are okay. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You are currently in the space between. You are not yet old
enough to venture off on adventures of your own, yet not young enough to have
us navigate them for you. These are new waters for all of us. No matter how
prepared we feel there are moments that make us realize we fell short. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No one told me about the space between. No one told me how
fast we would wind up here. No one told me that there was a time between chubby
cheeks and teenage angst. No one told me. So here we sit in the space between.
Here we breathe in. Here we breathe out. Here we talk about things that don’t
involve baby toes or teenage love. Here we talk. Here we fight. Here we love.
Here we try the best we can to navigate the next steps. Here we laugh. Here we
stay silly. Here we teach our boys about forgiveness. Here we teach them about
love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here we stay. Here we remain.
HERE. Here, we embrace the space between. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-12892046674067695062018-06-25T23:23:00.001-04:002018-06-25T23:23:49.213-04:00This Is Ten<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">This Is Ten...</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Ten years ago I was not yet a mom. Our eyes hadn't met yet. I had not yet held you in my arms. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Ten years ago I was full of nerves about the unknown. Would I be good enough? Was I prepared? Did I even have any clue what I was doing? The short answer is, not really...but the long answer is, that ten years have shown us both that we are more than capable of navigating life together. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Ten years...it's a big one my love. It's a decade. It's a milestone. You are officially turning double digits in the morning, and the magnitude of that is not lost on me. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Ten years ago you came into the world. Most importantly you arrived in my world. With one sniff of your newborn head, and one finger wrapped around mine, I knew we were starting a journey I would cherish. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">With every new discovery, every giggle, every tear, every sleepless night, and every hug, you taught me that I was good enough, I was more prepared than I thought, and I did in fact have a clue. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">I have tried to teach you everything from your first words to your colors. I have tried to teach you to be kind, loving, empathetic, and giving. Somehow though, during all that teaching I learned more than I thought I could. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Your curiosity has taught me to wonder more. Your enthusiasm has taught me to be excited about little things. Your generosity has taught me to give more. Your patience has taught me to breathe. Your empathy has taught me to understand more. Your kindness has taught me to watch my words . Your laughter has taught me to let go more often. Your tears have taught me that it's good to feel. You have taught me to choose joy. I barely remember me before you, but I know for sure that you have made me a better person. It's funny because I always thought my main job as a mom was to make you into a better person, but I've realized along the way that allowing you to do the same is the best for both of us. You see after ten years on this journey, I'm fully aware that you have just as much to teach me about this life as I have for you. Thank you for ten years of motherhood. I can't wait to see where the next bend in the road brings us. Happiest of birthdays. This is ten.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br />
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<br />Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-5423407874232113222018-05-09T09:01:00.001-04:002018-05-09T09:01:56.743-04:00A Glimpse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I caught a glimpse of you through the window one afternoon. The sun was just at that spot where I had to squint to see. I watched you while you helped your brother practice his pitches. I watched you knowing that you wanted to do something else, but saw you were determined to help him feel successful. I remembered staying outside with you until the sun began to set as you tried to take your first steps.</div>
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I caught a glimpse of you as I walked down the hallway ble<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">ary eyed in the morning, rushing to get my first cup of coffee. I stopped in my tracks as you stood in the bathroom, tall, confident, and busy doing your hair for school. I saw you standing there and remembered the days when I washed that very hair.</span></div>
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I caught a glimpse of you laughing with your friends and it brought a smile to my face. It reminded me of how much your dad and I loved to make you laugh. Those initial baby laughs were the sound of pure joy.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I caught a glimpse of you as you ran around the yard pretending to be a professional baseball player. I remembered your tears after your first T-ball game because you were so tired and wanted to take a nap.</div>
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I caught a glimpse of you sleeping soundly in your bed with your long limbs, and feet that suddenly peak out from the bottom of the comforter. I remembered when you fit in my arms. I remembered when I would place your tiny little body into a crib and hope and pray that you would sleep for more than an hour. Now there are times I secretly wish you would wake up just to talk to me for a little while before I go to sleep.</div>
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I caught a glimpse of you. You are kind. You are smart. You are considerate. You are loving. You are a good friend. You are polite. You are gracious. You are thankful. You are curious. You are everything I imagined you would be when you first wrapped your tiny fingers around mine.</div>
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I caught a glimpse and it stopped me in my tracks because I have no idea how time could have possibly moved this quickly. As much as I loved who you were, I love who you are becoming more every day. I loved your baby feet. I loved your chubby legs. I loved your giggles. I loved the way you looked at me when I picked you up with your arms held up to the sky. I loved it all. I caught a glimpse of you though. I caught a glimpse of who you are and who you have the potential to be, and I'm excited for the next stage. I'm always going to love who you were, but I'm going to try to stop missing the stages that have passed so that I can start enjoying the stage we are in together.</div>
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One day you will understand. Parenthood is amazing, but it's hard. The hardest part is the letting go, especially when you catch a glimpse.</div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-22737102647217514032018-02-15T20:46:00.000-05:002018-02-19T11:10:58.835-05:00Nightmare In America <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I watched my
first horror movie when I was in fourth grade. I was at a sleep over at my
friend’s house and her parents made me call my parents for permission first. I
remember my mom saying it was okay, but to remember it was just a movie and if
it felt too scary just to turn it off. As I watched the plot unfold, I remember
thinking, why do these people keep going back into the house, into a shed, or
up a flight of stairs when it has repeatedly not worked for anyone else up to
this point? The dark woods alone? No. DO NOT be an idiot. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I made it
through the movie, albeit not without a couple of nightmares that week, but I
was able to forget about it and sleep. I was able to sleep after telling myself
over and over again that horror movies are not real. After all no one keeps
doing the same dumb stuff over and over again, knowing that it will surely end
the same way it did for all of their not so lucky horror movie friends that
came before them. In real life when danger lurks we seek real safety. We go to
the authorities. We head into a crowd and scream help. We don’t run into the
dark woods alone even though we hear a chainsaw in the distance. Because that
would be stupid. Obviously. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don’t
watch horror movies anymore. I’m more of a romantic comedy fan. There is quite
enough horror movie material in this world without having to seek it out on the
screen. Once I became a mom everything became a little scarier. I started to
see the world in an entirely different light once my boys were born. That whole
mama bear instinct people talk about is true. I would do anything to protect
them. I would do anything to ensure their happiness and safety. Which has me
begging the question, what if I can’t though? What if I can’t protect them? What
if? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You see we
are living in a real life horror movie here in America, and anyone who doesn’t
think this is a problem isn’t paying attention. Seventeen lives were lost in
Parkland Florida yesterday. Seventeen lives at a high school, another school
shooting. We all bow our heads as the news flashes across the screen. We
whisper, <i>not again. </i>We shout profanities.
We feel angry. We feel heartbroken. We feel confused. We watch intently as all
the information unfolds as if there is going to be some new revelation. It’s
like that horror movie. It’s the same plot. It’s the same scenario. We know how
it’s going to end, but we don’t seem willing to rewrite the script. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">No one seems
willing to talk about the hard stuff, and trust me we need to talk about it. We
need to stop sending our thoughts and prayers as if they are magic. They are
clearly not working. It is not enough. I keep seeing the same question all over
social media, <i>when will it be enough? </i> Every time I read that question I feel
hopeless because it reminds me that the lives of twenty children between the
ages of six and seven didn’t change anything. It reminds me that all we seem
capable of in this country is fighting for “our side.” I have learned that gun
owners really love their guns and while not all, most get completely defensive
when the words gun reform are even uttered. Why? Why can’t there be a middle
ground? Why can’t we have real discussions without everyone getting so angry
with each other? We owe it to the families who are grieving. We owe it to our
children because without them there is no future for our country. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don’t
claim to have the answers, but I am willing to have the hard discussions. I am
willing to fight for what I believe is a start. I am willing to roll the rug
up, watch the dust clear, and talk about what we have been continuously pushing
underneath that rug for far too long. Yes we need to talk about gun reform and
yes we need to talk about the mental health of our nation. No I am not saying
that all guns need to be taken away from law abiding citizens, and no I am certainly
not saying that all of those suffering from mental health issues are murderers.
This is not about lumping everyone into one category. This is about coming
together to rewrite the plot of this horror movie. This is about putting our
own strong beliefs to the side long enough to hear one another. No solutions
have ever come from a shouting match. It’s going to take listening, on both
sides to really make a difference. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am a
mother and despite all the things I do on a daily basis, it is how I define
myself. I know this because my two boys are the last thing I think about before
I go to bed, and the first thing I think about when I wake up. I know this
because the day I held them in my arms my priorities all changed. It is because
of this that I cannot sit silently by as our country allows this epidemic to
continue. We are the land of the free and the home of the brave, but right now
it doesn’t feel that way. We aren’t free to feel safe in our own country, and
up until now we haven’t been brave enough to do a single thing to change it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As I write
this I’m watching my boys sit at the dining room table. They are coloring. They
are bickering and giggling together. I feel sad. I feel blessed. I feel scared,
and I know many of you share in these emotions. I cannot even begin to wrap my
head around the thought of sending them off to school and not having them
return, but that is our reality in this country. We cannot think that it is
impossible for it to happen to us because it has been proven time and time
again that it is in fact possible. We need to rewrite this script. It’s time to
stop running into the dark woods alone. It never ends well. We need to come
together. We need to sit in the light and figure out a way to make this horror
movie stop playing. We can rewrite the ending. We just have to be willing to
change the script. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKJGyMZj71Fdsb08B7LUlRc70ikvi9kT7nJ7U7cgwwlKdtr6TVBIS-r1fmukMaotIKyjdMe4pOSLVNjXGVTKAv76OMW-5aM5L_z7Y5N5VNYLagVlbs8xCKyZwkgPuKu68uwEwiL9bZrM/s1600/Boys+flag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="365" data-original-width="206" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSKJGyMZj71Fdsb08B7LUlRc70ikvi9kT7nJ7U7cgwwlKdtr6TVBIS-r1fmukMaotIKyjdMe4pOSLVNjXGVTKAv76OMW-5aM5L_z7Y5N5VNYLagVlbs8xCKyZwkgPuKu68uwEwiL9bZrM/s640/Boys+flag.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-5319208250449704612018-01-17T18:10:00.004-05:002018-01-20T12:10:27.840-05:00In A Blink<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Yesterday I went grocery shopping to prepare for the snow
storm because kids eat A LOT. I bought all the ingredients for things to cook
on our day off. I was happily driving home thinking about homemade French toast
for breakfast, roasted butternut squash soup, pulled chicken sandwiches and a
nice glass of wine.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I started looking forward to sledding with the boys and I
was excited that my husband promised to take the day off. As I drove home listening
to the radio, I had no clue what was about to happen. I was blissfully unaware
that in a mere three minutes time all those thoughts would be replaced by the
sounds of sirens, the smell of smoke, and a feeling of panic and confusion.
Another driver ran a stop sign on the side street I happened to be driving
directly in front of at that exact moment. It was as if my car was completely
invisible to him. I don’t know why. I have no clue what distracted him, but what
I do know is that his moment of distraction, caused him to barrel full speed into the driver’s side of
my vehicle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Just like that my day was completely altered. It all
happened so fast. When I looked up I could see people running towards me. I
could see their mouths shouting words, but I couldn’t hear what those words
were. My ears were ringing from the impact and the smell from the airbags was
overwhelming. As I started to grasp what just happened I immediately started to
cry. A woman started banging on my window telling me to put my windows down
because my car was full of smoke. Another woman shouted to turn the car off
because the street was full of fluid. I had not even put the car in park yet. I
felt like everything before happened in an instant, but somehow everything
after was happening painfully slow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I put my passenger side window down and a woman with a
calming voice told me they had called 911 and they were going to stay with me.
She asked me if I was able to unlock the vehicle and I did. She opened the door
and took my hand. She introduced herself. “My name is Marge. I saw the whole
thing. I’m going to stay with you. I’m so sorry this happened. We are going to
take care of you. Was anyone else in the car?” I nodded my head no still unable
to speak through my tears. “How old are your kids?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“They are nine and six. Am I bleeding?” “No honey not
that I can see but your hand looks hurt and your face looks swollen from the
impact. The police are on their way.” I could hear the sirens in the distance.
Within minutes several police cars and two ambulances were on the scene. The
police took my information and assured me they would take care of me. They told
me my car was going to be towed and that the tow truck was on its way. I saw
them speaking with witnesses one after the other. As I sat there in my car
watching all of the activity around me, I remembered I had a trunk full of
groceries. Groceries are flipping expensive. I was not about to have these
groceries towed. I quickly called my friend, Melissa who lives right there. She
didn’t even hesitate and probably had a hard time understanding me through my
blubbering, but I heard her say I will be right there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Then one of the police
officers asked if I wanted him to call my husband. I imagined my husband on the
other end of the phone hearing that I was in an accident from an officer and I
asked if I could call instead. He said of course. I tried to remain calm as to
not scare him, but as soon as I heard his voice my calmness changed to tears
yet again. I imagine there are a bunch of police officers today who have nick
named me the lady of many tears. It’s fitting. Trust me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My husband immediately asked where I was and said he was
leaving work. Then two paramedics came to bring me into the ambulance to check
all my vitals. Blood pressure? High. Heart beat? Rapid. Tears? Tons. They asked
all the questions about dizziness and nausea. No to the dizziness. Yes to the nausea.
Can you dehydrate from crying too much? I think you can. I told them my nose
felt swollen. They replied that my nose looked great, but to keep in mind I was
smacked in the face by an air bag and while that impact is better than a
dashboard it can still cause swelling and bruising. I told them both my hands
were hurting and they told me they were both bruised and my left hand had
suffered burns from the airbag. It was blistered and red. I told them I had never been in an ambulance
before and that I talk a lot when I’m nervous. They laughed and then the guy
who was checking my blood pressure said, “I think your friend is here for your
groceries.” “How do you know?” “Well she looks upset and she has the same hat
as you. She’s not in a uniform so I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s
your friend.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sure enough there she was loading all of my groceries
into her car with the help of one of the officers. She has no idea, but seeing
her made me so happy at that moment, a familiar face, my friend, someone who
would cry with me so I didn’t look like the only cry baby on the scene. The officer
who took the report was so kind. He joked when I needed it and consoled me when
I needed that instead. I have no idea if I’ll ever see Marge again, but I hope
she knows how much she helped yesterday. In fact I can still see all of the
faces of the people who ran towards me eager to help. They all took the time to stop and wait
for the police. They all took the time to care for a stranger. I promise to pay
that forward because I never realized how important those people are during the
initial stages of an accident like that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">I spent the better part of the day at the hospital
getting x-rays. They treated my burn and wrapped my hand. They told me to see my doctor about the burn within two to three days. We left the hospital
and headed to the tow yard to gather any personal belongings from my car that
the police may have missed. When I saw the damage I realized just how lucky I
was.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQM4EZoy-ymjuFrMkAHLMOizZ7gd9wCVa_dpscbeEb6f_SxL0x1OvebG4EjZ0W5yW_r_8gNFDISTCm2mnD5FgEAhldFRQjgIjDZ-3HSyFgzMgj08csVO0TF0yplw4qC01TiaXvz8qKyU/s1600/20180116_194447.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1127" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTQM4EZoy-ymjuFrMkAHLMOizZ7gd9wCVa_dpscbeEb6f_SxL0x1OvebG4EjZ0W5yW_r_8gNFDISTCm2mnD5FgEAhldFRQjgIjDZ-3HSyFgzMgj08csVO0TF0yplw4qC01TiaXvz8qKyU/s320/20180116_194447.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> We left there, got a rental car for me, and headed to my parents to pick
up the boys. I have never wanted to hug them more than I did yesterday. We
arrived home and friends and family started texting and calling to check on me.
</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There was a knock on my door and there stood my friend
Trish with a full dinner for my family. I could have cried, but I’m fairly
certain my tear ducts were like, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">listen lady we are all o</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">ut <i>of tears. Pull yourself
together</i>. So instead I hugged her and thanked her because honestly despite the
fact that I now had a house full of groceries, having a homemade meal that I
didn’t have to prepare was one of the best gifts.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I went to bed last night shaken up, but feeling ever so
blessed. It could have been so much worse. Life can change in a blink. I
started off my morning<a href="https://www.facebook.com/JenniferLizzaWriter/posts/2003053063068645"> joking</a> about the prediction of another snow day, and I
ended it so happy to know that when I woke up in the morning the people who
mean the most to me would be home with me all day. I have no idea why my path
crossed with the other driver when it did, but I do know why my path has
crossed with all the people I choose to have in my life. They show up. Every
single one of them shows up and I would do the same for them. Cars can be replaced. People cannot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj9GCwdBZxVICQI54QWe58DGCqozMXgeehFibiAwCbpIFFOBMx7xZiD7b_BTCpIChmz_-2Mo_Rh2HkqvzHw4f8m2mKOlHZj_lwZHdzt2KPC3EpfyJBM7jjeFTtsKGFPDHpKJcsggFOT64/s1600/20151003-DSC_4386-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj9GCwdBZxVICQI54QWe58DGCqozMXgeehFibiAwCbpIFFOBMx7xZiD7b_BTCpIChmz_-2Mo_Rh2HkqvzHw4f8m2mKOlHZj_lwZHdzt2KPC3EpfyJBM7jjeFTtsKGFPDHpKJcsggFOT64/s400/20151003-DSC_4386-001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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*Distracted driving is the cause of most motor vehicle accidents. The text, the phone call, the radio station can all wait. It can be the difference between life and death. It can wait.*</div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-29282716517820419792018-01-11T13:56:00.000-05:002018-01-23T10:30:17.046-05:00The New Year's Resolution That Came Without a Warning<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The other morning was the same as every weekday morning
in our house. The kids came to the dining room table to eat their breakfast,
one wide awake and giddy, and the other not so much. I stared at my coffee
maker as the coffee dripped at a pace that felt far too slow while my dog
danced around the kitchen willing me to let him outside. The kids ate their
breakfast, and I put the ice packs in their lunch boxes. I began emptying the
dishwasher in my usual mechanical way, mugs and glasses first, dishes next, and
finally silverware. Just as I finished, the kids both ushered in with their dirty
dishes. It’s our morning dance. It’s a dance we have perfected with time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Next I moved on to the stage where I feel like a sheep
herder. I shout short commands that are either met with silence or frustration.
<i>Boys brush your teeth, make your beds,
hurry up it’s time to get your shoes on. The bus is coming!!! </i>We meander
out into the cold to greet the big yellow school bus. I give them each a kiss
and tell them to have a good day and just like that the day is in full go mode.
Like every other parent on the planet, I never feel like there is enough time
in any given day. I rush from one task to the next hoping to be able to check
off most of my list before that bus pulls up to drop the boys off because once
they get dropped off, it’s homework time and then we rush off to our
activities. Once we arrive back home I make dinner while fantasizing about
climbing into bed and falling asleep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My girlfriends and I often joke that we feel like hamsters on a wheel. The laundry can feel all consuming. The meal prep never seems to
end. We are working, all while trying to delicately balance the daily life that
comes with having a family. Homework, grocery shopping, permission slips,
school theme days, doctor appointments, cleaning, science projects, meetings,
soccer practice, and the list goes on and on and on. Sometimes I feel like I’m
a catcher and the pitcher is whipping ball after ball with no break in between.
Sure it’s exhausting, but it can also feel isolating and overwhelming. Don’t
get me wrong my husband does just as much around here. We are all just trying
to keep our heads above water. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I have never been someone who makes New Year's resolutions.
It’s not because I don’t think I have room to improve, because I do. We all do.
It’s because I don’t like to set myself up for failure. I always thought New
Year resolutions had to be these grandiose proclamations. I’m just not
ambitious enough to decide on January 1<sup>st</sup> that I’m going to change
my entire body composition or go to bed by 9 pm every night, or write a book. Okay, so going to bed earlier probably wouldn’t be completely crazy, but somehow it
would still feel like a lot of pressure to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The other morning though something changed all that.
After the kids and I completed our regular morning dance, I went into my
bedroom to make my bed. My youngest son was brushing his teeth and then he
called for me. I went into the bathroom and saw his little smiling face staring
back at me from the reflection in the mirror. Then I saw my reflection and I
noticed how stressed I looked. Just as I was about to say; <i>What buddy? You have to hurry up. </i> I stopped myself and instead I looked at him
and smiled. That’s when he looked at me and said, “Mommy will you comb my hair
for me?” He handed me the comb. As I started to comb his hair I had a moment of
clarity. I think moments of clarity often come during the simplest times.
Although they seem to come when we need them the most, if we don’t take a minute
to notice them they can pass us right by without so much as a warning. As I
stood there combing my 6-year-old’s hair, I realized there will come a day when
I will do this for the last time. I won’t know it’s the last time though. There
will come a day when I no longer have two kids chattering away at the breakfast
table while I stare at the coffee brewing. There will come a day when I no
longer have lunch boxes to pack, or a full dishwasher to unload. As I tried to
hide the tears that were welling up in my eyes, my son looked at me and asked
if I was okay. “Mommy is fine bud. Actually mommy is really good.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I brought the boys to the school bus, and kissed them both
goodbye. I waited to watch the bus actually pull away and round the corner
until it was no longer in my sight. I realized that stressing over my list of
things to accomplish is causing me to miss out on the two most important parts
of that list. There will come a day when that school bus leaves my sight for
the very last time. There will come a day when the sound of the school bus in
my neighborhood will remind me of the two little boys who used to run off every
afternoon, eager to tell me all about their day. As parents we take note of all
the firsts, but we don’t do the same for the lasts. It’s not because the lasts
aren’t important, it’s because we don’t get a warning that they have arrived.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I walked back into my house I made my first New Year's resolution. I decided to make a valiant effort to be present instead of
worrying about every little thing I should be getting done. When my son called
for me I could have said I was making my bed and told him to finish up, but I
would have missed out on a moment that felt so much bigger than a comb and a
mirror. I saw him. I really saw him. I saw a mother and a son. I saw a little
boy who still wants and needs his mommy, and for a brief moment I saw a big
teenager who would no longer need me to comb his hair. Far too often I tell my
kids they have to wait because I’m in the middle of vacuuming, or cooking,
sending an email or making a phone call. What will happen if I skip the
vacuuming, order takeout, or put off the email for an hour or so? Well, with
any luck I won’t miss out on any of their lasts. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">We can’t control how fast time moves, but we can control how we spend
that time.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> I tucked them both in that
night and as I closed their doors I silently willed them to give me some type
of warning when the last tuck in is near. I know I won’t get a warning though,
so until then I’m going to make sure I don’t miss one. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8urgZDX4eJj_z8lBcaK-pdGml8nwdWYvw5XcCa7_N-1g9EluQWKTRl9GuKoB76BJUuUXOobDvvDOJZfjIoyxKQK4kVn0pgOj5kgMYQoD8GvhqRerKwBd5eu5IhiiZiYneF_sEgSYNDOg/s1600/20151003-DSC_4236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8urgZDX4eJj_z8lBcaK-pdGml8nwdWYvw5XcCa7_N-1g9EluQWKTRl9GuKoB76BJUuUXOobDvvDOJZfjIoyxKQK4kVn0pgOj5kgMYQoD8GvhqRerKwBd5eu5IhiiZiYneF_sEgSYNDOg/s400/20151003-DSC_4236.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-9430594142774466322017-12-18T23:22:00.001-05:002017-12-19T00:12:45.174-05:00My Best Gift<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Every year I tell myself that come December, I am not
going to get all bananas about the holidays. I tell myself I’m not going to
stress about every little thing, and that I’m going to enjoy the little
moments. Yet every year when I look in the mirror on any given day in December
all I see is a big old bunch of bananas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I see someone stressed about Christmas cards, decorating
the house, getting everyone on my list the perfect gift, shopping among all
the other bananas during Christmas week for all the food that I just have to
bake and cook, because if I don’t will Christmas even happen? Spoiler alert,
yes, Christmas will in fact happen whether or not I find the time to make my
peppermint bark. Yes, Christmas will happen no matter what we do or don’t accomplish,
but the bigger question is, how do we find the simplicity in the season? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m not going to claim to know the answer, but I will
say, there is something about knowing another year is coming to a close that
makes us all feel nostalgic. The years seems to fly by especially fast when you
become a parent. The more I thought about it the more I realized that Christmas
is actually the time to celebrate all the gifts we have already received
throughout the year. When we receive gifts we want to offer our gratitude. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dear Friends, Family, and all of those who have impacted
my year,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Thank you. Thank you never feels like enough, but it
still feels important to say. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Thank you to my friends and family, new and old, who
showed up for every small moment. Thank you for picking up the phone when I
needed to cry, or I wanted to vent, or shout to you with excitement that I was
able to finally figure out how to stop having all my important emails go into
my spam folder. Thank you for loving my children like they are your own.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFrAP_fQGv8-fCedh-hteXrTmnxuIjEj3Omdu_fSC1t_U07NAvMY__vXYmd6elBvyqw0FhEIC9oKRAU_apLM5MJA2QbTYCsVzt7MXeugIF4RPGJeSu_nXEowQKWR6bVvIJ0GtUyclKhY/s1600/FB_IMG_1513655843616.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVFrAP_fQGv8-fCedh-hteXrTmnxuIjEj3Omdu_fSC1t_U07NAvMY__vXYmd6elBvyqw0FhEIC9oKRAU_apLM5MJA2QbTYCsVzt7MXeugIF4RPGJeSu_nXEowQKWR6bVvIJ0GtUyclKhY/s320/FB_IMG_1513655843616.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLitvG7qfcZzs7wzSB4yKHL5jJOVxm_a2rgbECFHTek8ws4pfCpbClbXf8SHgjqI9IaC071WBfvnl8UKnc3dFKv1BkENvdxzDtYuU9s9Pm8X3mpgwGFRvIyfcgI5dfYxwVbaxIG0VTgY/s1600/FB_IMG_1513655857078.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLitvG7qfcZzs7wzSB4yKHL5jJOVxm_a2rgbECFHTek8ws4pfCpbClbXf8SHgjqI9IaC071WBfvnl8UKnc3dFKv1BkENvdxzDtYuU9s9Pm8X3mpgwGFRvIyfcgI5dfYxwVbaxIG0VTgY/s320/FB_IMG_1513655857078.jpg" width="179" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Thank
you for making me laugh, and for laughing with me. Thank you for understanding when
I need to cry, and for crying with me. Thank you for trusting me with things
you wouldn’t share with the entire world. Thank you for allowing me to share
the things you would. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdIGy9C7FTFhxayM_rPTCxvZKxypSRXIJlL-vE86vixXLE4dnaklGw2gqkkTkMy0ah1qkZOrN_TvcZCLoUqD13EKbGs8-PZsgCNh1n_kqdYO5_oV52zEDOODV654bpSgZrw1HhkHT0xw/s1600/FB_IMG_1513656535574.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdIGy9C7FTFhxayM_rPTCxvZKxypSRXIJlL-vE86vixXLE4dnaklGw2gqkkTkMy0ah1qkZOrN_TvcZCLoUqD13EKbGs8-PZsgCNh1n_kqdYO5_oV52zEDOODV654bpSgZrw1HhkHT0xw/s320/FB_IMG_1513656535574.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Thank you for showing up for the big moments. Thank you
for cheering me on when I wasn’t sure if I could do it. Thank you for routing
for me during the times I doubted myself the most. Thank you not only for accepting
me at my worst, but loving me anyway. Thank you for the Mexican, Chinese, Tai,
Italian, and Polish food that we used as our focal point for our gatherings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Thank you for never allowing my wine glass to be empty or
my coffee to be cold. Thank you for never allowing me to quit, even when I told
you I was going to do just that. Thank you for sharing my words, not because
you felt like you had to, but because you wanted to. Thank you for listening to
my endless stories about my grandmother and seeming entertained throughout each
and every one. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Thank you for showing up at my front door when I said I was
okay, but you knew that was a lie. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For every laugh, every tear, every accomplishment, and
every moment of defeat, I needed you all. Every gathering around a table, in a
kitchen, or on a porch taught me something. Every time we got to talk, really
talk, was a time I appreciated. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Every small smile. Every brief hug. Every kind word.
Every ounce of love and support. It was all a gift. So this Christmas I hope
you all know that my biggest gift is you. You see Christmas is one day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Most of
the gifts we open are packed away for when we need them, but you? You are a
gift that will keep giving day after day, and year after year. One day when all
the boxes are put away and all I have are my memories, it won’t be the gifts I
unwrapped that I will remember. It will be the people I had in my life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You are
the gift that I am so very happy to have. The best part about this gift is that
I get to enjoy it every day for the entire year. Thank you for being my best
gift! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-32723885644244761872017-10-26T19:56:00.003-04:002017-10-26T19:58:00.022-04:00A Beautiful Mess<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My youngest
son is in first grade this year. The other day his teacher told me she had
something she wanted to share with me. Immediately I thought, oh boy let’s hope
it’s not too embarrassing. He’s a good kid, but he’s six years old so you know
how that can go. She went on to tell me that they had been discussing heroes in
class that morning. She decided to go around the room and ask each child who
their hero is. Many of the kids named their firefighter father, police mom, nurse
mom, veteran grandpa, and even some superheroes. When she got to my son she
expected him to say my husband- after all, he is a firefighter. Instead he
quickly replied, “My mom is my hero because she makes me feel safe and happy.”
There I stood crying in front of my son’s teacher not because it made me sad,
but because my son expressed what I have always hoped my children know. At the
end of every day no matter how long or difficult the day was, I hope that my
children feel loved. I hope they feel safe and I most certainly hope they feel
happy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After all
that is what family is right? Family is both our armor and our cocoon from the
rest of the world. Family is never perfect. Not ever. Family is messy, but it’s
a beautiful kind of mess. Family is a big old mess of a morning. It is a one
kid can’t find a shoe, dad ran over the garbage pail on his rush off to work,
the dog stepped in the only mud puddle in the yard, and the other kid let him
back in the house kind of morning. Family is mom getting her kids onto the
school bus and coming back into the house to cry into her coffee about the
morning she wishes she could do over. Family is the kids running off the bus in
the afternoon with big smiles and hugs as if the morning is but only a blip in
time on their memory, because it is. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Family is
the ups and the downs. Family is dedicated to celebrating the ups and finding
our way out from the downs. Family is full of surprises. Some are good and some
are not. Family is sitting in a waiting room for six hours while your husband
undergoes open heart surgery and praying to God that if this all works out you
will most certainly be a better person, because you just can’t even begin to
imagine your life without that man. Family is holding the hand of your dying
Grandmother because she has done it for you from the time you were a little
girl in pigtails until the day you had your very own child. Family is jumping
for joy when your sister tells you she’s having a baby. It is crying when you
hold that baby for the first time because somewhere in your memory bank you
remember the day your parents brought her home as if it was yesterday. Family
is looking at your children and feeling ever so grateful for your own parents
because you realize that without them you wouldn’t be the mom you are today. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Family is sitting
around the dinner table and listening to two little boys talk and talk and
talk. It is catching a glimpse of my husband and promising him with my smile
that we will catch up at some point. We will have time to talk to one another
even if it’s as we start to fall asleep. It is listening to the stories that
these little boys are telling us in the hopes that they will never stop talking
to us. Family is a hug in the kitchen to remind us how important we are to each
other and that talking isn’t always necessary, it’s the listening that counts. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo7ukw6Bwyu8mBQUkhxsIy_CMGy6P4j3Jhotb7p7nVITnplH0f0pIYPVHPN_sb7AF-pp6O3CKq29WdOf2v9mJcaLXAeCkwVZhQ8xXHHUNKVNpbHYVgHYIMo6lWGMxbx5K-UArz960BX5Q/s1600/20151003-DSC_4139+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo7ukw6Bwyu8mBQUkhxsIy_CMGy6P4j3Jhotb7p7nVITnplH0f0pIYPVHPN_sb7AF-pp6O3CKq29WdOf2v9mJcaLXAeCkwVZhQ8xXHHUNKVNpbHYVgHYIMo6lWGMxbx5K-UArz960BX5Q/s320/20151003-DSC_4139+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Family
settles into the night with a story. It’s a tired mom trying to stay awake
while her six-year-old reads the book because he’s so very proud. It might take
longer but she knows it’s worth it. It’s a dad stressed about his day at work
tomorrow but hiding it so that his nine-year-old can tell him all about the
game he played at recess. Family is those two tired parents making time for one
glass of wine and a five minute adult conversation. It’s a wife telling her
husband not to stress and a husband telling her he’s sorry he has been so busy
lately. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Family is honest.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Family shows
up even when you tell them not to. Family drops everything. Family is all in. Always.
With no questions asked. We figure it out, together. We fight loud but we love
big. We get on each other’s nerves. We say sorry. We say I love you. We laugh.
We cry. We celebrate. We grieve. We embrace the mess because somewhere within
that mess lies the beauty of life. And at the end of the day no matter how good
or bad it was we feel safe and happy because of the love of family. So jump in and embrace the beautiful mess. We will catch you if you fall. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGfZ4M_HoQi8SQyeXHXgQ3CQb2CVsIFq1mkF81kAhjNo0s-UhCvemb3o-NocZprJKiAMK7vOZq_9RPC7kwMsCTMqUTPFGhqTQACS-rgrHqn-SNwDcU6yPEEIpZ4kgxLRQS1oxCRWSHLms/s1600/FB_IMG_1506534859212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="957" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGfZ4M_HoQi8SQyeXHXgQ3CQb2CVsIFq1mkF81kAhjNo0s-UhCvemb3o-NocZprJKiAMK7vOZq_9RPC7kwMsCTMqUTPFGhqTQACS-rgrHqn-SNwDcU6yPEEIpZ4kgxLRQS1oxCRWSHLms/s400/FB_IMG_1506534859212.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">This piece was featured on the TODAY <a href="http://community.today.com/parentingteam/post/a-beautiful-mess_1506535662">Parenting Team</a></span></div>
Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-57283421257553845692017-08-29T23:19:00.000-04:002017-08-29T23:21:26.856-04:00We Are The Helpers<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was rainy
and colder than normal today for August in New Jersey. The boys and I piled in
the car and headed to the grocery store with a very specific list. They helped
me get the items and fill the cart. When we got home they helped me unpack all
the items and line them up in the kitchen. My boys are helpful when asked, but
today they did everything without being told to do it. Today I could see a
change in their motivation. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">While we
were away on vacation last week I received a group email asking for help for a
family we know. The mom underwent unexpected, emergency surgery and the email
was asking for volunteers to provide dinner for their family during her
recovery. I chose today. I bought all the ingredients to make chicken pot pie
and I explained to the boys why we were going to the store, and why I was
cooking in the middle of the day. They were eager to help. I remember people
doing the same for me seven years ago when my husband underwent emergency open
heart surgery. Our oldest son was only 18 months and everything is such a blur,
but the one thing I can’t forget is the help. I remember the meals that were
delivered and the people who offered to take my son to the park. It was a hard
time, but I mostly just remember the helpers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The
devastation in Texas right now is vast and hard to even comprehend from far
distances. Friends of one of my closest friends went through an awful ordeal
that echoes many others. They were stranded on their roof with no help in sight
and as each minute turned to an hour and each hour turned to hours the
situation seemed to be hopeless.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Only it wasn’t hopeless because my friend
decided that instead of doing nothing from states away she was going to step up
and be a helper. Nikki and her husband Brian took to social media doing
everything they could to get as many people involved in hopes of getting their
friends, Kris, Mary, Matt and their pups rescued from the rising flood waters.
People from all over began calling the police, and fire departments as well as
the Red Cross. They were able to provide help with the necessary GPS
coordinates because all street signs were of no use. After hours of not knowing
if they were going to make it, they were rescued via helicopter. According to
Mary, “We saw helicopters. We saw boats. We wondered. Our anxiety grew. When
will ours come? It will get dark soon. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNPvmFQ7sE1SHPzeDvCsGKbJFcmOBJe0Skkm7KpXsxt0r51GioFP29BjH2fW9C8pvz7EFbvAIbJF2vbd7UTrT7GIHBABGQi29pmepxi9N_pN1bEOMCv9KqNuGOfN8gFHjOnf7lZF_Lw8I/s1600/Rescue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="959" data-original-width="611" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNPvmFQ7sE1SHPzeDvCsGKbJFcmOBJe0Skkm7KpXsxt0r51GioFP29BjH2fW9C8pvz7EFbvAIbJF2vbd7UTrT7GIHBABGQi29pmepxi9N_pN1bEOMCv9KqNuGOfN8gFHjOnf7lZF_Lw8I/s320/Rescue.jpg" width="203" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Then at 3:56 the text came from Nikki
saying, “rescue is coming they are 2 miles away.” They lost everything, but
they have been nothing but positive and grateful for their lives and the help
of others. I have never met Mary, Kris or Matt but it doesn't matter. My good friend asked for help for people she loved and without hesitation I jumped and I was not alone, not by a long shot. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You may be
asking yourself why I am sharing these two stories with you. It’s simple. We
are still good. We are still in this thing we call life together. Everything has felt like a big
old mess recently, but in the end we are human. We still love. We still want to
help. Sure helping makes you feel good and that’s fine. I told my boys today
that helping others is rewarding and it’s meant to be that way. When we feel
needed we feel useful and that in and of itself is rewarding. When things feel
messy, clean them up. When people need, provide. When you are in need reach out
and ask for help. When it feels like everything is falling down around us, pick
up the pieces and start to rebuild. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You see in
the end it doesn’t matter who you voted for, or if we are the same
religion, or if we route for the Yankees or the Red Sox. It doesn’t matter if
our parents are first generation Americans or if our relatives were here since
the Founding Fathers. It doesn’t matter if you like the Beatles or the Rolling
Stones. It doesn’t matter if you prefer the city or the country or if you’re a
night person or a morning person, none of it matters. In the end all that
matters is our ability to be human. All that matters is our ability to step up
to help our fellow human in a time of need. We all have more in common than we
realize and it shines through during times like this. We are all mothers,
fathers, sisters, brothers, cousins, friends, daughters and sons. We all have
the fight in us to try to safely land on our feet during times of distress and
we all have the instinct to step up and help when we are on the other side of
the disaster. I have been watching the coverage in Texas and I will say that
our ability to come together in a time of need is still strong. We are not as
much of a country divided as we thought we were in the past couple of weeks. We
are stepping up. We are not just looking for the helpers. We are the helpers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHTTKU4hLntsyRObU7Qe7YeUeRzELmKlKXCp27Pm8dv9j1Zo093vWLMzHmyAbCcrIc5Cg_2vYnepUreQ754a9AVHXsXZ2rkYc1wLwiEDy3B5u5fMwLCdMDttYBlTjZaE5yGTZT9ZuFHBY/s1600/boys+summer.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="365" data-original-width="206" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHTTKU4hLntsyRObU7Qe7YeUeRzELmKlKXCp27Pm8dv9j1Zo093vWLMzHmyAbCcrIc5Cg_2vYnepUreQ754a9AVHXsXZ2rkYc1wLwiEDy3B5u5fMwLCdMDttYBlTjZaE5yGTZT9ZuFHBY/s320/boys+summer.png" width="180" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here are
some links for places to help as well as uplifting stories about those who are
stepping up and helping. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.nbcphiladelphia.com/news/local/NJ-Family-Moved-to-Houston-Now-Stranded-in-Flood-Water_Philadelphia-442166493.html">Kris, Mary and Matt's story</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/hurricane-harvey-cajun-navy-rescue_us_59a4c727e4b0446b3b860a94?utm_campaign=hp_fb_pages&utm_source=gn_fb&utm_medium=facebook&ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000023">These amazing helpers</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/furniture-stores-turned-into-shelters_us_59a57622e4b0446b3b867b49?utm_campaign=hp_fb_pages&utm_source=gn_fb&utm_medium=facebook&ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000023">This furniture store owner</a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/houston-flooding-photos_us_59a5bdb6e4b063ae34d97119?utm_campaign=hp_fb_pages&utm_source=gn_fb&utm_medium=facebook&ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000023">These pictures of people coming together</a></div>
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<a href="https://redcrosschat.org/2017/08/28/top-questions-concerning-hurricaneharvey/">The Red Cross answers how to give help and how to get help</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2017/08/28/546745827/looking-to-help-those-affected-by-harvey-here-s-a-list?utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=npr&utm_term=nprnews&utm_content=20170828">How You Can Help</a></div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/donate/1652073121555663/">Donate to help Mary, Kris and Matt</a><br />
<a href="http://abcnews.go.com/US/houston-police-chief-breaks-describing-officer-died-harvey/story?id=49496581">Remember hero SGT Steve Perez</a></div>
Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-13402969367641522742017-06-21T18:25:00.000-04:002017-06-21T18:25:10.320-04:00Teach Your Kids That Words Are Powerful<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Choose kind
words. Lead, don’t follow. If you see someone being picked on, say something.
Make us proud with your actions. Don’t say something behind someone’s back that
you wouldn’t say to their face. People are different. Our differences are what
make us awesome. We say these things in
our house often. We are not however, naïve enough to think that our words are
always being absorbed. After all I have told my kids approximately 3,786 times
that toothpaste only belongs in their mouths or the sink and I can tell you
that 3,656 times it has not ended up that way. I don’t stop telling them though
because kids need to hear things. They need to hear them often in order for
them to eventually take hold in their brains. You have to plant the seed, but
you still need to water the plant in order for it to grow. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bully. It’s
a word thrown around in schools and said by parents and kids often these days.
Some people will argue that it is unnecessary to discuss bullying issues so
much, but stories on the news beg to differ. This week a young girl in a
neighboring town reportedly took her own life due to constant bullying. She was
twelve years old. Let that sink in for a minute. It’s awful. I can’t even begin to wrap my head
around the grief and devastation her parents are dealing with right now. Sadly
I’m fairly certain that her story here in New Jersey is echoed across the
country for other devastated families who experienced something all too similar.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve been
trying to figure out why kids as young as ten and twelve have such anger and
aggression towards their peers. I don’t have an answer. People often blame the
parents of the bully and while yes in a lot of cases apples do in fact come
from apple trees, I don’t think that is always the case. I’m going to be 41. I have the gift of perspective
at this point about what a small blip of time middle school and high school
really are in the story of our lives. I also know though that those years play
a vital part in shaping who we become as adults. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was a
kid our middle school started in seventh grade. That meant that all the elementary
school kids I had spent all those years with were suddenly thrown into a big
pool of kids from all the other elementary schools. Taking a bunch of kids out
of their comfort zone when they are chock in the middle of puberty can be
tricky. Suddenly the friends who you were comfortable being yourself around are
running with a different group. It’s a confusing time. Our school sent us all
on a camping trip in the beginning of the year. We stayed in cabins and worked
on team building. My guess is if you were able to look in from the outside, the
kids on that trip would have looked like a bunch of lost sheep desperately
trying to figure out which herd they belonged to. It was a new world for us and
none of us had a clue as to what we were doing. I definitely didn’t have a
clue. I had just gotten braces. All the other girls seemed to be developing at
a much faster rate than I did and I was uncomfortable in my own skin. Back then
we tried to mask our insecurities with hairspray and blue mascara. One look at
my hair and it was obvious just how much I was trying to mask. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At some
point during that trip I decided to start a rumor about one of the girls I had
gone with to elementary school. When she found out it was me she confronted me
head on. She asked me why I would do that to her and there I stood with no
answer. The honest answer was that my actions had nothing to do with her. They
had everything to do with me. I took my insecurities and tried to bring her
down with me. I apologized and I meant it. She forgave me and we moved on, but
I never forgot that feeling I had when she looked me in the face with sadness
and disappointment because of my actions. I never wanted to feel that low
again. I was the mean girl and I hated myself. My parents had taught me better
than that. My parents were never anything but kind to everyone they ever met
and I knew that I was not being the person they expected me to be. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I dealt with
my own fair share of mean girls in High School but I eventually learned that
you are in fact able to choose your friends and when you find them you hold on
tight. I didn’t need people in my life that made me feel bad about myself. I
think it’s important to teach our kids about not being bullies, but it is
equally as important to teach them that they are not defined by someone else’s
opinions. They will find their people. It may take longer than they want it to,
but they are out there. Of course this is easier to say as an adult than it is
as a struggling preteen or teenager. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the risk
of sounding like my grandmother I can honestly say that preteens and teenagers
are ill-equipped to deal with social media. They are not ready to be armed with
such a weapon. Kids can’t get behind the wheel of a car before the age of
sixteen or seventeen in most states, they can’t vote until 18, and they legally
cannot drink until 21 yet here they are roaming the Internet when they are just
not prepared yet in how to do it. Most adults, sadly not all adults, know that
once you throw your words out on the internet they are there forever. If you
regret something you write, and you delete it, chances are someone already took
a screen shot of that regrettable statement. It’s like that toothpaste. Once
you squeeze the tube you cannot shove the toothpaste back in. It’s out there. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a writer
I have seen the worst of the worst when it comes to internet trolls. There is
something about being able to hide behind a keyboard that brings people to an
all new level of low. When I first started writing for larger outlets I was not
prepared to deal with the cruelty and judgment that was thrown my way over what
I thought were simple articles about my love for my children. Oh and don’t even
try to make a joke because people get all butt hurt and take everything way too
seriously. There were many times I thought about stopping, but I knew that only
meant evil wins. I could write an entire article about puppies and someone
would have something awful to say about me. Words are bigger than we realize. Words
can move people. Words make us laugh. Words make us cry. Words motivate us.
Words separate us from all the other species. We choose how we use them and
when we knowingly use them to hurt someone we have altered them. We have
essentially turned them into a weapon. The thing our kids need to realize is
that being the bully feels awful. I still remember how bad I felt for making
someone else that sad. I can’t even imagine how a kid would feel when they
realize that they are the reason a peer took their own life. That is
unthinkable, but it’s happening. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our kids
need to know that words should not be used as weapons. Our kids need to know that
when they choose to use them as a weapon they will inevitably hurt someone. Our
kids need to know that their actions have consequences. They need to know that
starting rumors or attacking someone on social media for how they look is a
sure fire way to be known as a bad person. Kids need to know that their words
can be the reason that one of their peers sits in their room and cries every
single night. Their words can be keeping parents up at night with worry and
fear about their child’s depression. Their words can be the reason the girl in
their class has started starving herself. Their words can be the reason the boy
in their class is starting to steal his mom’s pain pills. Words need to be
chosen wisely. While they are trying to navigate a world that feels too big for
their still small frames, their words are larger than life. Tell them. Tell them often because their
brains are still developing and eventually they may just keep that toothpaste in
the sink. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“In a world
where you can be anything, be kind.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhDFpqcQqkdp5OW9udzEx9OzS3fhVIFNuX94ZU-j6pZMwHX1fHyA7El8t-OhAvD6HUMJuDwDzgUhRg1Hyuvzuibz_feb46NgXK1jmwJzUlj1LOm1W74YrTuYNa5guUS4DZbD4HKKxpQsc/s1600/kindness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="926" data-original-width="1600" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhDFpqcQqkdp5OW9udzEx9OzS3fhVIFNuX94ZU-j6pZMwHX1fHyA7El8t-OhAvD6HUMJuDwDzgUhRg1Hyuvzuibz_feb46NgXK1jmwJzUlj1LOm1W74YrTuYNa5guUS4DZbD4HKKxpQsc/s400/kindness.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rest in peace Mallory. </span></span></div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-28015732701202876712017-05-13T23:29:00.000-04:002017-05-13T23:29:32.556-04:00Sometimes I Forget The Milk<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You caught
me staring. I quickly looked away. Moments later I couldn’t help but look again
and immediately you saw me. I smiled. I could sense your stress. I could sense
your urgency to move along as quickly as you could. I could sense that you felt
you were on the clock. You fumbled in your bag for a couple of minutes and
finally pulled out some crackers to hand to him while you moved along to select
a couple of peppers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It feels
like yesterday that I was you. Today I move at a slower pace throughout the
store than I did back then. Today I calmly choose my selections. I stop to look
up a recipe on my phone and make sure I am getting all the necessary
ingredients. You however, stand in front of the bagels and ask him which one he
wants. He points at the blueberry and you place it in a bag for him. You lean
over and kiss him gently on the forehead and he giggles. It is in that moment
that I am flooded with memories. I know all too well how annoying it is to be
stared at with what can only be described as the “enjoy it mama because it goes
way too fast” stare. Yet here I am staring at you and thinking that exact
thought. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have no
idea how I got here. As I walk down the aisles with no one to entertain with
each stop of the shopping cart, I wonder where the time actually went. When I
was in it I felt like I was never going to go the grocery store and remember
everything I needed because someone was always crying. Luckily it was rarely
me, but shopping with a baby and a toddler is pretty much the equivalent of
taking the Bar exam while running a half marathon, IMPOSSIBLE. I never came
home with everything I had intended to buy. I was just thankful that I came
home with both of my children and that I remembered the milk. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I remember
smiling nervously at people behind me on line as my tired child began to melt
down. I remember feeling like the checkout belt had to move faster than it was
moving. I remember feeling like I should not be sweating so much from a simple
trip to the grocery store. I remember loading groceries into the back of my SUV
in the pouring rain, and strapping my youngest into his car seat all while
hoping and praying that he would not in fact fall asleep on the short car ride
home because I really needed him to nap. I needed him to nap so that I could
unpack all the groceries and cry about the fact that I had forgotten to buy the
flipping milk. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s not
easy to be where you are. If someone tries to tell you it is they are lying,
but I want you to know that despite the difficulty it is a sweet spot in time.
You don’t need me to tell you that this time will pass because you know how
time works, but if you will allow me just for a moment I want to tell you to
get the bagel, kiss his forehead, and take a deep breath. The world will keep
moving despite the fact that you forgot the milk, again. The people on line
behind you will forget about the fact that your child was whining and crying
the entire time you were checking out. You will look for a fast forward button
more times than you can count on what seems like a simple grocery store trip. I
promise you though that one day in the future you will look into your organized
cart, full of food and milk, and you will miss that bagel eating buddy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have
always known that times moves fast. Nothing proves this more though than having
children. The ironic part of parenthood is that most of the time you don’t
realize how much you loved a stage until that stage has passed. I have yet to
encounter a stage of parenthood that I would describe as easy. They all come
with challenges, but I have yet to look back upon a stage that has passed and
not missed it. Sometimes it’s from a distance that we realize just how perfect
that horrible, difficult stage of parenthood was. Sometimes I forget the milk
just so I can go back with one of the kids after school. We might happen to
stop for a bagel on those occasions. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-43134740455568223632017-05-03T14:13:00.000-04:002017-05-03T14:13:59.676-04:00Teachers Move Mountains<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You know
that feeling you get at the end of the day when you just aren’t sure you have
an ounce of energy left to give? Your children have brushed their teeth, finished
their baths, been read to and tucked in nicely, but they still need one more
cup of water. They need one more story. They need you to tuck the blankets
under their legs. Just as you say goodnight and whisper one last <i>I love you </i>they ask for a tissue. When
you finally turn off the lights and close the door you debate watching one
episode of your favorite show on Netflix or simply falling into a sleep coma in
your bed, and 9 out of 10 times the sleep coma wins. You know exactly what I’m
talking about. It’s the end of the day parent burn out. It’s that time of day
when we are completely depleted of our energy and our ability to be the best
version of ourselves. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have two
children and I experience parent burnout on the regular. I’m not exactly a morning
person either, but after my first cup of coffee I’m ready to tackle the day.
Coffee helps me cope with the spilled orange juice that somehow landed on the
dog during breakfast, the fact that the eight year old can only find one of his
shoes when the school bus will be arriving in less than five minutes, and the ability
to Google whether crocodiles get married before the bus arrives or the five year
old just won’t be able to go on with the day. Now take all of this and multiply
the amount of kids by more than double. That’s right, take my two kids and just
add in another thirteen to fifteen kids. You have a headache just thinking
about it don’t you? I know I do. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After
locating that lost shoe, toweling the dog off, and learning that crocodiles don’t
believe in wedding ceremonies, I send my two boys off on the school bus to
school for the day. Every day they are greeted by these amazing humans who as
far as I can tell are always the best versions of themselves. I am going to
have to find out what kind of coffee they drink. They are teachers and I trust
them with the two people I love the most in this entire world for over six hours,
five days a week. Not only do I trust them, but I depend on them to teach my
children reading, writing, math, science, art, music, technology, health, and
history. I depend on them to enhance any development we have started at home. I
depend on them to take these tiny humans and help them learn how to interact
well with other tiny humans. I depend on them more than they know. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last night I
sat with my kindergartner to read a book before bed. He asked if he could read
it to me instead of me reading it to him. I excitedly agreed. With each word that
he read and each page that he turned I couldn’t help but think back to
September. As most parents who are faced with sending their baby off for the
very first time on the school bus, that first day was met with a mix of emotions.
We were excited, but nervous. We felt confident though that he would return
that day just as excited as he was when he left us, and he was. I remember feeling
like he was so small. I remember worrying that he would get tired and miss us. If
he did he certainly never expressed it. Instead he came home every day excited
to tell us all about what he had done and learned that day. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In September
I sent a little five year old off to school and now he seems so much older to
me. He’s confident. He’s reading. He tells me all about his friends in his
class. He tells me how much he loves his teacher. I tell him that we love her
too because the truth is, we do. How could we not. In less than a year she has
taught our five year old how to navigate a great big exciting new world and he’s
doing it. He’s doing it well. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our third
grader has grown and learned so much this year that there are times I am
convinced he could out do me on any math test. (Sshh he probably could) His
teacher does not seem to have that burn out thing I talked about. Whenever I
see her, email her, or speak with her she is just as enthusiastic as she was on
that very first day. I can say with full confidence that she gets truly excited
when she sees children learning. It’s a gift. It really is. When my husband and
I went to parent teacher conferences this year she looked at us and told us
that our son had written his first journal entry that day. She had not read it
yet and was excited to read it aloud in front of us so that we could all “experience
his amazing imagination” together. I left that day knowing my son was going to
learn and grow more than we had ever imagined possible in a year and he has. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I remember
when they were toddlers and I was their only teacher. We experienced the world
together. We read and practiced numbers and letters. We played in the yard and
I taught them their colors. I did what I could to give them a small foundation
into the world of learning they had ahead of them. Their teachers however have
taken that small foundation and built upon it in such tremendous ways. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As parents
we do our best to love our children. We nurture them, discipline them, and
protect them. We carry them until they can walk on their own. We hold their hands
until they let go and we hope with all that we have that we are doing our best
to prepare them to succeed on their own. There is no question or doubt about
what we will do for our children. After all we are their parents. Teachers do
all of this and more. They do this year in and year out for every child that
comes into their classroom. It takes a special person to love and nurture all
these children. We all know teachers don’t go into teaching for the money (don’t
even get me started on that.) Teachers go into teaching to move mountains.
Their passion and love of learning is something that our children will carry with
them for years. I want my boys’ teachers, both past and present, to know that
we are forever grateful for the foundations they have poured and the mountains
they have moved. They have helped us navigate the waters. They have given my
boys a lifetime love of learning and for that we are forever grateful. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-large;">"Teachers affect eternity; no one can tell where their influence stops."</span></i></div>
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Henry Brooks Adams</div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-83411471732993949662017-03-22T22:00:00.001-04:002017-03-22T22:00:38.334-04:00Let Them Feel<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was a
kid I thought my parents knew everything. By the time I was a teenager I
thought they knew nothing. Now that I’m a parent I realize I was right, both times.
I think knowing everything while knowing nothing is pretty much the reality of
parenthood. Parenthood is basically getting thrown into the deep end of the
pool and struggling to make it to the ladder.
When you feel confident and you master swimming in the deep end of the
pool someone throws you into the ocean.
Parenthood is a constant struggle of convincing your kids that you do in
fact know what you are doing all while doubting yourself every single day. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you don’t
doubt yourself are you really a parent? Don’t ask me. I spend most days flying by the
seat of my pants. I tuck my kids in at night and I hope that I did an OK job.
That’s right an OK job. When I had my first son, the idea of being an “OK parent”
was out of the question for me. I was going to be a phenomenal parent. Sure. I
was swimming in the pool and I was good at it, only the pool was calm and no
one else was in it. Once I had my son I realized that the pool was full of tons
of other swimmers and all of those swimmers had opinions on my swimming
abilities. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To be honest
now that my boys are out of the baby stage I find myself wondering more than I
thought I ever would if I am going to be able to navigate each new unchartered
territory of water we enter. The hopeful answer is yes, but the honest answer
is, I’m not always so sure. Facebook has been kind enough to remind me on the
regular with my “Facebook Memories” that the baby years are long gone. Gone are
the days of napping, snuggling, snacking, and giggling within our own little
bubble. We are in the elementary school days now and I have to tell you, they
are going faster than I could have ever imagined they would. I’m not naïve; I
know middle school and high school will be here in a hot second. That’s how
this parenting thing works. The days are long but the years…well the years move
fast. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lately I’ve
noticed that our family is so busy that the days are flying by and the months
are moving at warp speed. My oldest son is eight and my youngest is five. There
is something about my eight year old that has changed in the last year. I can
see that a big change is upon us. I can see that I am about to get thrown from
the pool into the ocean and I’m terrified. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He’s almost
nine years old. Nine. Yet somehow I can close my eyes and remember the nurse
putting him on my chest like it was yesterday. I can remember his little hand
wrapping around my finger. I can remember whispering to him that I would never
let anything or anyone hurt him, and I meant it. There is a change in the way
both my husband and I treat him now. He has shifted from being a little kid to
a boy. We expect more of him. He has responsibilities around the house. He is
expected to get his homework done or baseball practice will just have to go on
without him. He is expected to clear his plate after dinner. We remind him
about doing his best and making us proud. We tell him not to cry when he is
fighting with his brother about basketball. We tell him to toughen up. We tell him to be
the big brother and give his brother a turn. We tell him not to get angry at
his brother. We tell him not to cry. We flail around in the ocean making
mistakes and hoping that we will be given another chance to learn how to swim. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I read
yet another article about a heartbroken mother who lost her son to the epidemic
of heroin. When I tell you it scares me I don’t really think that it accurately
portrays how I worry about it. I know that no matter how much we try to protect
our kids this is the one thing that can reach out and grab them without
discriminating. Drugs don’t care that you took your child to toddler music
classes. Drugs don’t care that your child was gifted in reading. Drugs don’t
care that your child was a soccer, baseball, hockey, dancing, fill in the blank
star. They don’t care. Drugs don’t care that in elementary school your child
had everything going for them. Drugs don’t care that they were in the school
play. Drugs don’t care that you used to be able to talk to them about anything
and everything. Drugs don’t care that at one point you thought your ears were actually
going to fall off from how much your child went on and on and on about anything
and everything. Drugs literally don’t care about your Facebook memories. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today when
my son came home from school I talked to him for a while about his day. I took
the time to listen. I really listened because if the OK parent in me is being
honest, I don’t always listen. I often multitask. I look through their folders
and empty their lunch boxes all while nodding along to the stories of the day. I give my kids a snack and have them do
homework. I break up fights and tell them to stop crying. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve been
thinking about something a lot lately. Why are we telling our kids not to feel?
Maybe you’re not guilty of this. I am though. I am so guilty of this, only I
didn’t even realize it. It hit me like a ton of bricks that every time we tell
our kids to stop crying, to toughen up, and to stop flipping out over what my
husband and I perceive to be silly, we are in fact telling them to stop
feeling. We are telling them that their emotions are not worthy. Every time
they tell us they are bored we try to fix it. Maybe this is some of the
problem. Maybe. I say this because obviously as I walk slowly into the water
from the beach I can’t possibly already know what the parents out in the deep
are dealing with. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can’t help
but think that kids need to feel boredom. They need to feel still. They need to
feel the difference between being busy and being relaxed. Our kids need to feel sad. How can they ever
appreciate being happy if we don’t allow them to embrace being sad? We all need
a good cry every now and then. We need it. We are humans. We are meant to feel.
Kids are anxious for a reason. We are telling them to stop. We are telling them
to sit still, to be quiet, and to do their best. Their best? Their best is to
be a kid. Their best is to be curious, anxious, sad, happy, angry, overwhelmed,
silly, loud, and quiet. Their best is to be comfortable with who they are and
know that we, as their parents will embrace them for it. Drugs allow people not to feel, the question
is why are so many people afraid to feel? Let’s allow our kids to feel. Let’s
embrace them for it. I’m not suggesting we allow kids to cry and punch, shout
or laugh through their entire day. I’m suggesting that we allow them to
navigate the baby pool in the best way they know how. I am suggesting that we
allow them to feel scared, that we allow them to admit they don’t know if they
are ready for the deep end and when they do, it may help to tell them that we
didn’t always know how to swim. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-80048901546357016602016-12-13T12:22:00.000-05:002016-12-13T16:57:17.667-05:00A Christmas Full Of Memories<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My husband
and I got married in October of 2005. Christmas arrived quickly that year and
we decided we were going to go cut down a tree. Here’s something I didn’t know, a tree in the
wilderness may appear smaller than it actually is. We were living in a two
bedroom condo at the time and my husband wound up having to cut the tree on our
tiny little deck in order to just fit it in the door. Fun times. The neighbors
must have loved us. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Once we got
the tree inside I realized I didn’t really have any ornaments to decorate it.
So I did what anyone would do. I rushed out to Target and stocked up on a bunch
of cheap, but pretty enough ornaments so that our poor, cut up tree would look
like an actual Christmas tree. Once the lights were on, our tree looked great.
Lights fix everything. I had three nice ornaments on the tree. Two of them we
had bought on our honeymoon and one of them I had made at the local mall for
our “first Christmas” together. I decided that by the following year I would
have a real grownup tree. You know the type of tree I’m talking about. It’s the
one in all the magazines. It’s the one that Martha did herself. It’s the one you
pin for future reference. It’s usually color coordinated. Spoiler alert it is
not the tree I have. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My plan had
been to go out at the end of the Christmas season and stock up on the expensive
ornaments that would surely all be on clearance. Only I didn’t do that, because
well the best laid plans as they say. Before I knew it Christmas was over and
winter turned to spring. Who thinks about their Christmas tree in the spring?
Not this girl. Summer arrived and in a blink fall followed, as did our
anniversary. We went away for the weekend and I decided to buy an ornament in a
local shop. What I didn’t know then is that with that one ornament I would
begin a tradition that would carry on for our family, making our tree what it
is today. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In the years
that followed, I began buying an ornament on every vacation or special trip we
took together. I went back to the same place I had bought our “first Christmas”
ornament and had one made when we got our dog, then again when our oldest son
was born, and again when our youngest was born. They closed after that and I’m
so happy I was able to get all of our special ornaments from them before they
did. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When we go
away somewhere my husband knows that I will not leave until I find a shop that
sells local ornaments. I have an ornament from our first trip with our oldest.
I have one from my husband’s fortieth birthday. I have many from our summers in
Lake George. I always write the year on it before packing it away. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Every year
when it comes time to decorate the house for Christmas I am completely
stressed. All I can think about is my long list of things to get done. I
imagine my family grows pretty tired of hearing me talk about how much I have
left to do when we literally just finished our Thanksgiving turkey. I can’t
help myself. I’m one of those people who complain when I feel overwhelmed. I
will admit it’s not my best quality. I try to surround myself with people who
are the “glass is half full” type because when my glass is empty I need
someone to help fill it up a bit. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This year
wasn’t any different. My list is long and my patience was running thin. I spent
a good deal of time telling my husband it was never going to all get done. “I’m
only one person. We don’t even have a tree yet. When I am getting all the shopping
done? Do people really need a card from us?” He’s gotten pretty good about just
nodding along and ignoring my Christmas induced insanity. We finally went to
get our tree. He put it up the next day and got all the lights on it. He took
all the boxes of ornaments down from the attic and suggested I decorate the
tree in peace and quiet the next day while they were all out of the house. I
agreed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The next day
I opened the first box and pulled out our “first Christmas together” ornament.
Suddenly I was brought back in time, eleven years ago, before our kids when we
were newlyweds cutting down a tree together that would wind up being way too
big for our condo. I started laughing just thinking about it. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCx4rBbCjlw-SM5RIPkHLSia3PnRGx3-nGPCEcwjAaUtHgZR5KRx2zLY86k4lix2oFIxF7R8TCBE6DcDowM2IbeE78nJWXXgjEdIq8a6bnyva0Q5Eid12-3EunkhJCwerUDtnooKbxX8/s1600/1213161057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCx4rBbCjlw-SM5RIPkHLSia3PnRGx3-nGPCEcwjAaUtHgZR5KRx2zLY86k4lix2oFIxF7R8TCBE6DcDowM2IbeE78nJWXXgjEdIq8a6bnyva0Q5Eid12-3EunkhJCwerUDtnooKbxX8/s200/1213161057.jpg" width="150" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> The next ornament was one from Hawaii and I remembered
our blissful honeymoon and how eleven years has certainly aged us but I wouldn’t
change a thing. Next it was an ornament from Lake George 2015 which was the
last summer my grandmother was with us for that trip. I cried thinking about
how much I miss her, but I smiled thinking about all the wonderful memories we
have with her. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2iHb7x1Y0duBrEjclW3jMyomY5wAxQfBwU0lynYXSKlsc8ALUtpvJiZi7UbEMT3hgpmhqRkipj4NjRdW7g4U_ov18dLho91cUj-y_qj5nPw5RK9eqg84GPqfEh5e5mWonBQx55hXNMYA/s1600/1213161157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2iHb7x1Y0duBrEjclW3jMyomY5wAxQfBwU0lynYXSKlsc8ALUtpvJiZi7UbEMT3hgpmhqRkipj4NjRdW7g4U_ov18dLho91cUj-y_qj5nPw5RK9eqg84GPqfEh5e5mWonBQx55hXNMYA/s320/1213161157.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ornament
after ornament brought me somewhere back in time. They are all representations
of a time that has passed, but each and every one of them mean more than I ever
thought they would when I bought them. It is amazing how the sight of something
as small as a Christmas ornament can bring up so many emotions. As I picked up
each one I instantly had a picture in my mind of the trip. I saw my oldest at
two playing in the sand of Cape Cod. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEcPAjexigreVB6RTiIEconth13MZbCPJk_EIBWuC1NqZ72O0yeTOrCwjDVLEGhoC7evLsZxDOCq_I4AclE-ARhtJRei5xMl3E62gXOrHvpF82vQjlTTKA3lI0oD2UvrAwMSGae0vTA8A/s1600/Cape+cod.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEcPAjexigreVB6RTiIEconth13MZbCPJk_EIBWuC1NqZ72O0yeTOrCwjDVLEGhoC7evLsZxDOCq_I4AclE-ARhtJRei5xMl3E62gXOrHvpF82vQjlTTKA3lI0oD2UvrAwMSGae0vTA8A/s320/Cape+cod.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I saw my youngest at two beaming with excitement on his first steam boat in Lake George.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn5AUgj2LYF0hKqWUSA6dnHRxulxk3fyVVoiXlfk7X7_4xyU0r54SzE_JHqjO0QsKSn1EQwBWEoubjw-kEjuDOciKzOIUVYmsddZ2omMvtYd7gxh9GkTQy2D3QQd2Xzq9lx9gE5iCo_og/s1600/Lake+george.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn5AUgj2LYF0hKqWUSA6dnHRxulxk3fyVVoiXlfk7X7_4xyU0r54SzE_JHqjO0QsKSn1EQwBWEoubjw-kEjuDOciKzOIUVYmsddZ2omMvtYd7gxh9GkTQy2D3QQd2Xzq9lx9gE5iCo_og/s320/Lake+george.jpg" width="180" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
I saw my husband and me holding
hands as we walked the Cliff walk together in Newport Rhode Island.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvDrKX_tIxVomxItW_IZfQe6HvIsDAJOfUcZDkbkfceeO_-p51oafaR7h_J1ONufyfB7nOspS1YwfQy3mFRVD037JVedWxDiCYUgAvVKxhDuB3WBJac50Mch3wXLRR42Rd5vrEutdEDU/s1600/cliffwalk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvDrKX_tIxVomxItW_IZfQe6HvIsDAJOfUcZDkbkfceeO_-p51oafaR7h_J1ONufyfB7nOspS1YwfQy3mFRVD037JVedWxDiCYUgAvVKxhDuB3WBJac50Mch3wXLRR42Rd5vrEutdEDU/s320/cliffwalk.jpg" width="180" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rVHLe9zRs54-BDmwQEvZPIK8ZpCdoFybvPyy9qzT9vfB4EU0KCuDiDzQSJpa-cRSt_Cj0Yti3JqF-T0Tu2WDFAV6cfG_FWvKI9KJv238leAtZIqSg_3MBgxfFVT7iyyBhHFUgAHbN_g/s1600/1212162013d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rVHLe9zRs54-BDmwQEvZPIK8ZpCdoFybvPyy9qzT9vfB4EU0KCuDiDzQSJpa-cRSt_Cj0Yti3JqF-T0Tu2WDFAV6cfG_FWvKI9KJv238leAtZIqSg_3MBgxfFVT7iyyBhHFUgAHbN_g/s320/1212162013d.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></span>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I moved on
to all the homemade ornaments my kids have made over the years and I was
reminded about just how fast time moves. My grandmother always used to say “Don’t
blink Jen. It goes faster than people tell you.” I blinked. She was right. My
oldest is eight now. Looking at his little face on a gingerbread man that he
made when he was three reminded me just how fast time is moving. I remember him
giving it to us. I remember laughing and telling him it was adorable.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65OSGyB-rxAogmLiKNbXCZ_V7iMTSvGK6kIbo_OOOL_klXKIb3MTWlK3uPXYGN3ZZ6Hk3NojcleB-drfhXJ8weMx6mmai-cLgClplQ5oBuFGFL0FmiFI3B6DNQX6eoy7HZsGACAIUzQI/s1600/1212162023d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65OSGyB-rxAogmLiKNbXCZ_V7iMTSvGK6kIbo_OOOL_klXKIb3MTWlK3uPXYGN3ZZ6Hk3NojcleB-drfhXJ8weMx6mmai-cLgClplQ5oBuFGFL0FmiFI3B6DNQX6eoy7HZsGACAIUzQI/s320/1212162023d.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> My
youngest is five and I remember the Santa face ornament he gave us for his last
Christmas in preschool. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItDyv7yyNV0uowWfy7392Ij_JOTOVhgdTsJ4r3qyTDrYI92OQldaQvFyzqYwJAljAJwcCLLyb8AYlP2soE2MS1PnUuC1oD289BLx6qweACK0p8_l2khBbuARWFzayRfHyUIJOhC7wr4o/s1600/1212162023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjItDyv7yyNV0uowWfy7392Ij_JOTOVhgdTsJ4r3qyTDrYI92OQldaQvFyzqYwJAljAJwcCLLyb8AYlP2soE2MS1PnUuC1oD289BLx6qweACK0p8_l2khBbuARWFzayRfHyUIJOhC7wr4o/s320/1212162023.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
The ornaments with their faces on them are my favorite.
They are frozen in time. I may never get another one of my eight year old at
this point. So I cherish the ones I have. They are worth more to me than the most
expensive ornament on the clearance shelf. The same can be said about the Popsicle stick ornaments and the toilet paper roll snowmen. They are priceless.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDV-HTd7qhAeuorX_jzbrH2QaX2pBJdDed-dNmslaH3Z64cWVZ2FlQa3ijJN0_-_WBa9exyIAdYJJb8SrU7AQT51DUV0eELPaiQQlfmZGUBvoRJAPPZ6B8ULMem_wlJb1cvUSGjm1rBzw/s1600/1212162024a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDV-HTd7qhAeuorX_jzbrH2QaX2pBJdDed-dNmslaH3Z64cWVZ2FlQa3ijJN0_-_WBa9exyIAdYJJb8SrU7AQT51DUV0eELPaiQQlfmZGUBvoRJAPPZ6B8ULMem_wlJb1cvUSGjm1rBzw/s320/1212162024a.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvMfO5wKj9XYuLbwUoroElcyzKKfukVvP2AkTY7LagDTClIl99_9-0w9dROfxu-SrBjC2d5tHU21KxMFrTr51BL-nRTjwrOZndw9G-YsYqQK-SzdjWThKW6vcc6Yl_eou2Qubqt4GJy4/s1600/1212162023b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvMfO5wKj9XYuLbwUoroElcyzKKfukVvP2AkTY7LagDTClIl99_9-0w9dROfxu-SrBjC2d5tHU21KxMFrTr51BL-nRTjwrOZndw9G-YsYqQK-SzdjWThKW6vcc6Yl_eou2Qubqt4GJy4/s320/1212162023b.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I was
done decorating the tree I realized just how lucky we are. My stress was gone. If nothing else gets done
that’s okay because everything we need to celebrate Christmas is represented on
our tree. I will never have a Martha tree and I’m good with that. I don’t need
a tree meant for the magazines. I want a tree meant for our life. I will
continue to buy an ornament everywhere we go and date it accordingly. One day
when I blink and the kids are out of the house starting their own traditions, I
will have the ornaments to bring me back in time, to bring me back to days that
might not have seemed big at the time but will surely be worth
remembering. I will always enjoy
Christmas and I will forever cherish looking back onto Christmas pasts. After
all Christmas is about making memories with those we love and I can’t think of
a better way to celebrate that than with a tree full of memories. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-37851119213689949952016-12-08T20:39:00.002-05:002017-12-16T13:14:53.152-05:00Saying Goodbye To Santa-In Memory of Ray Beesley<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Do you remember
the magic you felt as a child at Christmas? There was so much to love about this
time of year you undoubtedly sported a permanent grin from Thanksgiving to
December 26<sup>th</sup>. After all, you
were a kid so Christmas was stress free and chock full of excitement. When I
think about the things that made me happy as a kid I quickly remember baking
cookies with my mom and sister, visiting relatives and playing with my cousins,
watching Christmas movies in my footy pajamas, neighborhood parties, school
parties, and ripping open every new delivery of Christmas cards from friends
and family. I loved all of it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of course
the most excitement came from knowing that Santa Claus would be coming soon.
Every year my parents brought us to take pictures with Santa and the whole way
there in the car I would practice what I was going to say when he asked me what
I wanted for Christmas. I would inevitably get nervous and only remember one of
the things I had practiced, but either way I left there full of excitement. It
was pure joy. It was innocent, magical, and a time of never doubting in jolly old
Saint Nick. As we all know, that innocence sadly fades with time and age. Last
week I posted a great story on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/JenniferLizzaWriter/photos/pb.542255795815053.-2207520000.1481245100./1385487694825188/?type=3&theater">Facebook</a> about my friend’s son starting to doubt
Santa. An amazing man named Bob, who just happens to look exactly like Santa, stepped
up and took a picture with her elf to show her son. He had only been there to
service the furnace but he left there restoring her son’s belief and giving her
one more year of magic. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Everyone
loved the story. A couple of days later sad news hit a local garden center. The
Santa from the garden center, who everyone had loved, had passed away. Facebook was flooded with story after story
about <a href="http://www.nj.com/passaic-county/index.ssf/2016/12/ray_beesley_north_jerseys_beloved_santa_claus_dies.html">Ray Beesley</a> better known to most as Santa, and his amazing heart. My
friend forwarded me a story from a friend of hers, and as I read it with tears rolling
down my face, I just knew I had to share it. We wound up connecting on Facebook and she gave
me the go ahead to share her story. Get a tissue and be prepared to feel the
magic of Christmas all over again. This
is Amy’s story. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin: 7.5pt 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Anyone who knows me knows
my sincere affection for this man. He was more than "Santa" he was a
genuine, gentle, sweet, compassionate human being. I have to share the reason
why I fell in love with Christmas again after I thought I never could. <span color:="" d2129=""><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<div 0.0001pt="" 0in="" 7.5pt="" margin:="" pre-wrap="" white-space:="">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>When my son Zach was diagnosed with Autism in 2004, I fell into a</i></span></div>
<i style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">deep, dark depression. The holidays were especially hard. Seeing the magic of</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>
Christmas through your child's eyes is one of the joys of being a parent.</i></span><i><span color:="" d2129="" font-family:="" helvetica="" quot="" sans-serif=""> I didn't have that magic.
Zach didn't care about Christmas, didn't care about receiving presents, and he
didn't care about the Christmas tree or any decorations. </span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span color:="" d2129="" font-family:="" helvetica="" quot="" sans-serif="">One day while shopping
at the Wayne Town Center, Santa was just coming back from break, and there were
no lines. I decided to have his picture taken, purely for a photo op. He wasn't
able to tell Santa what he wanted for Christmas or tell him if he was a good boy.
It was strictly a “What the Hell” moment. I thought maybe I could get a cute
picture. I wasn't feeling the magic of Christmas at all. When his session was
over, Santa stood up and hugged me real tight. I will never forget how he told
me in his sweet gentle voice, "God gave him to you, and he wanted you to
be his mom. </span><span color:="" d2129="" font-family:="" helvetica="" quot="" sans-serif="">You are a special mom. Santa
loves you, God bless you Mom.” </span><span color:="" d2129="" font-family:="" helvetica="" quot="" sans-serif=""> </span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span color:="" d2129="" font-family:="" helvetica="" quot="" sans-serif="">It was
almost like he knew! There I was sobbing in the middle of the mall hugging
Santa so tight I thought I was going to break him while Christmas music was
playing. Ray Beesley saved me that day; he gave me back the magic of Christmas.
We went back every year. He always remembered us. He never let us wait on line,
always waved us to the front. He always remembered Zach's name. I knew he was
ill in the spring so last week, I stopped at the religious store and bought him
a Saint Jude coin to give him when we saw him this weekend. Sadly, we never
made it. This man will never be forgotten. I only wish he knew what a huge
impact he had on our lives. To everyone else he was Santa, but to me he was a
blessing!</span></i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Rest in the sweetest of
peace "Santa."</i><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2AMUrh1jnt_XPxJJsx_qrx_iK2G4i1uHFOnsvEI1hZP5moQjhFupOsMAVvk9-69awS4HmlQCTWJq9CFRiohZBht-gc3EpAqnN5leSiIBUBRRXdEf7IeO7D65h6toz49WFSkxdWYLNj_4/s1600/Santa+story.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2AMUrh1jnt_XPxJJsx_qrx_iK2G4i1uHFOnsvEI1hZP5moQjhFupOsMAVvk9-69awS4HmlQCTWJq9CFRiohZBht-gc3EpAqnN5leSiIBUBRRXdEf7IeO7D65h6toz49WFSkxdWYLNj_4/s400/Santa+story.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amy's son Zach and Santa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I realized after reading Amy’s story that the magic of
Christmas doesn’t fade as we get older. We somehow just lose faith in all of
it. We have so many other things in our lives to deal with that we struggle
sometimes to find the joy in the simple spirit of the holiday. Ray gave that
spirit back to countless people. Amy’s story is only one of thousands that have
been popping up on social media. This man was undoubtedly the real Santa. When
I think of Santa, I think of a kind, gentle, giving person who listens when
someone needs him and knows exactly what people need. He didn’t need Amy to
tell him what she wanted for Christmas. He knew. He knew she just wanted to
feel the joy of Christmas with her son. She wanted him to feel the excitement.
She wanted to feel the magic. Ray gave her that. He didn’t rush her and her son
Zach through a line of crying kids. He stood up and looked at her when she
needed it most and told her she mattered. He told her she was more than good
enough and he hugged her. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are real
Santas all around us. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/JenniferLizzaWriter/photos/pb.542255795815053.-2207520000.1481247439./1385487694825188/?type=3&theater">Bob</a> showed me that last week, and Amy’s story further proved
it to be true. You see Santa is real. He is the kindness we find in a person we
don’t know. He is the joy we see in our children. He is the spirit of
Christmas. Christmas is not about stressing out trying to find the hottest sold
out toy. It’s not about getting your kids to smile perfectly for your overpriced
card (guilty). It’s about finding time for people. It’s about finding time for
love and kindness. It’s about letting those around you know that they matter to
you. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Ray Beesley taught us that every year. There was a
reason his lines were so long, and it wasn’t just because he did in fact look
like the most perfect Santa. It wasn’t just because every child on that line
believed he was Santa. It was because every parent believed it too. It was because, if only for a moment the stress seemed to lift and we were able to once again
feel the magic. We walked into that building as adults full of stress thinking
about our long lists and all the things we had left to do, but we left feeling
the magic and joy of the season. We left not only full of joy as we watched our
children smile and skip to the car. We left remembering the child we once were, and even if only for a couple of hours the innocence of the holiday returned to
us. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Ray left us all too early, but I for one just know that
he is somewhere else bringing the joy back to so many who have missed it for
all too long. Ray “Santa” Beesley had bigger things to do, and there is no doubt
that he is doing them as only he could. Thank you Ray. Thank you for reminding us about the true meaning of the Christmas season. Thank you for allowing us to <i>Believe</i>. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6YsDAqSsCrfmNHDLBRaq867sdeqL70XD95n4Ba6tyL8tTy9J7WOi4Jb3GU7QMEkywbO8CXQJSTQyCrFqBEGb2IcMSNqE1Kc69s2edoZa76qQHpYSrzFTkZwC1ziu1hchgnFxPkxMAZg/s1600/1208161943.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6YsDAqSsCrfmNHDLBRaq867sdeqL70XD95n4Ba6tyL8tTy9J7WOi4Jb3GU7QMEkywbO8CXQJSTQyCrFqBEGb2IcMSNqE1Kc69s2edoZa76qQHpYSrzFTkZwC1ziu1hchgnFxPkxMAZg/s400/1208161943.jpg" width="327" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My boys with Ray "Santa" Beesley</td></tr>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-23744795826921176892016-11-06T22:29:00.000-05:002016-11-07T08:12:27.815-05:00Ten Steps Towards A Real Friendship<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are times as a parent that I find myself looking at
my kids and feeling a little bit of envy towards their youth. After all they
have more energy than I can muster after a full night of sleep and an entire
pot of coffee. They also have the endless ability to use their imaginations and
act silly while receiving zero judgment (people look at me funny when I run
around my yard chasing bubbles). They still believe in the good in everything.
They don’t have adult responsibilities to ponder as they desperately try to
fall asleep at night. No. My kids get in bed and blissfully fall asleep while dreaming
about ice cream and a game of kickball, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Childhood should be chock full of innocence and smiles and void of stress and
sleepless nights. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The one thing I don’t envy though is navigating through
the ups and downs of unestablished friendships. If there is anything that I
have learned in my forty years it’s how to know the difference between a real
friendship and a fake one. I no longer have the patience for nonsense or fair
weather friends. Age and experience have taught me a thing or two about
friendships over the years. I haven’t escaped without a few cuts and bruises,
mostly to my pride but I’m better off for it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I think one of the most important lessons we can teach
our children is how to be a good friend. I want my kids to be able to recognize a good
apple from a bad apple in the bunch but I also want them to know what it takes
to be the good apple. It’s not always easy and if we are being honest I haven’t
always been a good friend when I should have been, but with life lessons and
maturity I have learned what it takes to be a good friend. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<ol>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Be a
good listener. Good friends take the time to not only hear your words but to
really listen to them. No one wants to talk to someone who is always talking.
Take a breath. Listen. It means more than you realize.</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Show
up. It sounds easy but not many people do it so when you find someone who shows
up without being asked you have found a friend. Be that friend. Show up for the
good stuff. Show up for the bad stuff. Just show up. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5p5uYIbUPOP7WQUArKZIQHCm9MYuR8baqxGgZrxV1k8-lNwSIfhqwVucyJDcUyKEVhzQAUfgvXvviqdHWDk2z4HncokZ5y6s236xV_YzTR6zhUzs_yKfb9COu28miHzrHQhvaDiMLwUE/s1600/0902161743.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5p5uYIbUPOP7WQUArKZIQHCm9MYuR8baqxGgZrxV1k8-lNwSIfhqwVucyJDcUyKEVhzQAUfgvXvviqdHWDk2z4HncokZ5y6s236xV_YzTR6zhUzs_yKfb9COu28miHzrHQhvaDiMLwUE/s400/0902161743.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Stand
next to and up for your friends. When someone is your friend you don’t always have
to agree with them but you should always want to stand up for them. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjF_vKpjhKcaHzpPchoVAw32fx6qo0t5nxFV-kD5bNzsyJyFO79H69Jop1G86zUl2SPNeCIZBvDPrR7BgPAWblPiC8E6ecYdSUavNmlaq3793Tx5-7W0eZD5CcBZ49vvQ_hvjqbV5VxwA/s1600/0807161714b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjF_vKpjhKcaHzpPchoVAw32fx6qo0t5nxFV-kD5bNzsyJyFO79H69Jop1G86zUl2SPNeCIZBvDPrR7BgPAWblPiC8E6ecYdSUavNmlaq3793Tx5-7W0eZD5CcBZ49vvQ_hvjqbV5VxwA/s400/0807161714b.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Don’t
talk about them. Talk to them. If you have a problem with one of your buddies
tell them. Don’t tell everyone else instead of them. Real friends tell each
other when they’ve done something to upset them. Be direct. Be honest. It says
a lot about your character.</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Celebrate
their achievements. You and your friends didn’t learn to crawl or walk at the
same time. Your successes are going to ebb and flow. It might take you a little
longer than your friend to find your success but be happy for them. Cheer them
on and they will return the favor by rooting for you. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKDwCd6CVvzKsQhEUW795ZhyThDCnbn7oYNxQBqtlpG4BtJy1sC0GCZGOA_nq2HVAO_oFXeXwAumBMz6x7JW-ythhyphenhyphensT2TsdG66b-CnI4NcuZ079VEXWvbs0xz-krDe3fNsp0GNf9vIw/s1600/0610161112a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKDwCd6CVvzKsQhEUW795ZhyThDCnbn7oYNxQBqtlpG4BtJy1sC0GCZGOA_nq2HVAO_oFXeXwAumBMz6x7JW-ythhyphenhyphensT2TsdG66b-CnI4NcuZ079VEXWvbs0xz-krDe3fNsp0GNf9vIw/s320/0610161112a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Embrace
them during their failures. Life is about learning. We cannot learn if we don’t
fail along the way. When we fail we need someone to tell us it’s going to be
okay. We need someone who will tell us to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off
and keep trying until we succeed. Be that person.</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Believe
in your friend. Believe in their dreams. Believe in their hopes. Don’t minimize
any of that because in doing so you deplete the air from their balloon. No one
wants to be friends with someone who sucks the air out of their balloon.
Balloons make people happy. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidWlKWEw1LbCHMcs7pYrOP_37P3sz6WJ1GGcMinBwtf84fKVCjarLZdmlxe85ow76ZhfBL3iVZR38w0vq4eBljG4k-mPuFU4m9-YcD3oFjQ_P-vCcERSgoALUTzHzXIGTWBoF25U0b_k4/s1600/0630161305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidWlKWEw1LbCHMcs7pYrOP_37P3sz6WJ1GGcMinBwtf84fKVCjarLZdmlxe85ow76ZhfBL3iVZR38w0vq4eBljG4k-mPuFU4m9-YcD3oFjQ_P-vCcERSgoALUTzHzXIGTWBoF25U0b_k4/s320/0630161305.jpg" width="284" /></a></div>
</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Allow
them to be who they are and be the real you whenever you are with them. Real
friends don’t have to change themselves to be friends. They love each other for
exactly who they are. They love the good, the bad, and the ugly. You don’t always
have to like your friends but if you are real friends you will always love
them. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWBxaTk7VIArYp5N6xf-AMAiWX-1LNAwLOzCxB0LVjaiJ42bhyw3oC5iTb5hztJvLGEVFukfgTN7mChfpE_OJyUaGajzxCeXTy6IcP8AD8GWgxyPLsqINDaS2p2PX0jOZfgmcfTOSJrPk/s1600/0902161152d+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWBxaTk7VIArYp5N6xf-AMAiWX-1LNAwLOzCxB0LVjaiJ42bhyw3oC5iTb5hztJvLGEVFukfgTN7mChfpE_OJyUaGajzxCeXTy6IcP8AD8GWgxyPLsqINDaS2p2PX0jOZfgmcfTOSJrPk/s320/0902161152d+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Be
silly, be vulnerable, cry, laugh and have fun with your friends. Don’t be the
fun vacuum. No one wants to be friends with someone who walks into the room and
sucks the fun right out. Don’t be afraid to have fun. Don’t be afraid to laugh
until you cry, and definitely don’t be afraid to cry when you need to. Friends
who are willing to show emotion in front of each other form a deeper bond because
of it. The things you laugh and cry about will change as you grow older but the
bond will remain the same.</span></li>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; text-indent: -0.25in;">Call
your friend out if they need it. You know who they are and you know who they
want to be so if you see your friend headed down a path that will take them far
away from both of those places call them out on it. You might lose them for a
little while but they will come back.</span></li>
</ol>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Life is about making connections. The bonds we form and
the relationships we build enhance the life we lead. They take work but they
shouldn’t feel so hard that you are exhausted from them. The relationships
worth fighting for and working on will not always be obvious to you, but when
you realize one is, I know you will both give them your all. The thing is, every
person who comes into your life comes into it for a reason. Some will leave you
and some will stay, but each one will teach you something about yourself that
you wouldn’t have known without them. Enjoy the simple things. Take in the moments. Don't worry so much about the years and the memories because in the end the moments that you show up for will make up the memories that you will look back upon for years. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILcC3fJiIBGm1fB8YCCIgNfwAsLmFsCaMqaSBmGtzh9bJfIctcGhR0EsXerAOmrjiy2YsRbK_qGvFTalj98_pqhPInkLRZ1IUp3OM_zdx4fN5KzpnZWGScyCBuo3HZ8ONG7cdDuIH_2c/s1600/Friends4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILcC3fJiIBGm1fB8YCCIgNfwAsLmFsCaMqaSBmGtzh9bJfIctcGhR0EsXerAOmrjiy2YsRbK_qGvFTalj98_pqhPInkLRZ1IUp3OM_zdx4fN5KzpnZWGScyCBuo3HZ8ONG7cdDuIH_2c/s400/Friends4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-79403560140931884412016-10-05T22:39:00.000-04:002016-10-06T09:09:52.212-04:00To My Last Baby<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When the doctor announced you were a boy and gently laid
you on my chest I didn’t know at the time that you would be my last. When you
wrapped your little hand around my finger and our eyes met for the first time I
had no idea that it would be the last time I experienced a bond so new. When I
brought you home and rocked you in the nursery I didn’t know at the time that
you would be the last baby to make that nursery a home. Looking back, I realize that just like the
firsts were so very special with your brother, the lasts were just as special
with you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s ironic that when I first found out I was pregnant
with you I was both excited and yet somehow still nervous. I was so very afraid there just wouldn’t be
enough of me to equally love you and your brother. Oh how wrong I was. The
moment you were born I quickly <span style="background-color: white;">figured out </span>that I didn’t have to share my heart
with you both, instead my heart grew bigger. It grew so big that I immediately
knew having “enough love” was never going to be a problem of ours. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There of course came a point in time that I did in fact
realize you were the last puzzle piece. You were the part of our family that
was missing and with you our family became complete. Of course with that
epiphany came the realization that you were the last baby. I want you to know
that being the last baby comes with a great deal of responsibility and honor.
You see your brother paved the way. He was our first, but you my love, you are
our last. Your brother started our family and you completed it. The engine of
the train leads the way, but without the caboose the train would be missing
something. You are our caboose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In case you should ever start to doubt just how much you
mean to me I want you to take this letter and keep it with you always. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My dearest caboose,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My love for you was big from day one and only grew
bigger. I wasn’t always good about
writing down your milestones but each and every one of them is etched in my
mind and they will remain there…always. The first time you called me mama, the
first time you laughed, the first time you crawled, the first time you walked,
and the very first time you ran and didn’t look back right away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I remember the smell of your head. I remember the
softness of your feet. That is love. Love holds onto these little moments. I
remember your first day of preschool and in a blink there we were at your
preschool graduation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I remember putting you on the big school bus for the
first time and knowing you were ready but doubting that I was. I wasn’t. I remember comforting you when you were
scared and sharing in your excitement when you hit your first baseball. I
remember your joy of art projects and spending my days picking up scraps of
paper remnants while my feet stuck to random pieces of tape. I remember knowing
that I would surely miss them both. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I remember the way you passionately called every child in
your class your friend before saying their name when you would tell me a story
about them at the dinner table. I remember the way you looked up to your
brother. I remember the way you just wanted to play with the big kids. I
remember when you became the big kid. I thought I was ready. I wasn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I remember the way you gave everything your all. I remember
knowing you were always going to try your hardest, you were going to love big,
and you were going to always be a giant light shining in the dark. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I remember the many times I smiled with pride and hid the
tears as to not embarrass you, but they were there. They were always there. With every step, every turn, every milestone
you amaze me. You make my heart continue to grow. One day I will be standing in a sea of
parents watching our babies graduate from high school. I want you to know
that the tears are my way of trying to let go of the baby who first wrapped his
hand around my finger and the smile is my way of letting you know that it’s
okay. It’s OK, because in letting go you somehow make my heart continue to
grow. In the end your brother is the
engine and you are the caboose, but I am the engineer and once I get you both safely
to where you are going my job is complete, which is ironic because my dear
caboose you completed me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"and </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">she loved</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">a </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">little boy</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">very, very much</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">-even more</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">than</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">-she loved</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">herself."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Shel Silverstein <i>The Giving Tree</i></span></div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-71479283079659969322016-07-09T22:47:00.001-04:002016-07-10T09:55:56.418-04:00Tomorrow Will Be Better<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When I was a kid I was convinced I could save the world.
The funny part about that is not necessarily the naivety of me thinking I could
save the world, it is the fact that I had no idea what the world needed saving
from. When I was five years old I loved everything about everyone. I went to
kindergarten and adored my teacher. Her name was Ms. Langer and she wore
lavender skirt suits with lavender pumps to match. She was every five year old
girl’s idol. She was quite literally mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My days were filled with school bus rides, finger
painting, nap time and music. They were full of laughter, playtime, and a
complete feeling of being surrounded by a giant bubble of love and security…only
I didn’t know that then. There was this boy in my kindergarten class named
Wally. He was different from the rest of us. The year was 1981. Wally acted out
often in class. He talked back to the teacher. He cried. He screamed and for
some reason the teacher always sat him right next to me. The first day that my
idol of a teacher sat him next to me I was upset. I thought that she was doing
it as some type of punishment. I thought I must have done something wrong to
deserve sitting next to the worst kid in the entire kindergarten class. When it
came time for snack and milk Wally smiled at me and then proceeded to spit an
entire mouth full of milk directly in my face. He was promptly sent to the principal
and I was quickly ushered over to the sink to wash my face. When my father
greeted me at the bus that day and asked how my day was I quickly responded
with, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Not good. Wally spit milk
at me.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My father looked at me and
said, “Oh is that right? He spit milk at you?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes. He spit an entire
mouth full of chocolate milk at me daddy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Well it sounds like Wally
was having a bad day. </span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> I bet tomorrow will be better.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The next day at snack time Wally looked at me and sure
enough he spit milk at me yet again. He was sent to the principal and I was
walked to the sink to wash my face…again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “How was
school honey?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Not
good. Wally spit milk at me AGAIN.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Did you
ask him why he spit milk at you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “No. He
went to the principal before I could ask him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Spitting milk is gross.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Of
course it is honey, but maybe Wally is sad about something.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Sad? I
don’t want anyone to be sad.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Maybe Wally just needs a
friend. Maybe he just needs someone to smile at him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The next day I went into school and I sat down at my
desk. I looked at Wally and I said hello. He looked back like a deer in
headlights and he said hello back. We wound up becoming “chore buddies” for the
remainder of the year. We fed the hamster together. We handed out milk together.
We barely spoke, but we said hello every morning and goodbye every afternoon.
He never spit milk at me again. At the start of first grade my teacher sat
Wally next to me and I asked him how his summer was. He smiled and said it was
okay. My family and I moved at the end of that year and I have no idea what
happened to Wally after that. I worried for the first half of second grade
about who Wally was sitting next to and I hoped that they were being nice to
him. I hoped that he was able to find someone to be his friendly smile
throughout his day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The remainder of my elementary school days were happy and
middle school appeared faster than I could have imagined. Once I got into high
school I became obsessed with saving the world. That’s right. The world. I was
super realistic. Homeless? I was going to feed and shelter every one of them.
Sick? I was going to fund their treatments and find their cures. Equality? Is
that even an issue? Everyone is the same no? Everyone is the same? Apparently
not. To me though the answer was simple, the answer was yes. We are all human
beings and we are all the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I had many an argument at the kitchen table with my
father about all of it. If it had been up to me my parents would have been
running a shelter out of their kitchen. We would have been handing out money to
those who needed it and not questioning them on their way out the door. As I
spewed my ideas of saving the world, my father explained to me how the real
world just didn’t work that way. The very man who had told me to go ask the
milk spewing kid how his day was going told me I just didn’t get it. He was
right. I didn’t get it. The world was much more complicated than I realized at the
time. Don’t get me wrong it wasn’t that my father didn’t want to raise me to be
someone who wanted to save the world and help people, it was that he wanted me
to understand not everything is that simple. He wanted me to realize I was
setting myself up for giant disappointment. He wanted me to realize not every
person needing help was a milk spitting five year old. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My father is a man who drops everything to help anyone.
In 1986 the towns around us were hit by a major flood. My father dropped
everything to help those families by working on their homes in his spare time.
He was the guy who would stay two hours late at work because one of his
employees needed someone to talk to about the sudden death of their mother. He
was saving the world in his own way while trying to prevent me from giving too
much of myself and getting nothing in return. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Fast forward to today. I’m a mom of two boys. I still
want to save the world only now I know how impossible that is. Now I know the
problems are so much bigger than me. They are so much bigger than simply asking
someone how they are doing. Right? They are bigger than that? Yes. They. Are. Now I want to save the world because I brought
two additional humans into it. I brought two boys into a world I don’t
understand and I love them more than I ever thought humanly possible. If there
was ever a time for me to save the world it would be now. It really isn’t that
simple though. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The other morning I turned on the news and I stood in my
kitchen and cried. I cried because I feel helpless. I cried because I want it
all to stop. I cried because I thought about my five year old self and how I
just wanted everyone to be OK. I just wanted everyone to be happy. I thought
about the fact that I now have an eight year old and a five year old and how
all they want is for everyone to be included. They are good kids who feel sad
when someone else is sad. They feel joy when someone else feels joy. They feel
and I never want them to lose that. I never want them to lose the ability to
feel empathy. As far as I’m concerned empathy is not an optional human emotion.
It is a vital human emotion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We have become a society with our faces buried in our
phones. Our emotions are expressed through our Facebook status or a quick
Twitter update. Our Instagram shows our life in pictures and our Snap Chat
tells our friends how we feel about them. How can we raise a generation of
empathetic, emotional, human beings when we have taken away all the tools they
need to be those people? You see the only tools you need to be an empathetic
human being are your heart, your brain and your ability to feel things. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In the last week I have watched people I know fight on
Facebook. I have watched people share videos of idiotic media personalities
sharing their opinions on what is happening in our country because WE have
forgotten how to find our own words. I have watched people tear each other
apart. I have watched people attack each other over their appearance in
Facebook pictures because they didn’t agree with the words the other one typed.
I have seen people attack someone else’s children because they assumed they
only sided with police or they only sided with Black Lives Matter. I have seen
enough to make me want to quit, only I don’t know what I would be quitting. We
can’t quit society. We may want to…but we can’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You see somewhere deep down the five year old in me wants
to pull my chair up to the milk spitting kid and just smile. I want to ask him
how his day is going. I want to tell him he is not being judged. I want to tell
him I will be his friend. I want it to be that simple. I want it all to be that
simple. Despite the fact that my father warned me that simplicity was something
adults were not blessed with I wanted to believe otherwise. I wanted to believe
that life was simpler than adults made it out to be. As far as I can see we
complicate everything. We make it harder than it needs to be. We are doing it
all wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I am a mother. I am of the belief that I am supposed to
be teaching my children to become empathetic, loving adults and in doing so I
realize that they are in fact teaching me. Children are our reflection. They do
as they see. The thing is everything is a mess right now. It’s a big old mess.
Stop sharing someone else’s opinion. Just stop. Instead find a way to reach out
to an actual human being. I can’t even begin to imagine what it feels like to
be a police officer in our country right now or to be married to or the mother
of or the child of an officer for that matter. I also have no idea what it
feels like to be black in our country. I have no clue and for me to spew
opinions as if I do, would just be ignorant. So here is what I will say. I stand
with you. I stand with all of you because it is not my job to judge. It is not
my place to argue or shout words that will not make any of this better. All I
can offer is empathy and love. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">All I can hope is that at some point we will all
find a way to make this better not just for us but for the generation to
follow. I can only hope that we all want to create the best reflection for them
to emulate. We can do this. We can be better. We can find better words. We can
be kind. We can and if you find yourself saying you can’t then YOU are the
problem. We can find a way to wipe the spit milk off of our stubborn faces. We
can find a way to look at the kid spitting the milk. We can look him in the
eyes and we tell him we see him. We can tell him we really see him and we can
change more than we realize. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-82689938467382270962016-06-08T00:06:00.000-04:002016-06-08T08:14:12.438-04:00A Bittersweet Goodbye To Preschool<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bittersweet. People use the word all the time but when you find yourself in a situation that
fits the word, it is often more bitter than it is sweet. It’s often difficult
to describe our emotions when we find ourselves in one of these “bittersweet”
situations. More often than not it is because we are in uncharted territory. We
are navigating waters we have yet to travel and it feels almost impossible to
determine our exact feelings when we are having a difficult time getting our
bearings. This is parenthood. The milestones we reach with our children are
bittersweet. We want them to grow. We want them to change. We want them to
succeed. Those are the sweet spots. It’s the letting go we are forced to do in
the process that it is bitter. After all wasn’t it just yesterday that we held
them for the first time and whispered in their tiny little ear how we had never
loved anyone this much? Sure it was. To us it will always be yesterday.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My youngest
is graduating from preschool and while that sounds like the smallest of the
milestones to some, it is one of the biggest to me. You see preschool was a
magical time for us. It was a time that he got to go out on his own without me
for a little while, but was still right with me every step of the way. He left
me to learn his letters, numbers and colors. He left me to play trucks with his
friends. He left me to put puzzles together and have snack time with his pals.
He left me to play dress up. He left me to make hand prints on paper and watch
butterflies come to life. He left me skipping with a backpack that was way too
big for him to find out which one of his new friends had brought in cupcakes
for their birthday. He left me, but only for a short time. The moment I picked
him up he told me all about every minute of his day. He told me all about story
time. He told me all about that funny thing that Frankie’s brother did. He told
me everything. Every. Single. Thing. I don’t know much, but I know enough to
know it won’t always be this way. Preschool is a short two or three years but
it means so much more than the time reflects. As we come to the end of this
journey I realize it is not just an ending for him, it is one for me as well. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To the moms
I met in preschool,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We might not
have realized it at the time but we met each other at the sweet spot. We came together
at a time of innocence. Our children knew each other before they knew anything
about the big wide world that is awaiting them. Our children did not care about
where any of us came from. They only cared about snack time and play time. They
cared about who had a great story to share. They cared about the kid who was
crying because he missed his mom. They cared about the child who was absent and
wanted to know why and when they would return. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">They didn’t
care about what their friends were wearing to school. They cared about their
friend who couldn’t have nuts and made sure to remind their mommy to bring a
snack she could safely have. They didn’t care about what their parents drove to
school. They cared about knowing who their mommy was and making sure they didn’t
leave if she was running late to soccer. They didn’t care about what their last
name stood for because they were just so proud to be able to recognize it at
circle time. They embraced one another’s differences without having to point
them out. They encouraged each other to be themselves. They were inclusive.
They were the epitome of innocence. They never cared about status. They never
cared about the exterior. All they ever cared about was each other. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The end of
this time is bittersweet not only for us, but for them even though they don’t
realize it now. They were able to enjoy a time of innocence with zero judgment.
They were able to be who they are without anyone telling them they should
change. They were confident. They were proud. They were kind. They were
helpful. They were what we all wish on a daily basis we had the courage to be.
They were true to themselves. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ironically
we got to experience that too. We were a group of moms thrown into a school
without knowing each other, but because we had children who were judgment free,
we too were able to remain that way. We were able to show up at pick up every
day and talk to one another without issue. After all we have children who are
not hurting each other emotionally or physically. We have children who set an example.
We have children who have yet to be exposed to the hurt of the outside world.
Here we thought we had popped the bubble by enrolling them in preschool only to
realize we have been happily living inside one all along. I want to tell you all that this is a time I
will forever treasure. My son will grow and move on and he may from time to
time mention a pal from preschool. I want you to know that when he does I will
look back on those memories with nothing but fondness. I will look back at a
time when we all held the innocence of their age. I will look back at the
special days, soccer games, music classes and field trips and I will smile. I
will remember my son just like this because of all of you. We have no way of
knowing what the future holds for our children, but what we do know is that the
past will hold a treasure of beautiful childhood memories. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The ironic
part of our preschool experience is the realization that we can learn so much
from them. If we were somehow able to bottle up the innocence and have it carry
on through high school and adulthood it would be amazing. If we were able to
show adults what is really means to act like a kind human being, our kids would
be the example. Sure High School gets all the glory but Preschool is the place
where innocence still lives. Preschool is where judgment doesn’t exist and love
is a word thrown around with meaning. Our kids are graduating preschool but I
hope they carry the lessons they learned there with them forever. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All my best,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Jen</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj307pSNGER8U0Ztg4tLGNklVB7F0-Du6igHYrHukBs-FWM13Y_1n2CKHs7zwaKSPJ-Oz3ak5A7w9SGz9biouMd4aH3Ff6pf7txR_PZz5fe2xsTkQW0Abcou0_bgI4QgDKlznYGCWLUWNw/s1600/Fish+kid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj307pSNGER8U0Ztg4tLGNklVB7F0-Du6igHYrHukBs-FWM13Y_1n2CKHs7zwaKSPJ-Oz3ak5A7w9SGz9biouMd4aH3Ff6pf7txR_PZz5fe2xsTkQW0Abcou0_bgI4QgDKlznYGCWLUWNw/s400/Fish+kid.jpg" width="340" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Learning to swim on his own.<br />
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-28343712572811773542016-04-26T17:00:00.000-04:002017-01-06T14:41:01.564-05:00A Trip To China-The Day I Had To Take My Kid To The Gynecologist <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">When you become a mother all humility pretty much
goes out the window. It starts when you’re in labor and from what I can tell it
continues until your kids move out of your house. I no longer get privacy when
I pee, shower or change. I was considering bolting the door closed but I have
the sneaky suspicion that they will find an open window or a way to propel in
from the roof. Kids are good at finding you. They really should work for the FBI.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">My kids are getting older so we have actually
started to lay some ground rules about not walking in on mommy in her granny
panties. I mean good grief I don’t need an entire preschool class getting a
full on description of my underwear during circle time. I still have nightmares
about the time my oldest walked in on me peeing before preschool. He asked why
my penis looked funny to which I replied, “Honey mommy doesn’t have a penis. I
have a vagina. Now can you please get out so I can finish and we can go?” I
remember thinking I handled it perfectly. Crisis averted. Therapy avoided. Then
we walked into preschool and he told all the moms in the lobby that his mommy
has a penis on the inside. “It’s so weird. You can’t even see it.” He’s almost
eight now and I know he doesn’t remember this but I’m fairly certain there are
a few mothers from that class that still talk about me at their book club while
clutching their pearls. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">My oldest is pretty good about boundaries and
privacy. I think it is because he is suddenly realizing he too would like some
privacy while using the toilet. I’m glad to have him on board. My four year old
on the other hand still doesn’t get it. He would gladly greet the mailman in
his underwear. He still thinks it’s ok to pee in the backyard even if we have
company. I thank potty training during the summer months for that one. Now when
I tell him it’s unacceptable I’m often met with, “But the dog does it.” It’s
hard to argue with a four year old. Their thoughts make complete and perfect
sense to them and trying to argue with them is like banging your head into a
brick wall over and over and expecting it to collapse. The wall will still be
standing but you will wind up with a massive headache. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I can tell you any advances I was making with
teaching my four year old about boundaries were thrown out the window this
morning. Today I had to do something that I have never had to do. I had to
bring him with me for my annual exam at the gynecologist. Yes. That’s right. He
had to come to the lady doctor with me. First off let me just say that in our
house we have always referred to body parts by their real names. Despite the fact that the word vagina has been said in our home, the four year old still
thinks it’s called a China. I know this because the other day on the way to
school he asked me if all girls have a China. I told him yes and he then
proceeded to name every single girl and woman we have ever met in our entire
lives and repeat, “Fill<u> in 80 names here</u> has a China. We hit every traffic light that day because of
course we would. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">This morning I carefully explained to him that he
was going to have to come with me to the doctor. Ladies you all know how hard it is to get an
appointment with the OBGYN especially if you see a group and you want someone
specific, so cancelling was just out of the question. I told him he could pick
a special snack to have afterwards if he was good. I told him he could bring
his iPad. I have never hoped and prayed more that my child would stare at a
screen than I did this morning. I told him it would be quick. He agreed to all
the bribes and we were on our way. When we arrived there was what seemed like
an unusually high amount of pregnant women in the waiting area. Now I know that
this is where pregnant women go to get checked, but I’m telling you it seemed
like every other chair had a pregnant woman sitting in it. The four year old
turned to me and with a lower than normal voice (thank you Jesus) said “Geez
mommy why do so many ladies here have babies in their bellies? Is this where
you come to get one put in? Are you having a baby put in today?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Mrs. Lizza can I have you fill out an updated
information sheet for me.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Again thank you Jesus. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Before I knew it I was being called in for my exam.
This is where it gets dicey. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">The nurse weighed me (can I at least take my damn
shoes off) and then she asked me to give her a urine sample. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"> 4yo: “What’s
urine?” Volume level: 400<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Me: “It’s pee
honey. Be quiet and follow me.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"> 4yo: “Ewwww.
You have to give her your pee???” Volume
level: 850<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Me: “Yes. Come
into the bathroom and close the door.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"> 4yo: “How are
you going to give her your pee? In your hands?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Me: “No. In a
cup.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"> 4yo: “A
CUP??? You mean that thing. It’s so big. Do you have to fill the whole thing
with your pee?” Volume level: 1,105.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me: “Honey, please. I can’t pee with you being so
loud.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">4yo: “Why not? Is your pee scared of my voice? Because
that would be weird.” Volume level: 2,200.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I then proceeded to hand my bucket of fearful pee to
the nurse and walk into the exam room. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">4yo: *Pointing to foot stirrups* “What on earth are
those things?” Volume level: I’m sweating. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">The nurse handed me my paper doily to keep me warm
(laughable) while wearing my open in the front gown. I didn’t need the paper
doily today though because I was sweating from the fear of the future therapy
bill for both me and my son. All I kept thinking was <i>oh my God we are going to have to remortgage the house for the therapy
bills. We might have to move. Circle time. Oh for the love he has circle time tomorrow.
</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">The nurse then proceeded to ask me what my husband
and I were using for birth control and all I could think was THIS. We are using
this very day as our birth control. It will work for now and all of eternity.
She looked at me and asked if I wanted to speak in code. In code? Is there some
secret code language for mothers who have to bring their child with them to
this appointment that I don’t know about? Could someone have handed me a
pamphlet in the waiting room? I don’t know code. Instead I proceeded to mouth
my answers and much to my delight she understood me. God bless her. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">She told me the doctor would be in shortly and told
my son he could sit in the chair against the wall facing the stirrups. Now I
was really sweating. I was considering high tailing it out of there because I
was picturing him going into school and me getting phone call after phone call
from every mother in the class. As I put the gown on, my four year old was
laughing. I looked at him and said,</span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">“OK honey. It’s not funny. I have to wear this.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">4yo: “What is it? It has a big hole in the entire
thing. It doesn’t even make sense. You won’t let me wear those jeans to school
anymore that have a hole in the knee.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Just as I was about to tell him he could wear them
to school every day for the rest of the year, the doctor walked in. She talked
to him for a little and then to me. She stood up and looked at me and said OK
well what are we going to do with him? Hmm. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hey buddy, come with me I bet the nurses have some
work you could do at the nurses’ station.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">4yo: “YES!! Awesome!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me: “YES!! SO Awesome.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Her: “Yeah I don’t need to be the reason he needs
therapy.” *Wink* <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was like she was in my brain. Oh thank you Jesus.
My four year old does not have to witness my annual China exam. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">She came back in and we laughed and laughed about
being mothers, having boys and dealing with things our husbands simply could
never understand. As I walked out my son was sitting with the nurses sorting
through stickers for all the kids who come in with their mommies. I told him it
was time to go and he stood up with a smile. The woman in front of me was
expecting and she was making an appointment for her next ultrasound. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Volume Level 200,000: “So Mommy did you get one of
those put in today or what?” He starts
kindergarten in the fall so thankfully he will never have to come with me to
the China doctor agai</span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">n</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-53263589443416562542016-04-20T21:31:00.000-04:002016-04-20T22:29:26.997-04:00The Picture Book <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If you have
a Facebook account you are well aware of the <i>See Your Memories</i> feature. If you don’t have an account here’s a
brief rundown. Facebook gathers your memories from that particular day from a
year, two, five or even six years ago and reminds you of exactly what you did
that day all those years ago. OK so in the grand scheme of life five years
really isn’t all that long ago. Most high schools don’t even host a five year
reunion. I mean what would be the point am I right? Five years post-graduation
doesn’t allow you to miss people enough to care about asking them a million
questions about what they are up to now. Just me? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Unlike the
President of your graduating class, Facebook doesn’t want you to miss a memory
so they don’t care if it was a mere five years ago. They want you to see your
memories and they hope it’s going to make you feel all the feels. Sometimes my
memories make me feel nothing because it’s just a whole day of things I shared
that I thought were funny, or maybe a recipe I wanted to make or a picture of a
bird. Why the heck did I take a picture of a flipping bird? I apologize to all
my friends. I digress. Other times Facebook succeeds and makes me feel all the
feels. ALL. THE. FEELS. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This tends
to happen when I haphazardly pull up Facebook on my phone while my boys are
busy getting their backpacks on (also known as wrestling until I lose my mind)
and BAM it’s a picture of my seven year old as a newborn. Oh it’s like a kick
to the gut. Then wham a video of my almost five year old learning to crawl. OH FOR THE LOVE! I love reminiscing just as much as the next person but I can’t
always handle the reminder that my boys have grown and changed faster than I
thought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You see the
mornings are crazy, after school is nuts, trying to make dinner is chaotic and
bedtime, oh geez I’m tired just thinking about that fiasco. So it’s not always
easy to step back and take a breath. It’s not easy to think about how far my
boys have come from the days of snuggles and blowout diapers. Yet here we are
in a new place of wedgies and fart noises and on the days I think I can’t take
one more minute, Facebook shows me a picture of them as toddlers covered in
pudding and I laugh and laugh. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Every time
Facebook shows me a memory I am immediately thrown back into a time when things
were simpler yet somehow hard. I find myself reminded of so much more than the
fact that I look older (and oh man do I), or that they look older, or that time
has moved. I am reminded that with each stage of parenthood there are new
challenges, new things to learn and new little people developing right in front
of me. I felt so focused on their development when they were babies because
that is what we are taught to do. We are taught to watch for their milestones,
make sure they are pooping enough, eating enough, sleeping enough etc. Now that
they are older I find myself focusing on making sure everything is done for
school. I make sure they make all their activities and have a packed lunch with
the appropriate number of snacks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I stress
about making the right amount of events for each of them so they both feel
special and loved. I want to make sure they are both reading enough and not
getting too much screen time. I want them to play outside and drink plenty of
water. I want, I stress, I need and I love over these two human beings that
didn’t even exist at one time in my life. I lived thirty three years without
knowing them yet here I am unable to imagine living a day without them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I have
learned to love the <i>See Your Memories</i>
feature on Facebook but the thing is I don’t need it to know what we were doing
five years ago. Sure I might not remember what we were doing this exact day
five years ago, but somehow when you become a parent you create a picture book
in your mind. It’s an amazing feature. I go to it often. In fact today as I
watched my four year old run around with his friends at a preschool sports
program I remembered watching his brother do the same while I held him in my
arms and fed him his bottle. As my seven year old got off the school bus today
I remembered the days I used to see our neighbor’s kids do the same. One of
them is a police officer now. Time moves. It moves for everyone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The beauty
of time moving for parents is the ability to see our children grow and change. My
parents have a tree in their front yard that was a tiny little thing when I was
little. I never noticed it growing but today it stands tall. It stands proud.
It was growing all those years right in front of me. That tree grew much like my
children do, day after day, year after year right in front of me. It’s the
picture book in our minds that allows us to realize just how much they have
grown. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I will
continue to look at the memories Facebook provides me but I will forever hold
onto the memories I am creating in my mind. One day I will be that old lady who
tells young moms how fast it goes. Sure I hate when people say it to me, but I
think that’s because I know it’s true. Parenthood is hard. Anyone who says
otherwise is lying, but I look at it this way, the beginning of a great novel
can move slowly. The middle feels steady and interesting. The end always goes
way too fast and when you get to that last line you always wish it didn’t have
to end. You often find yourself wanting to start the book all over again. I
think that’s why people with grown kids always tell those of us who are in the
middle of all the chaos with little ones to enjoy it. They got to the end of
that great book and they would do anything to read it all over again from the beginning.
We are all writing our own story and just like any great novel it will be full
of ups and downs but in the end it is our story with the characters we created
and just like our Facebook memories, it will be one we will look at over and
over again for quite some time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1392783402439275211.post-28071202293703113702016-03-19T23:21:00.000-04:002016-03-19T23:51:04.645-04:00Moments Turn Into Memories<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What is in a
moment? Is one moment not just a blip in all the moments of our lives? Sure it
is. One moment is just that right? It is nothing more, nothing less. A moment
is a piece of time that happens and then moves on as our lives propel forward.
Or is it? I have had an awful lot of time to think about moments lately. I have
to tell you, if you ask me, moments are so much more than the minutes and
memories they contain. They are a part of us. They are a part of who we once
were, but even more than that they are a part of who we are. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We spend our
lives saying goodbye. We do it on a daily basis. We kiss our spouses goodbye in
the morning before we head off to work. We say goodbye to our children as they
begin their school day. We say goodbye to friends after preschool drop off. We
say goodbye to our loved ones after a big meal on a Sunday. We say goodbye to
the waitress at our favorite pizza place on a Friday night. We say goodbye. It’s
not something new. Saying goodbye is part of our every day. It’s when that
goodbye feels final though, it is then that we start to think about the
moments. It is then that we start to think about all the goodbyes that came
before that one. It is then that we wish we had made time for more Hellos. It
is then that we realize the moments are time capsules. They are little pockets
of beautiful memory dust that our brains have collected as if our brain knew
that one day we would need all those moments to compile our book of memories. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The beauty
of life is that it is unpredictable. We have no way to know what lies ahead. As
much as we plan our daily activities, most of life is simply unpredictable. No
one knows this better than my grandmother. She was born in 1927 to Irish
immigrants, just two years prior to the start of The Great Depression. As kids I
remember her telling my sister and me often not to waste our dinner. What did
we know? What did waste mean? We wanted for nothing. My grandmother though, she
was a woman who knew what it meant to come from nothing. She knew what it was
like to care for her younger siblings. She knew what it was like to not eat
dinner so her baby brother would not go hungry. She knew. She knew much more
than she ever told us back then. Instead she told us the funny stories about
her brother throwing baby powder out a window. She told us about being locked
out of her walk up apartment and her brother telling her he wasn’t allowed to
let strangers in. She told us how loving her parents were. She told us how
proud they would have been of all of us. She gave us more than moments. She
gave us the whole story. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My
grandmother was a widow young. My grandfather died when she was only 53. I’m
going to be forty this July. I can’t imagine how devastating this was for her.
I was only three years old at the time and my sister was 18 months. My
grandmother decided to take her grief and get rid of it by spending as much
time with us as she possibly could. My memories of her go back as far as they
will allow me. I am full of memories of her showing up at our house every
Friday and staying the whole weekend. She would sleep in a bed right outside my
bedroom. We would laugh and laugh until she finally told me to go to sleep so
we could make the most of the day when we woke up. There was something so
comforting about knowing she was right outside my door. At three years old, the
mere thought of my grandmother guarding my door was better than any amount of
sheep counting. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeBgQSQADaBNar2elUSbfHR_1tFE0xgiVL8wtmkyEzPxf-Omlz9N1WYqycrjj8vusJ3Lfpiq_vBxOhC3VWpGco-wXg5d820hIapcnIgxrRznco7wd-PW2AZvwG-fWOlzmLIdZ4DfdTrE/s1600/Scan0017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWeBgQSQADaBNar2elUSbfHR_1tFE0xgiVL8wtmkyEzPxf-Omlz9N1WYqycrjj8vusJ3Lfpiq_vBxOhC3VWpGco-wXg5d820hIapcnIgxrRznco7wd-PW2AZvwG-fWOlzmLIdZ4DfdTrE/s320/Scan0017.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She
continued to fill my life with moment after moment. Every year we took our
annual trip to Lake George, NY. She would tell my sister and I how her and my grandfather
used to vacation there as newlyweds. She would tell us the stories about my
mother and my uncle learning to water ski for the first time. As she would tell
us these stories I would always play them out in my head. I would see my
grandparents sitting by the lake in their old timey bathing suits watching my
young mother, with her long, dark brown hair learning to water ski. I would imagine
my grandparents as the young couple they were. I would imagine the joy. I would
hear the laughter. I would feel her sadness. I would feel her loss. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As time
moved on my grandmother was there. She was there for my small moments and she
was there for my big moments. She took me to Ireland for my 8<sup>th</sup>
grade graduation. She told me all about my great grandparents and as we sat on
top of a windy mountain we laughed about the fact that her hair did not move
(way to go Aqua Net). It was one of the best trips of my life and that was one
of the first times I knew that I was living moments that were going to become
forever memories. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6vCiw8uGJJT1IcCJ79NyeHUthIf4-qiwXYcYK9iK8Zb5k-0L-paqBPnXYs7nTT4Etb-g4OqPDxorGiP4nXhR7WIKpC-REfZq32bE_OraGjJ7jLyDf7Xmvui7OVUYJAZ5lFMRGvdBePY/s1600/Scan0018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6vCiw8uGJJT1IcCJ79NyeHUthIf4-qiwXYcYK9iK8Zb5k-0L-paqBPnXYs7nTT4Etb-g4OqPDxorGiP4nXhR7WIKpC-REfZq32bE_OraGjJ7jLyDf7Xmvui7OVUYJAZ5lFMRGvdBePY/s320/Scan0018.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She
continued to be there for all my moments from proms, to graduations, my wedding,
the birth of my oldest son and so much more. She was there. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAbB3wZNoCF3MJWRJhxWkeucVegJBXnZ-KRZc9E8y7X1aWdCQfqx-IR2TqPrYd2wOdlQELVNiEXVFajrwEy_94SlD6BcH83eBFLaCEeTyBt_7Jet1MIEVLQxh0n-shCv_6My-28Msrgw/s1600/Scan0016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAbB3wZNoCF3MJWRJhxWkeucVegJBXnZ-KRZc9E8y7X1aWdCQfqx-IR2TqPrYd2wOdlQELVNiEXVFajrwEy_94SlD6BcH83eBFLaCEeTyBt_7Jet1MIEVLQxh0n-shCv_6My-28Msrgw/s320/Scan0016.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After all of these
moments I would kiss her and say goodbye. Not once was I afraid that it was
going to be our last. I guess that was just naïve of me. Life is not a
guarantee. I know that. The last month has brought my family on a journey that I
can only describe as us, “letting go of the moments and holding onto the
memories.” My grandmother is at the end of a long road. She is amazing in more ways than I can
possibly write. She has taught me how to be a good mother. She has taught me
how to be a strong person. She has taught me about unconditional love. Tonight
as I kissed her goodbye I knew it might be the last time so I told her I loved
her and she held my hand and said “you tell those boys how much I love them.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I will
Grandma. You know they love you so very much.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWHghovk5ZJ7uc5tUMqi5W7Dd5-6DnOOYElk7JID2Sc33IvNCPUIIFHKb4Ep-X_HI7UWJnQ79-kwOsLlxQqtfdA1FLq0zOObNcLRRkqWSVC1n7_OaeTSxEa9ZFeAXx07N0Q-HiJS6wDjI/s1600/grandma+kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWHghovk5ZJ7uc5tUMqi5W7Dd5-6DnOOYElk7JID2Sc33IvNCPUIIFHKb4Ep-X_HI7UWJnQ79-kwOsLlxQqtfdA1FLq0zOObNcLRRkqWSVC1n7_OaeTSxEa9ZFeAXx07N0Q-HiJS6wDjI/s320/grandma+kids.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Jen, don’t
you cry when I go. You promise me you will dance and sing. You promise me those
boys will dance and remember all the great times they had with Nana.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As I held
back tears to make her this promise I suddenly knew it was one I would be able
to keep. After all she gave me years of moments that will turn into a lifetime
of memories and one day I will sit on top of a mountain in Ireland with my
boys. I will let the wind take my hair and I will laugh at the fact that she is
looking down and yelling “You should have used hairspray you dummy!”</span></span></div>
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Jennifer Lizzahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13932076809345899876noreply@blogger.com3