Today marks the final week of summer before my step-kiddos begin their new school year. Our evenings will alter this week and they will be forced to go to bed on time without the aid of a sugar induced coma. Presently, it has become increasingly evident that the kids have gone into a state of anxiety laced depression. In contemplating this state of mixed emotions the kids are dealing with, I’m reminded of when I was in school and remember that I too, experienced the fear of the unknown—fear the you get the “mean” teacher; fear that you have to sit by the weird Jehovah’s Witness kid that tells everyone he has cooties; fear that your cadre of friends will suddenly not want to associate with you.
Especially, Julia; innocent chocolate covered Julia. She is entering Middle School. Oh, sweet 8 lb 6 oz baby Jesus wrapped in your golden fleece—help us. If you would have seen Julia’s backpack by the end of last school year, you would have thought she should be featured on “The Secret lives of Hoarders”. That being said, now she will have a locker. I can envision that metal square jam packed with ripped up papers, old homework assignments, last weeks ham sandwich, gym shoes and all the other crap messy kids seem to stash in the 12 X 20 inch cubby hole. Are we SURE she isn’t my child??
While walking these future halls she will enter next week, she will probably experience her first boyfriend; have her period; have pimples; become an emotional rollercoaster; tell me I’m not her mother; tell me that she’s sorry; fall into puppy love, have her heartbroken; break her father’s heart; think that Justin Beiber is hot; think that Justin Beiber is gay; have questions and struggle with her faith; love her friends; hate her friends; become the most popular girl; feel like she’s all alone.
Boy, I’m glad I don’t have to relive the days of snarky, pubescent teenage girls. That is the WORST.
Someone the other day asked me how my summer had been. I hate that question more than I hate the chant “Yes We Can”. Why? Because it’s practically rubbing it in the face of the “I work 40 hours a week under fluorescent lighting in an office that smells like tuna fish and bath&body works lotion next to a guys whos coffee cup adorns the logo ‘FBI-Female Body Inspector’” worker that we don’t get summer vacation.
So, how has my summer been? Well besides the fabulous vacation to Mexico, it’s been like any other time in my year. Except I have a heat stroke every time I saunter to my car in the parking lot in 103 degree heat, all my plants are dead, my dogs smell like arse and fertilizer and I have to prance around in a bathing suit sucking in my stomach on the weekends.
Is it a crime to say I’m ready for fall?