Newtown, CT

I am a parent. I am a teacher. Everything I see and hear is processed from those two perspectives. A combination that is particularly tuned to protecting, helping, guiding, and loving children.

There are events in this world that hurt and burn, slashing into my soul, cutting right to the core. Making me ache, feeling empty and swollen at the same time. There are no adequate words. No reasonable explanations. That is Newtown, CT.

We all process tragedy in our own way. We have unique methods of dealing with grief. Some of us withdraw, absorbing the information, thinking and sorting introspectively. Others work through difficulties outwardly by talking, writing, singing. There are those who take action to make sense of the senseless.

I respect that grief and mourning are dealt with through individual processes.

I also know that some people aren't emotionally equipped to be reasonable while they sort through horrific tragedies like this one in Sandy Hook Elementary School.  There are people out there who are insensitive. Who say hurtful things. Stupid things. There are people who use events like this to tout their own ideologies. They callously cast aside the personal pain and suffering of others so that they can inject their platform and purpose.

There will be a time to discuss politics. We absolutely need to have meaningful, open conversations about why this happened. About how this happened. About what we can do to prevent other events like this. These conversations are critical to the well-being of us all and the future of this nation.

However, we need more decorum. More decency. More sensitivity. We have twenty families who have yet to bury their young children. We have hundreds of children who have only had a weekend to come to grips with the idea that while they hid in a closet, a bathroom, or a corner their classmates were gunned down in their school. In a place where they should be safe. A building they will have to enter over and over again. Where they will feel on edge at the sound of every shut door, every book accidentally dropped, every lunch tray that hits the floor. We have an entire school district that is mourning the loss of five exceptional educators who died for their students. We have countless family members that will spend this holiday season with an empty, aching sorrow as they sit with presents already bought and wrapped for loved ones so senselessly lost. We have a family struggling with losing two of their own. Questioning every decision. Every interaction. Every word. Trying to figure out what they could have done to stop this horrific, terrible, preventable tragedy.

We don't need insensitive memes thrown into our social networks. We don't need rants about guns (being for or against) right now. We don't need trolls making asinine comments about those who lost their lives or the circumstances of the situation. We don't need anyone drumming support for their cause.

What we need is to come together. To support those who are mourning and hurting--in Newtown, in Chardon, in Aurora, in Littleton. The events at Sandy Hook Elementary are certain to have ripped open wounds for those who have been through similar tragedies. We need to offer support. We need to think about how our actions and words affect others.

We need to be Kind. Caring. Thoughtful. Sensitive.
We need to love one another.

Ode to Minecraft

For this post, I am simply going to share a poem that my 13 year old son wrote.  He was given an assignment in his 8th grade Language Arts class--write an ode that is at least eight lines long.  Here's what he came up with:

Ode to Minecraft©

In the starting menu, click single player survive,

and all you have to do is thrive.

When you start the game, everything's blocks,

even you, from your hair to your socks.

And what is it that you do all this time?

All you do is mine and mine and mine.

You have to find diamonds to make a diamond pick axe,

then mine away at some obsidian and all you'll hear is "tick, tack."

You use the obsidian to make a nether portal,

and in this new dimension your wounds will become mortal.

Inside the nether you'll hope you have a sword

because if you attack a zombie pig, you'll be chased by an entire horde.

If you listen carefully, you'll hear a painful scream,

and if you look up in the sky, you'll find your worst dream.

You will see a ghast, if you look up in the sky,

and if you have a wooden house, you'll begin to cry.

When you go back through your portal, you will be relieved

to see every single one of your luscious trees.

But in the night, while building a house, you start to hear a hissing.

That noise is coming from something that you weren't missing.

It is a green creeper that is about to explode

and before it does you shout "No! No! NO!!"

When he blows up, your house is gone,

and then you say, "That's it! I am done!"

Hear me roar!

I am not a number.  

Not a number on the scale.  

Not a number on a tag inside my clothes. 

Not an age.  

I am a person.  

I am a woman--a happy, healthy, good woman. 

There have been several recent stories in the news centered on weight, BMI, dieting, and eating disorders.  I just read an article that Katie Couric struggled with bulimia for years when she was younger. Lady Gaga has revealed that she's been dealing with anorexia and bulimia since she was 15. I have known several others personally who have battled through an eating disorder.  I know MANY women who grapple with poor body image every day.  The negative talk. The self-loathing. The guilt. The comparisons to other women who look "better" than we do. Who have the "perfect" (insert body part that we desire here).  Well, that woman with the "perfect" _______ probably isn't happy with herself either. She's very likely seeking a "better" body part too. She doesn't like her feet, ears, hair, boobs, thighs, etc. We've been trained--by magazines, movies, Barbie dolls, our parents, our families, our friends--to find our imperfections. And we've been good trainees.

Why do we do this?  Why do we continue to pressure ourselves to be "perfect" when no such thing exists? Why do we allow others to define our value and worth based on stupid numbers and exterior qualities? That's not what we teach our children.  We teach them that who people are is what matters, not what they look like, right? Don't judge a book by its cover.

Maybe it's time we learn more from our kids. My son has taught me a wonderful lesson.  In full disclosure, he is a Mama's Boy ... he loves me completely ... he thinks I'm the cat's pajamas ... the bees knees. And he thinks I am soft--in a comforting, cuddly kind of way. He has told me many times that he loves my squishy belly.  When he would first talk about it I was completely bothered because I am sensitive about that. It's a flaw. A way that I am not "perfect." And he was drawing attention to it. But then I realized what his honest intention was when he said it. Affectionate, sincere, loving, pure. He was using a kind and tender tone of voice, not mocking.  I was hearing taunting--from my negative head voice, not because it was intended or projected. But I was looking for it. My son loves my squishy belly because it's soft and tender and Mommy. Now when I start to feel frustrated with my "fluff" as I call it, when I'm feeling "imperfect," I hear a sweet voice that says "soft." Changing this thought process isn't easy. It's a work in progress. But it's a worthwhile task, for all of us women so that we don't train the next generation the same way we've been trained.

As my daughter eases into the time when she will be setting that voice in her head, I am doing everything I can to build a positive body image. I want her to be happy with herself just as she is. I want her to focus on being happy and healthy ... not perfect. Not defined by numbers.

I am ...

I've had a lot going on in my life these past few months.  From my dad's unexpected and very serious illness this spring which had me traveling to North Carolina three times in six weeks while worrying about him and dealing with the stress and busyness of coordinating the communication to siblings, aunts / uncles, cousins and friends ... to the fairly unanticipated news that my husband is being transferred in his job and we'll be moving from Michigan to Pennsylvania this summer.  This has brought other stress and busyness, not the least of which includes helping my 11 year old daughter and nearly 13 year old son deal with the emotional struggle of moving away from everything they've ever known--friends, schools, classmates, teachers, neighbors, doctors ... everything. My life has been a roller coaster of emotions since April and I'll be honest:  I want my boring, plain life back.

There are many expressions to help people deal with difficult and stressful times like these and I've heard them all over and over.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.  

God doesn't give you more than you can handle.  

Challenges are opportunities in disguise.  

Everything happens for a reason.  

Blah, blah, blah. At least that's how I felt in the throes of all that has been going on. Take your cute little adages and shove 'em, right?!

I'm feeling a lot better about all of this lately--still a lot going on, no doubt, but I no longer walk around with a knot in my stomach.  I still don't sleep much, but that is getting better. I don't shed tears every day--that's progress. And I have come back to a point where I believe the words that come in those sayings meant to help and offer comfort.  I feel like I have learned more about myself lately ... and that just might be the reason there's been so much going on in my life.  I needed a lesson in Jen.  A good look at Me. Time to search the soul. This is a continuous journey ... and maybe I was a little complacent with looking in the mirror while I enjoyed my easy, boring, quiet life. I've discovered and re-discovered a few things.

I am strong, fierce, passionate.
I stand up for the people I care about. Always. And without apology.
I will drop everything when my family is in need.
I am emotional. I feel everything. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I don't hide that.
I cry in front of anyone--my kids, my husband, my students, my principal, my friends.
I cannot hold my stress for more than a few days before it is released--usually in tears.
I don't hide how I feel.
I need my friends and family.
I am annoyed by stupid people--not lacking intelligence, but those who don't use what they have.
I am sarcastic, opinionated, independent.
I work hard to make good things happen.
I am a realist with a positive attitude.
I am a good friend.
I believe in the good of others.
I am lucky to have such a wonderful husband and two amazing kids.
I have really fantastic parents, siblings and family who care so much for me.
I couldn't have better, more sympathetic friends who offer constant support and thoughtfulness.
I appreciate funny, silly thoughts to lighten the mood.
I am a dork.
I make mistakes.
I try to be a good person. Some days are better than others.

I am complicated & simple, excitable & laid back, passionate & mellow, organized & a mess.

I talk ... when I'm happy, when I'm overwhelmed, when I'm stressed, when I'm nervous.

I am grateful. For my dad's improving health. That my husband still has a job. That this move is timed during the summer making the transition easier and less stressful. That we have had seven great years in this fantastic community surrounded by so many good people.

I am confident--that everything will work out just like it's supposed to for us.

Chardon

This has been a week of tears, sadness, disbelief, shock and concern.  It has also been a week of pride, support, connection and unity. Emotions have run high and been incredibly varied--fear, worry, surprise, distress, confusion, desperation, sorrow, anguish, guilt, pride, sympathy, helplessness, anger, frustration, love.


Parents look at their children through different eyes. Students see their teachers in a new light. The nation observes a small community under a spotlight. We have experienced the tragic events and losses in Chardon from different perspectives, processed in our own way, connected from our own small worlds. And we have all come together as One Heartbeat.


I cannot imagine the Grief of the students, the teachers, the parents at CHS.  I cannot imagine the Heartache of the families and friends of the victims. I cannot imagine the Pain of the family and friends of TJ.  I cannot imagine what the community of Chardon has lived this week.


For my friends at CHS, for the families so deeply affected, for all of Chardon I have sincere sympathy. I grieve for you. My heart aches for you. I support you. And I feel so much pride. Hilltoppers from all over the state, the country and world have connected, united, come together. We stand with you. We stand behind you. We are Chardon. We are Hilltoppers. We are One Heartbeat.

Teenagers today ...

A lot of people are talking about teenagers these days. There are some who believe that this youthful generation is not living up to the standard of those who have come before. This generation of teens is lazy. They are disrespectful. They cause trouble. They are selfish. Unreliable. They have no work ethic. They are mouthy. Greedy. Reckless. Dangerous. Today's teens are Rude. Freeloaders. Immoral. Untrustworthy. Punks. Vandals.

I've heard a lot of Evidence:  saggy pants, hats turned sideways, loud music full of swearing,  sleep all day / up all night, glued to the TV / Xbox / computer / cellphone, driving too fast, sexting, graffiti, low-rise jeans, belly shirts, piercings everywhere, boys with holes in their ears, mohawks, blue / purple / green / pink hair, boys wearing nail polish, all-black clothes, drinking, partying, casual sex. The list is long. Much longer than this.

I've seen all of that Evidence. It is true. There are teenagers everywhere that could be labeled Exhibit A, B, C, etc. There is Evidence in every high school, at the mall, in the local movie theater. Teenagers hanging out = Evidence.

However, most of the Evidence has applied to every generation. Think Grease. Elvis the Pelvis. Make Love Not War. Dead Heads. Purple Haze. Purple Rain. Sex, Drugs and Rock 'n Roll.

Most of the Evidence is exterior. It doesn't speak to character. Or Standards. Morals. Values--or Value. Saggy pants, painted nails, piercings ... none of those tells us anything about the interior.

I wish that I could gather up the cynics, the critics, those who sneer at teenagers and only see the Evidence and furrow their brow and cross their arms. I wish that I could take those people to school with me. I wish that they could stand at the door of any classroom, every classroom, with me and hear the Good Mornings and Good Afternoons. Hear How Are You Today?  I'm Fine, Thank You. How Are You? I wish they could see the smiles and waves. I wish they could see how affectionate teenagers are with each other--boys and girls in every combination--not because it's sexual, but because they care about each other. I want them to see teenagers holding doors for adults and their peers. I want them to see teenagers share. I want them to see teenagers show sympathy and concern for those who are struggling. I want them to see teenagers' support and excitement for accomplishments and victories. I want them to see teenagers who work hard, study, ask questions, participate in class, volunteer, stay on task. I want them to see teenagers who make signs to decorate the school and lockers to celebrate their friends and peers. I want them to see teenagers who are honest and kind and thoughtful. I want them to see teenagers who want to do well. And want to do good. I want them to see teenagers who make mistakes. I want them to see teenagers who fall short of their best but try again. I want them to hear teenagers say I'm Sorry.

I want them to see teenagers as they really are ... human.

This generation of teenagers is no different than any before. Some teens make mistakes. Big mistakes. Some sell themselves short. Some break the law. Some are inconsiderate. Some are selfish. Some pick fights. Use hurtful words. Cause damage to themselves or those around them. Just like some of the adults in this world.

Most teenagers, though, are Good People.

Confession: I'm lazy.

I'm coming clean.  Putting it right out there for all the world to see.  I.  Am.  Lazy.

I'm not a Supermom who makes her children's clothes by hand or bakes them delicious from-scratch treats for after-school snacks with a glass of milk.  I have never made crafty and cute little Valentine cards for them; I just buy them a box of whatever-they-pick-out-in-the-aisle-at-the-grocery-store.  Heck, I don't think I've ever made a batch of cookies or cupcakes for them to take to school on their birthday to share with their classmates.  When the school instituted a "no sugary treats to celebrate students' birthdays" rule, I obediently listened.  Not because I was necessarily supporting the policy, but simply because it was easier for me.

I'm not organized, focused or energetic enough to stick to an every-day-we-come-home-from-school-and-sit-at-the-table-and-practice-all-our-math-facts kind of routine.  I'm too lazy for that.  The kids do their homework when they come home.  We study and review--some weeks more often than others.  I help with assignments when they ask and I check in with them to see how they're doing.  Most of the time.

I don't keep up with stuff around the house very well.  I have gone to bed with dinner's dirty dishes lined up on the counter, sitting there because the sink was too crowded to hold all of the offending plates and glasses.  I have left wrinkled laundry in the dryer for days.  Thank goodness turning the dryer back on for a while is enough to shake out the wrinkles, because I really don't iron either.  It's a very rare and odd occasion when my little Rowenta sees any action.  I barely dust.  It seems pointless to me.  When I finally muster the will to do it, I see little flecks of dust gathering the following day.  Why waste my time?

My children are only allowed to be involved in one activity at a time when school is in session.  I don't want the hassle of driving them all over the place and hustling to drop kid #1 at point A, scurrying to leave kid #2 at point B to speed back to point A to pick up kid #1 then truck it across town to collect kid #2.  I am not  a fan of coordinating every minute of every day to serve as a taxi service ... I'm too lazy for that, so my kids have to choose their extra-curriculars carefully.

An ideal date with my husband: rent a movie, microwave some popcorn or pour a glass of wine, slip into my sexiest pair of flannel pajamas and chill out.  I'm not opposed to going out on dates at all.  That's fine once in a while.  Heck, I love to go out to dinner.  It's perfect for the lazy girl in me:  I walk into a restaurant, sit down, tell someone what to bring me, have someone else cook for me, let them set and clear the table AND do all the dishes.  Yep.  Perfect.

Another lazy non-activity:  I love to lay around the house.  With a cat cuddled on my lap.  A kid snuggled into my nest (the L-shaped area behind the knees when they are bent).  Maybe reading a book.  Could be watching a movie.  Better yet, taking a nap.  Sigh.  Ideal.

I'm also lazy in motion.  I walk slowly.  I jog slowly.  I don't really run.  I'm more a turtle than a hare.  Yoga and Pilates--those are my kind of workouts.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Hold this pose.  Slowly bend to that pose.  Hold it just like that.  Yep.  Just my speed.  I find that most fitness instructors count too quickly.  Somehow while the rest of the class does 16 squats, leg lifts, crunches or jumping jacks I always end somewhere in the ballpark of 10 of the same.  How do they manage to move with such speed and zest??

I see people who live big and bustling, bursting at the seams, constantly in motion with full and harried schedules.  Maybe that's just how they like it and they feel bored and listless with a life like mine.  That's OK.  It's just too much for me to keep up a busy, fast-paced, packed kind of life. 

It's taken me a while to come to terms with my laziness ... to embrace the lethargy and tortoise pace I prefer.  I used to feel inferior to the crafty, creative, organized, impeccably clean-housed, Betty Crockeresque EnergizerBunnyUberWomen.  I used to sneer and cast glares at those phenoms.  How could they do all that?  When do they ever breathe?  Why are they trying to make me look so bad?  I realized though that those TornadoWomen are just doing their thing.  They are just different from me.  Not better.  Not more amazing.  Just operating with different gears than I am.  Now I am comfortable with my pace.  My slow-moving nature.  My when-I-get-to-it way.  I am comfortable with my self-assigned Scarlet Letter L.  I wear it happily. 

I. Am. Lazy.

Parenthood: The Most Amazing, Wonderful, Rewarding, Frustrating, Pain-in-the-Ass Job that Sucks.

When my kids were little (let's say birth to school-age), I said that I was going to write a book about motherhood and parenting.  Not another one of the mushy, emotional, I-adore-my-angels-who-never-do-anything-to-upset-me-and-I-handle-every-situation-with-grace-and-patience-and-I-am-a-big-fat-liar kinds of books.  I was going to write about the real deal.  I wanted to tell the truth.  Because it really bothered me that we parents--moms especially--have this thing where we feel like we have to lie and say that we completely love being parents and it's the most magical and amazing role that we cherish every second of every day and never get tired from the sleepless nights or the constant repeating or sassing or messes or peeing with an audience or reading the same story seventeen times a day ... because if we ever even slightly hint at any of those kinds of things, that clearly means that we are horrible people.  Horrible, Terrible, Awful People.

But that's not true.  It's OK to admit that sometimes--maybe even a lot of times--parenting sucks.  Is being a mom / dad rewarding? Yes.  Are there joyful times? Yes.  Are our kids wonderful? Usually.  Do we love our children? Absolutely.  Would we go back in time and change our decision to have kids? No. Maybe. Wait, no. Probably not.  I mean, on the good days, for sure not.  Definitely not--especially when they're sleeping and look so angelic. 

Here's the thing:  We're just human. That means we get annoyed, frustrated, exasperated, mad, and tired.  Sometimes--no matter how many books, articles and blogs we read about parenting and doing all the right things to raise the most perfect freaking kid in the world--we will make mistakes.  We yell.  We lose our cool.  We scold.  We say things we shouldn't.  We don't say all the things we should. 

We are human, just like all the other parents out there.  Even the ones who look like they're doing all the right things all the flip-flopping time.  Newsflash:  they aren't perfect parents.  They're just better at hiding their mistakes or they lie more than you and I do.

We need to forgive ourselves and move on.  Plan to do better next time.  Apologize when we know we are wrong about something and get ready for the next mistake.  You and I both know that our next stellar parenting moment is just around the corner.

Take the good with the bad.  Enjoy the happy times and good moments--when your kids share, tell you they love you, help a friend or sibling, put away their toys without having to be told, flush and wash hands after using the bathroom, cuddle with the pet.  Take those all in and bask in your parenting glory ... it won't be long before there will be sighing, whining, eye rolling, negotiations, tantrums and crying to remind you that parenting is the most amazing, wonderful, rewarding, frustrating, pain-in-the-ass job that sucks. 

And that is going to be the title of my book some day.

Jury duty, but not for me

Tim received a letter recently that immediately made my stomach sink.  He's been called for jury duty.  Almost eight years ago I served on a jury and I still get a lump in my throat and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach with the mere thought of serving--even if it's not me.  This takes me back to a post I wrote a few years ago as a reflection of the experience.  Tim's service period starts next week which has had this on my mind.  A lot.  So I wanted to bring my older post back.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

civic duty

Things are not always what they seem. Sometimes in life we find ourselves dealing with situations and events that seem innocent and innocuous enough at the time, but we realize at some point or another that our lives have been changed because of them.

May 2004 I was called for jury duty. I had never been called to serve on a jury before. I was actually excited. (I realize that most people don't get excited for jury duty, but I did.) An opportunity to fill a need in the community. Be a part of the system that seeks justice for all of us. I had no idea what I was getting into ... or how much my life would change because of it.

When I received an 8-page questionnaire in the mail that asked nearly 100 questions, I figured it was all part of the routine of picking a jury. Through the entire voir dire process (when the prospective jurors are asked their opinions regarding a variety of topics), I didn't realize the gravity of the trial at hand. When I was asked about my thoughts on the death penalty and life sentence, I just thought they were making sure they had people who would be objective and follow the guidance of the law--ensuring that they wouldn't be putting loony toons on a jury. When we were told that the trial had a change of venue because there had been too much local publicity regarding the crime and the defendant wasn't likely to get a fair trial, I figured it was because the small area of Cambridge, Ohio had little else to report on ... so they probably just reported the hell out of whatever it was. I had no idea that all of these were indicators of what the trial could possibly be about. I had no idea that my world was about to be rocked--to the core. I had no idea.

During the opening arguments, I quickly got the idea. The defendant, Marvin Johnson, had killed Daniel Bailey--the 13-year-old son of his ex-girlfriend, Tina. Marvin's attorneys conceded that. They didn't believe that he should be charged with aggravated murder, though, because they were going to argue semantics that Marvin didn't kidnap Daniel, as he was charged, because Daniel was already dead when Marvin gagged and hogtied him and dragged him to the basement. They also didn't believe that Marvin should be found guilty of rape and aggravated robbery (the victim of those 2 crimes was Tina). They would argue whether or not Marvin actually held the knife to Tina's throat while he sexually violated her, and the technicality of aggravated robbery because she was able to talk him into leaving the knife at the house while she drove him to the bank to get $1000. (It's not considered aggravated robbery--the more serious charge--without the weapon.)

As is the case with any trial, we were told NOT to discuss this case at all, with anyone--spouses, family, friends or other jurors--or to look for information regarding this in newspapers or on the internet during the trial. We were to hear all testimony and see all evidence before forming an opinion on the matters at hand. For me, that was hellish. I was dealing with the most horrific, violent, disturbing and unsettling event in my life completely alone. I felt isolated and empty. I couldn't share with my own husband or mom what was ripping me apart. I cried myself to sleep most every night of that trial, picturing poor Daniel and what he suffered at the hands of that monster ... and for his poor mother and all she must be riddled with--guilt for bringing that man into her family, for not keeping her child safe, the absolute heartbreak of losing a child, particularly in such a violent way, and for what must have been the most horrible moment of her life when she found her son--gagged, hogtied and bloody--and then tried to revive him herself. I still feel an absolute ache in my core when I think about the trial, and I still cry.

Through all the graphic testimony, photos and evidence presented, I was (and still am) able to close my eyes and picture the crime as if it were happening right in front of me, as if I were standing in the corner watching the entire thing happen.

I always knew that horrible things happened in the world, that there are terrible people who commit heinous crimes against others. Until that trial, all of that happened outside of my sphere of reality. I was aware that it existed, but I never lived it. Then, sitting in a jury box, I did. I sat in a courtroom mere feet from the most evil person I have ever encountered. It was at that point that my sphere of reality was punctured. The horrible, villainous events of that crime and every other felt like they were all happening to me in my world. That trial opened the floodgates of my emotional destruction. When I heard about soldiers who were being captured and beheaded, I felt like they were my sons being brutalized. I couldn't breathe. I mourned for each victim of crime like they were my family. I couldn't watch any form of the news without feeling overcome with sadness and devastation. I was overwhelmed with grief. I felt completely tormented.

It wasn't until months after the trial when most all of us on the jury got together that I realized I was dealing with something of grand proportion and out of my control. Several of us were reeling from our experience of the trial. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Depression. Anxiety. Disconnection from what we used to do and love. Inability to cope with setbacks or problems. About two weeks after our get-together, I went to the doctor and cried my way through the appointment. She prescribed an anti-depressant to help me. It worked. I was on medication for about a year.

I'm "fine" now. I am no longer overwhelmed by all of this, but I do still think about it. I check the inmate status of Marvin Johnson about once a month. I've searched the internet for information regarding his appeals. (I received an email from one of my juror friends yesterday--which is what brought this to the front of my thinking. Her daughter is doing a speech regarding the death penalty and found Marvin's appeal report from the Supreme Court of Ohio on-line.) I still feel sick and empty anytime I drive through Cambridge, Ohio. I will never serve on a jury again.

Deliberating the life of another person is incredibly daunting. Most all of us on the jury cried during the deliberation process. We shared opinions. We asked questions. We listened. We sat quietly and thought. We talked. We held hands and prayed. We hugged each other. We all struggled with the gravity of the situation. But we all agreed--imposing the death penalty is an act of affirming the value of life. When I voted in favor of the death sentence for Marvin Johnson, I was also voting for the life of Daniel Bailey.

Several of us from the jury went to the sentencing hearing in June (2004). We drove together to Cambridge and talked a lot about what an impact the trial had on us and our lives. After the hearing we met and talked with the judge, the bailiffs, the prosecuting attorneys and the lead detective on the case. They were all very grateful for our dedication and service to the community. We met Tina Bailey that day, too. She also thanked us for our service in bringing justice for her son and family. When I hugged her that day, I knew that, indeed, my life had been forever changed.

A few updates:
*I don't check on Marvin's status anymore.
*I don't cry every time I think about the trial.
*I do still feel a great deal of anxiety when I watch movies (like The Lincoln Lawyer) or television shows that center on court trials.
*One thing that remains the same:  I will never serve again.

It's not a misnomer

So, it's been a really long time since I've posted anything here. Every time I think "I should get back to the blog," I feel hugely underrated. I mean, what do I have to share that would seem profound or interesting?       *awkward silence ... crickets chirping ...*       Yeah, not much. 


When I try to think of what my unique theme could be, I draw a blank. I don't have any real talents--I'm not athletic, trendy, crafty, politically connected or ubersmart. I have no musical blessings.  I'm not a Mom who constructs amazing learning / exploring activities for her kids. I don't set time limits for my kids on TV or video games.  I'm minimally technologically aware.  I'm not up on movies.  I can't remember punchlines.  I'm not terribly eco-savvy. I make mistakes--a lot. 


I am not "known" for anything. 
The paparazzi would nap in my presence. 
No one has ever commented that I am a prodigy in any field.


That's when I realized that my blog title (chosen years ago) really sums it up. I'm Just Jen. Plain, ordinary, common Jen. Not famous, followed or fantastical. Just run-of-the-mill.


I'm OK with that, though, because I realize that there are a lot of other schmucks like me just doing their thing living a simple little life. And, being "all that" (with or without the bag o' chips) isn't all it's cracked up to be either. I've seen plenty of people who have what I don't (you know--skills, abilities, fans, constant pressure to be amazing all the time) who aren't happy, satisfied, or rested. And, being completely honest, they tend to be dickish or bitchy. Nothing's ever good enough, big enough, fast enough, pretty enough, elite enough. And there are those who, at any given moment, feel like the spotlight isn't shining on them with enough brightness or intensity so they act out and throw a fit like a spoiled brat to make sure someone--ANYONE--is paying attention to them.  And that's really not attractive.  Or appealing.  Ever.


So, I don't want to be amazing. I don't want to have to be perfect. I'll just be me. Just Jen.