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.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, January 2, 2012
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.
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.
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