A Survivor Speaks

‘The guilt of feeling grateful to be alive is heavy. Wanting to smile about surviving, but not sure if the people you are with are ready. As the world mourns the people killed and viciously slain,

I feel guilty about screaming about my leg in pain because I can feel nothing,

like the other 49 who weren’t so lucky to feel the pain of mine. I never thought in a million years this could happen.

I never thought in a million years my eyes could witness something so tragic.

Looking at the souls leaving the bodies of individuals,

Looking at the killer’s machine gun throughout my right peripheral,

Looking at the blood and debris covered on everyone’s faces,

Looking at the gunman’s feet under the stall as he paces.

The guilt of feeling lucky to be alive is heavy. It is like the weight of the ocean’s walls crushing uncontrolled by levees. It’s like being drug through the grass with a shattered leg, and thrown on the back of a Chevy,

And being rushed to the hospital and told you’re going to make it when you lay beside individuals whose lives were brutally taken.

The guilt of being alive is heavy.’

Patience Carter, Orlando Shooting survivor

Keep your hands open. If you are ready, stand in the grief. Witness the pain. Pray. Tell your elected and church officials how you are feeling. Be kind to your neighbors.

Dana and I are sending love.

Leave The Thighs Out of It

It’s that time of year again, mamas.

You have to decide—are you going to be the mom who sits on the sidelines, fully clothed.

Or are you going to be the mom who gets in the pool?

We had some success with this post last year. My favorite was the story of the grandmother who at age 69 hadn’t been in a pool in twenty years. But her grand-daughter came to visit and she decided she was not going down on the side lines.

She got in the pool.

Then there was one raucous afternoon at the local pool where three of us moms joined the game of sharks and minnows. Not just in the pool. Diving in the pool. A crowded pool. With lots of moms watching on the sidelines.

The kids were delighted. When we got out I said to one of the other moms “See, that was fun!” She rolled her eyes at me and said “I read your dang post.”

Lol. I’ll take it.

The pool opened two weeks ago and there have been lots of moms in the pool. It might be my imagination, but it feels like more moms than last year.

Could be the weather—it’s been early hot this year.

But I was thinking that it could be the memory of that game of sharks and minnows last summer. Right? All that screaming fun? It could be. I’m calling it progress.

Then I was forced to swim suit shop the other day because my tankini top had a structural failure. Let’s just say if you’re going to call something “DD”, you best bring your game.

In the middle of the Fred Meyer swim suit section, I saw this:

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Ladies. DO NOT THINK “Yes! Just what I need!” No, no. no.

Here’s what it looks like:

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It came in a size 8 and a size 22 and every size in between. You can see that this was not in the interest of modesty, since it had molded cups in a push-up formation.

You know what else? That swim dress is not lined. So when you and your thighs, who were just minding their own business, try to swim, that top is going to float up and show all the business.

The only thing I can figure is the people at A Shore Fit want women and their thighs a thunder to stay out of the pool, with their objectionable parts covered up and their desirable parts running over the cups.

I socked that cheeky swim suit right on its tag, in the name of women everywhere.

Do not build me a bathing suit to hide a part of me that I may want hidden in such a way THAT I CAN’T SWIM IN IT.

Do not assume I am so self-conscious about my thighs THAT I WOULD PREFER PEOPLE STARING AT MY BOSOMS.

And for the love of goodness–do not call me, or my God-given and -blessed parts, nasty names on your sales tag. THIS IS BAD BUSINESS.

Sheesh.

Happy Summer, 2016. #momsgetinthepool

Why You Should Read the Stanford Victim’s Letter

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I didn’t want to read it.

The injustice is getting enough play on the news. The Stanford rapist who will go to jail for only six months because he’s white and wealthy and the judge felt sorry for him and his dad asked for leniency.

That’s all I’m going to say about him, because it’s not about him.

His victim, she wrote a letter. You’ve probably heard that by now too. I didn’t want to read it because I don’t like to step into that kind of pain unless I have to.

At 2:30 yesterday afternoon, I realized something. I have two daughters. I live in a world of injustice. My God calls me to justice.

I have to read it.

So I did.

In college, the nights I was in that same situation are too numerous to count. The mornings I woke up not remembering a thing—not a thing—of how I got home or who brought me.

Me and all my friends. Every one of us. Over and over.

It’s blind, stupid luck that I did not become a victim. This is not to say that she is at fault. Only to second what she says in the letter—that she was the “wounded antelope of the herd”. And that hunters know what they’re looking for.

I think if you have college aged kids, maybe even high school aged, they should read this letter after you do.

Then you should talk about what it means.

The part where she realizes that she isn’t wearing her underwear anymore and understands how she’s been assaulted. Where she says the man who rescued her was crying too hard to give a statement to the police, because of what he’d seen.

How she found out the details of her assault from a TV news report.

The questions she was asked on the witness stand.

The picture of bicycles she has posted above her bed.

And don’t miss the part where she says she told the probation officer that she didn’t want her assailant to rot away in prison. She reached for mercy. They used it against her.

All of it. Talk about all of it. The drinking. The guilt her sister feels. The frat party where it went down. The judge, and how his justice is not blind, but sees skin color and wealth and privilege. All the things that could have been different, should have been different.

It raises a lot of questions. And the answers are hard. But we have to talk about it.

For the full text of her letter: Here’s the Powerful Letter The Stanford Victim Read Aloud to Her Attacker

To sign a petition to have the judge recalled from his elected position: Remove Judge Aaron Persky From the Bench

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Last week, I took the kids to the park. I watch my neighbor’s kids after school, so there were five of them. We had a great play date—the park was packed and the weather was gorgeous.

Just as we were leaving, I heard Gabe yell. I turned my head in time to see Ross, 8, hit the ground, shoulder first. His feet were still hooked on the rope of the jungle gym. He was completely silent for a moment and then he started to scream, a thin, high, continuous sound. Gabe kept saying “It’s bad mom, it’s bad”,

This is what happens in my head at moments like this: EVERYTHING. All the things. At once.

Ross and I had a conversation that he doesn’t remember. I was holding him still, which he didn’t like, but I couldn’t tell which part of him was hurt. I figured out it was his arm, or shoulder. Gabe and Ross’ sister Sarah, who’d magically morphed into EMTs, were chirping in my ear that I HAD TO call 911. Or Mercy Flight. And Ross’ mom.

I managed to get all five kids back to the car. I put Ross in the front seat. While I was buckling Annie, Ross panicked.

“Ms. Jen, you aren’t going to buckle me, right? Please don’t buckle me.” Then he started sobbing.

My brain was screaming at me to buckle him, because it was bad enough that his 8 year old self was in the front seat, and the seatbelt would not have touched his hurt arm.

I started to explain but he rolled his eyes up to heaven and yelled “Ms. Jen, can we PRAY????”

Uh, ok.

I hesitated, but not because I didn’t think we needed prayer. If there was ever a time for Jesus to take the wheel, this was it. But I assume my guardian angel holds a place in the prayer line during emergencies until I can get around to the praying. Right at that exact moment, we needed to get around to the painkillers.

But since it was his pain and he wanted to pray, we prayed.

I can’t say his prayer word for word. He asked God to take his pain away and to be with him.

Then he sure did end with this: “Please God, please. Tell Ms. Jen RIGHT NOW that she doesn’t have to buckle me. Please. PLEASE.”

I almost laughed out loud. This kid–he knows me. He knew I would pray with him and he knew I didn’t want to hurt him and he tried to use God to seal the deal.

But I am a mama, and Jesus had a mama and she was fierce. He knows what’s what. If someone said “Lord, we have a request to change her heart on the seat belt decision”, the Lord would say “Are you crazy, man? She’s a MOM.”

When I prayed, I seconded Ross’ request that God ease his pain and come be with him. I asked God to calm his heart and his fears and help me drive quickly and safely to his mom at the ER.

I finished with “Lord, please help Ross understand that I have to buckle him for his own safety. Amen.”

And then I did it, before he knew what was happening.

In prayer, as in life, the mama knows best.

Ross had a broken elbow that required surgery the next day. Two weeks later he has a rad, neon green water proof cast. I took them all to the pool yesterday and he swam like a fish. He’s counting down the weeks until he has his arm back, which will be–thankfully–before the Fourth of July.

Summer saved.

My Instagram Project

We live in a fairly small, 1920s era home that has NOT a lot of room for a lot of furniture on which to proudly display a lot of pictures in a lot of frames. Besides, I’ve filled every inch of flat surface with pictures in frames for most of my life and frankly, I’m bored with them. But all those Instagram pictures… with all those awesome filters… and all those awesome artsy shots that I convince myself I’ve taken… what to do? And since I’m on a kick of printing out my pictures (remember this blog?)…

It was from this necessity that a project was born.

I won’t call it a craft. Jen and I don’t craft. Please.

I got to thinking that Instagram prints are 4×4. And there is a plank of wood called a 4×4. What if I cut a 4×4 at lengths of 1, 2, and 3 inches, decoupaged my Instagram pictures to the pieces, then arranged them on a wall? The different lengths would give the project some depth. Yes. That’s what I would do.

My uncle had a 4×4 that he cut for me. I stained the blocks, printed out my pictures, bought some Mod Podge and an applicator sponge, and sat down to work. Here’s the finished product:

It was super simple and it’s pretty stunning in person. Here are the step-by-step instructions if you’d like to do it yourself (or a link to the project in my Etsy store, if you don’t want to tackle it on your own.)

Step One: Decide how many Instagram pictures you want to use. I used 42. Not all of these were originally Instagram pictures, though. I created a separate Instagram account just for this project. I took pictures of some old pictures and used some from my existing library. I decided to do all black and white, but you certainly could do color prints, too. You need to make sure that you get them printed at a place that prints Instagram prints. Walgreens and Shutterfly both offer the 4×4 printing option.

I mean seriously, check out this super artsy picture:

Don’t die from the cuteness.

Step Two: Do some math. You will want to cut a variety of block thicknesses. I chose 1, 2, and 3 inches. You’ll need one block per photo. Then decide how many 1-inch blocks, 2-inch blocks, and 3-inch blocks, then add them all up. That’s how long of a 4×4 you’ll need.

Ugh. I hate the maths.

Step Three: Mark and saw your blocks. You can round the corners or leave them square. My uncle rounded and sanded mine. What a nice guy!

Get yourself a good uncle who will do yours, too.

Step Four: Choose a color of wood stain. I chose MiniWax Dark Walnut. I applied just one coat, but apply to your heart’s content. It’s important to get some on the front of the block too. I’ll tell you why later. Let the blocks dry overnight.

Step Five: Now. There’s something that I didn’t know. A 4×4 isn’t 4×4. It’s 3 5/8 x 3 5/8. Neat. So you’ll have to crop your pictures down. The blocks won’t be a perfect square, either. I traced the block on the back of the picture, then cut it out with an exacto knife. So crafty. But inevitably you won’t cut the picture perfectly. So the stain on the front of the block will cover up any cutting mistakes you make.

Step Six: Apply a LIGHT coat of Mod Podge, or other decoupage glue onto the block. Place your picture on the block and press down lightly. Apply a thin layer of Mod Podge over your picture to seal it. Make sure you apply this evenly, in strokes that are all the same direction. You can sort of see the stroke marks on the finished product.

Allow all your blocks to dry overnight. These pictures are so cute. That’s Mazie in the snow on the left, Violet at her 2nd birthday party, then an old picture of my dad and his mother taken in Germany. Right? Be still my heart.

Step Seven: Hanging them on the wall… I realized that 42 nail holes in my wall would be a super bummer, especially since I’m renting. So I used small Command Picture Strips to essentially Velcro them to the wall! Easy application, and easy removal, someday.

I laid them out first on my dining room table in a random sort of pattern (there are two pictures of us as little kids and I positioned them so that he is looking up at me, Brady Bunch style… awwww…), then just transferred them to the wall. They don’t need to be measured and perfect. The perfection lies in the imperfection. (Note to self: apply that philosophy to all areas of my life.)

The great thing about this project is that it’s fluid. It can be added to or moved fairly easily. If you get mad at someone, just unvelcro their block and decoupage a different picture over top of it. Just kidding. Or not…

Tips:

The pictures I chose are very personal. There are two pictures of my dad, who passed away 3 years ago, with my girls. There are pictures of each of us with our children. There is a picture of me and my BFF, a picture of a family recipe written in his mom’s handwriting, my favorite one of my nephew holding Violet, me and my mom and Grandma on Christmas Day this year… each picture is so special and so sweet. They almost break my heart, in a good way, at every stinking meal.

I kept mine all matte finish. I didn’t want a super-glossy look. So I chose the matte Mod Podge and I didn’t do a gloss sealer over the stain. If you want gloss, that’s totally fine. Go with what your instinct tells you. It’s all about you.

There are SO MANY pictures that didn’t make the cut. It’s surprising how many pictures can actually fit in a space. Luckily I have more wall space…

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