April not Katey

When my daughter was born I decided to name her after my oldest childhood friend. I picked the name out when I found out I was having a little girl-April after my friend, Kathryn after my grandmother. All of the daughters in my family are named either Mary or Kathryn (or in my sister's case, both) which is ironic since I am the only Catholic in my family and my sister Mary Kathryn is Jewish, but that's our own special Douglas County diversity I guess. I wanted to call my baby Katey, I liked spelling it a little different, I liked the cute name for my adorable baby girl and Katey she was.
When Katey was about five, she met the mother and sister of the girl she is named after; my friend April died when I was 19. I had chosen the name because I remembered April as a happy child, I wanted to name my daughter after someone I only had good memories of. My happiest childhood memories, some of my few memories of my parents when they were together, are of times spent with April's family. I hoped the name would bring good karma (or whatever) to my little girl. Although Katey was always called Katey, I still knew the significance of her name. She was a happy baby, and a seemingly happy little girl, with a beautiful smile and an artistic dreamy side.
Like most parents, I never wanted anything bad to happen to my child, I wanted to protect her from the pain and suffering of the world. I wanted her life to be perfect. It wasn't. When she was two and half, I had to explain why her daddy wasn't coming home, and Katey and I had to learn a new way to live as just the two of us. That night after she went to bed, I calmly went and laid out her clothes for the next day, because life goes on when you are a mom and have a child to take care of and one on the way. That winter her brother was born and now our two was three. I remember that first night home with my new baby, and my daughter, needing to feed him and make her dinner and wondering what I would do...My daughter was patient in a way many two year olds would not have been, she learned that two outnumber one and this new life was how we are.
When Katey was in preschool I picked her up one day and turned the tv on to the continuing coverage of 9/11. She asked about it, and I remember how frightened I was that I had brought my children into a world that was no longer safe. I felt it was the first bad thing I ever had to tell my daughter, I hoped it would be the worst.
It wasn't. Last spring I stumbled into the house trying to get control of my emotions after I found out about the death of Steeler Seaburn. My daughter was a freshman, she knew Steeler, she talked about him often. She had heard about him for years from me and went to school with him. I knew I needed to wake her up and tell her. I knew I needed to be the adult, I needed to be strong for her. I needed to find that place that had laid out her clothes after her dad left, that had assured her we were safe after planes crashed into buildings, that had recovered and stood up to Ed so I could see her grow up. I didn't find it. My daughter took care of me for a couple of days, reminding me to eat; asking me if I was okay, cleaning the house and telling me about my new niece. I saw a side of her I didn't know she had, a strength that made me proud, and also makes me realise how grown up she is.
When Katey moved from elementary to middle school she decided she wanted to be called her first name instead of Katey. Her friends and teachers call her April now, but to me she is still Katey. I'm stubborn, and I'm sure it annoys her. I'm fortunate that I feel like I have a good relationship with my amazing daughter, we laugh and joke like friends and I genuinely enjoy being around her. She confides in me, we share interests; and despite the difficulties of being a teenager (and yes, they are there) I am blessed with a good kid. Sometimes a dramatic and moody kid, but a good one who takes on more responsibility than most because I work long hours for little money-it's not an easy life being the child of a single mother. It hasn't been an easy thing to share your mother with grief over a child that wasn't hers, but Katey doesn't complain. Her brother and I steal the tv for sports, but Katey doesn't complain. She doesn't have the spending money other kids have, but Katey doesn't complain.
I'm more protective than I used to be, letting go and watching her grow up is harder than I expected. Putting her in a car with other kids, the idea of her driving a car, those are things that terrify me now. But I know she must grow into this person who she is....and that person is April. I need to start calling her by the name she chooses to go by, start recognizing that she is no longer the little girl with the bow in her hair. She is growing into a young woman, she is her own person and is free to make her own choices. I can't protect her from the pain of the world. Keeping her "little" doesn't keep her safe. Recognizing her strength prepares her to keep herself safe. And that, really, is the best I can do for my little girl. For my April.

Cheerio

When I was a little girl, if you had asked me who the most beautiful woman in the world was, or who I wanted to be like when I grew up, I would have given you one of two answers. Both were about equally delusional, and at completely opposite ends of the spectrum of sophistication. One was a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. I used to practice cheerleading for hours, I loved pom-pons, I wanted gymnastic lessons more than anything. Then someone broke the news that Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders weren't short and chubby, and my dream died (and Ed lived). But the person I admired most in the world, who I thought was even more beautiful and classy than a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader (if that's possible) was Princess Diana. In a time before mass marketing of Disney princesses, she was a real live, beautiful princess splashed across magazines and headlines everywhere for me to see. My friends may have been admiring the cast of 90210 or Alyssa Milano, but I wanted to be Princess Diana.Other girls read Seventeen magazine, I read books about the Royal Family.
When Princess Diana died in 1997, I cried for days. I got up at 3am to watch her funeral and sat with my baby in my lap bawling my eyes out. I wasn't a little girl anymore, I was a mother-like Diana-and by then I knew the things about her I hadn't seen in the pictures as a little girl. Her life was far from perfect, she was living proof that money, fame, and beauty are not always keys to happiness. I loved her as a Princess, but grew to admire her as a real person, a mother, and someone who's struggles I could identify with even if her life was very far removed from mine.

Single mom, like me

My love of Princess Diana meant as a kid, and even now as an adult, I was obsessed with the United Kingdom. I still am. My phone is set to the UK keyboard & settings-as is my Facebook-; my bedroom decorated with pictures of London; and my speech is littered with British slang (probably incorrectly, but just try and correct me, you pratt). Many of my favourite authors and books are British-I find British writers funnier. I follow the British Prime Minister, and Clarence House, as well as several UK authors (like the hilarious Jenny Colgan) on Twitter.
 I applied to teach there a few years ago, but emigration laws and my financial status are not exactly in line right now-or ever. I have a fit for British accents..Once or twice I might have told people I was from England and therefore I don't celebrate the 4th of July. (stop judging, I really dislike fireworks and potato salad, okay?) Prince Harry is one of the only white guys on the planet that I find attractive. Obviously, then, I am more than a little excited about the Olympics in London. Its going to be like a two-week British binge and I am all for it.

The man who taught my son what the word "bong" means...

There's something about the Olympics that brings out that part of me that buys all that questionable music on Itunes completely takes over. "Is gymnastics on?"-excited, Nickelback loving Jean Ann will ask. "I love gymnastics!!" Because sadly, I do-I'll watch every event, every tumble, every sappy story. Keri Shrug and her ankle-I was on that like a teenybopper on Bieber. Give me an Olympic feel good story and I am like an American Idol fan (do those still exist?), glued to my television cheering. Phelps fans? You better believe it, my whole house was. We watched every swimming event in the 2008 games. Some people criticise Michael Phelps for smoking weed, I say -"Thank you, I had to have the Just Say No talk with my kids sometime....why not when they were still only in elementary school." Its just one more special family moment Michael shared with us.

Each ring symbolizes...I have no idea. 

You better believe I will be watching track-and- field. It's like all the action of NASCAR, only quieter and with trained athletes. In honor of the Olympians, I will not snarl and grimace when my new trainers tell me to "sprint!"-I will be motivated by Olympic greatness and achieve greatness myself, or at least run faster and not curse at them under my breath. I'll watch sports I know nothing about just because its the Olympics, perhaps I will become interested in archery again (or never). And it's the Olympics from London-LONDON. There will be such media saturation of the country I love so much...err I mean I will cheer for the USA again and again.
How about that new Dream Team? I sure hope they defeat Spain in the finals and bring home the gold (read: I hope I get to see more of Serge Ibaka on tv-- go Spain, go...oops did I type that outloud?) Maybe for the love of my country I will finally embrace that muppet-looking kid from Kentucky and forgive him for beating Kansas. (That's not required, though, right? I can still support Team USA and carry my grudge like an Olympic Torch, right?)

More TV time, Team Spain

Anyway, because I love all things British, and Olympic, tomorrow night I am hoping to watch the Opening Ceremonies with my family and I will be asking myself many important Olympic questions. Is it too late for me to learn a back handspring? ...How are my flip turns these days? Would I drop the baton? (yes) How heavy is a gold medal to wear? ...Why did all the really hot members of Team USA get hurt? Is Lebron hot or not? .Will they focus the camera more on Serge Ibaka, less on Kobe?..What sport is this? What are the damn rules to this sport? Is that water ballet, is that really an Olympic sport? Would the kids laugh if I bought some of these rhythmic gymnastic ribbons? ....How many days in London would I need to see things properly? How much would like two weeks in the UK cost? .... Is it wrong to be attracted to Prince Harry? Why isn't there more Olympic coverage of Prince Harry?....  Will my trainers know how many biscuits (that's cookies in the States) I ate while watching this Olympic coverage? How old is Bob Costas? His work looks good...how do you find out who his Botox guy is? ..... Oh, the Olympics are over? Is the BBC running a program about Prince Harry?

Big Cats

I don't really know what a cougar is. I'm good with lions (King of the Jungle, Disney cash cow, sketchy brothers) and tigers (overused school mascot, loses easily to midmajors in NCAA Tournament play, really should have just eaten Mike Tyson in that movie as a public service); I know leopards and cheetahs have spots, but maybe not because a black leopard might not so I'm confused again. My son, who has a vast storehouse of animal fact knowledge was trying to explain the Big Cat question (mountain lion? panther?  puma? cougar?) to us the other day, when he finally said "If you want to see a cougar look on the couch."

One of the problems with dating (or attempting to date...or talk...maybe make eye contact) as a single woman over the age of about 25 (ok, 30) is you earn a label "out there." Pretty women who date older men become "arm candy" or gold diggers (Kanye didn't write a song about it because it's a compliment). Any woman who has children and who has maintained her appearance an figure is a MILF, and to me that's not a compliment. I'd like to personally punch in the face whoever wrote the song Stacy's Mom a few years ago, or maybe I could just beat the crap out of Stifler's mom instead because a generation of now twentysomething males have grown up with MILF fantasies that are-quite frankly-a little creepy. I don't care if I'm a MILF, I see too many women pushing expensive strollers with well-dressed but screaming or whining exhausted children every day because their MILF status is more important to them than their child's nap. I don't need attention that badly anymore. And if you are too busy shopping for cute clothes, new lingerie, or high heels, let me take your baby to the park. I was awfully busy when mine were growing up-I understand what you are missing.

The truth is, my children are partly grown and I don't want to raise someone else's. I've done an okay job by myself. I don't need someone to pay my bills, fix my car, or buy me gifts. I am a child of parents from a generation in which women were taught to find men to take care of them, and I won't teach my daughter what was taught to me. So if I want someone in my life it's because I like talking to them, spending time with them, or sharing common interests. I don't know a lot of 50 year old guys who went to Wiz Khalifa. I quit my own generation (see previous blog) so I rarely have much in common with men my own age, much less someone older. I'm just not at the same place in my life many women in my age range or age group are -I wasted much of my life in a relationship with Ed, I'm not ready to settle for stability and comfort while I'm still figuring my life out

I asked my doctor the other day if I could still have children. Not that I want another baby, but the truth is I don't know that I don't want another baby-look at im there in this random picture I found, maybe I want one of those...or not. I don't know exactly what my job will be in a year. I'd like to sell my house, so I don't know where I will be living in a year. I'm at a jw place in my life. (just wondering, maybe I will name  that baby JW..not really) It is easy for me to talk to people who are are still wondering about their lives too, who don't have it all figured out yet. Most of my friends are younger, they are still wondering, so we have great times together-sometimes those are at night clubs (night club might be a stretch for Downtown Springfield, but still you get the idea). We go to concerts together, read popular books, try new workout programs and talk about celebrity gossip sometimes. I watch sports, mostly the NBA, and college basketball. I like people who share those interests, therefore I usually talk to or date younger men. Which brings me to, the previous Big Cat reference. Much like the poor confused panther, I am not really sure if I am a cougar or not. Technically (and by technically, I mean according to the definition I found on Urban Dictionary) I don't think I am really old enough to be a cougar yet. But there is usually a pretty healthy age gap between me and any given man (I think the term is cub) I am talking to.

(Cougar Cub...actual)

If I am, in fact, a true cougar. I am a pretty weak one. I am the runt (do cougars have litters?). In the cougar pack (do cougars travel in packs? or is that only on singles cruises?), I would be the omega...I think that's more of a wolf reference but wild animals, hunting prey-it's like trying to find someone to date in Springfield-so same difference. According to Urban Dictionary as a cougar I think I am supposed to be aggressive, straight forward, possibly even domineering. I think I am supposed to have a lot of money-and spend much of it on self improvement-and also on my cubs. Cougars should probably dress in very high heels, possibly a lot of leopard or cheetah print and a high percentage of spandex in their clothes. I think they are supposed to take charge or relationships and call the shots, being all impressive with their cougar selves.

(Cougar Cub...delusional)

I read Harry Potter books. When I go out with my friends, I try to stand as near the wall as possible and make myself look small. If I see someone I find attractive, I look at the ground. I am poor, really really poor.The only leopard print I own stays hidden under my clothes, but includes underwear with actual leopards on them because I thought they were funny -I'm hoping for underwear of all styles-maybe bras too-that celebrate the Big Cats. I own many pairs of high heels, but don't wear them very often because I have a running injury. My idea of self improvement is a morning at the gym boxing, not a day at the spa. I don't even have big blonde hair, and I've never been able to save up enough for Botox. 

My most recent attempt at stalking prey almost killed my cat. And I really didn't do a very bang up job of stalking since the cub in question never even took me on a real date, and almost killed my cat. I may be new to this dating idea but I think the ultimate goal is dates (and not dead pets) so I believe the score would be Cougar Jean Ann 0, Playa Cubs 1. This is not how we win championships, Team Cougar. I know that some of you might be reading this and thinking-maybe you aren't a cougar or a MILF, but just a nice active mom who would like to meet someone who shares your interest.....that would be a too simple thought, my friends. Without labels, stereotypes and terrible communication, really what is this nightmare we call dating? (oh, yeah-a relationship, like the kind that might actually work)

With my children in Florida this week on that hard earned (read grandma treat) vacation, I figure it would be an excellent time to brush up on my cougar skills. So I've decided to call Joan Rivers. That was a cougar joke, disguised as a puma joke so it probably only seemed funny in certain parts of the country. I'll probably check my Twitter, since that seems to be the only place I can actually interact with males since in their actual presence I lose the ability to speak to anything except the ground. I think we are getting in some new underwear with tigers on them to add to my jungle collection.  I have a really fantastic plan to reread Harry Potter books 1-7 because that's.....well, that's who I am. I read Harry Potter. I watch the NBA. I listen to Ice Cream Paint Job Remix. Call me a cougar-or better yet, just call me Jean Ann.

TBH II

You know that excitement you feel when you find out your favorite artist is releasing a new album or your favorite author is writing a new book? Well, friends I am sure you are all feeling that same excitement with the triumphant return of my blog from its little hiatus....Feel free to organise JK Rowling-new book release type parties.
You know that disappointment you feel when you find out that "new" music is just a different version of the same songs, or the same book with slightly different characters? Prepare the angry mumbles now, my loyal readers (and by loyal readers, I mean my mom) as I proudly present TBH II. After all we all know if anything is good (or marginally passable) in true Hollywood style a sequel is a no-brainer. And by no brainer, I mean ADD-fueled trip through previous blogs, and slightly whinier excuses as to why I can't come up with original material. The blog equivalent of another Godfather (or more realistically, Scary Movie 5)
(Friends don't let friends wear these)

To be honest, I'm kind of glad Rock of Ages has been reported to be a flop. Not that I have anything against musicals, I enjoyed 8 Mile. What? That wasn't a musical; well, you know what I mean... But, I spotted actual acid washed jeans for sale in the Battlefield Mall the other day, and the neon colors splashed everywhere are burning my retinas. I tried to warn you people, yet here it is invading every pore of our being-nothing is safe. Our fashion, our movies, and soon saxophone and big guitar laden songs will be pouring from the radio. This must be stopped before it is accepted again, have you people learned nothing from terrible yearbook photos and Prom pictures of the days gone by? 1987 needs to stay where it was....in the ugly, ugly past. I can see why Tom Cruise would be all about a movie glorifying the '80's, but Tom- you are not Maverick anymore and big hair and terrible bands are not welcome in this new millennium. 

Not Dirk, or a Celtic...unrelated OKC player not mentioned in blog, included for your, okay my,viewing pleasure

To be honest, I hate grass. No, not the kind Kid Cudi writes songs about. The kind which grows in my yard, forcing me to cut it. The kind birds-which I also dislike for no real reason- use to make elaborate nests in my BBQ and bring forth other birds which then either die in said BBQ or around the yard only to be chopped up in the previously mentioned lawn mower. I also hate rain, because it makes the grass grow. And while I am on the subject, I might add I also have an irrational dislike of the Boston Celtics, Dirk Nowitzki, frozen custard, and saxophones.And while I can't relate any of these to how fast my grass is growing, I might or might not be enjoying an evil fantasy about forcing Dirk to mow my lawn right now.

Durantula-an awesome nickname, that I probably misspelled

To be honest, my son and I enjoy watching many sports playoffs together and one of my favorite memories in his short life is that we were watching together in October when the Cardinals won the Series, but I am really enjoying the NBA playoffs. If you're not okay with your kid looking  up to Kevin Durant, then I am not sure what I can say. They don't come much more clean cut in the world of sports, or much more enjoyable to watch. And watching the Oklahoma City fans reminds me of the glory years of Willard basketball when the gym was small and people were so packed in you couldn't move. Much like my life with my dad has been timelined by the sports events we watched, so has my son's with me. And I'm okay with this. All families have their traditions, this is ours. I can't really make up my mind as to who to cheer for in these playoffs, but watching with my boy is really more important to me than who wins.

To be honest, it is the son of someone else that my last blog was about that has kept me from blogging for the past two and a half months. I wrote my last blog the day that Steeler Seaburn died and in the time since then, although life has gone on, in so many ways it has not. I wrote that blog before I saw the peacock feathers at his funeral, before I watched his friends mourn for him, before I sat in a cemetery on my knees crying the kind of heaving sobs I didn't even know I had. Before I realised the number of memories, stories, songs on my Ipod, movies I like, tv shows I watch and even little sayings I have that Steeler was a part of. How I took for granted that sometimes I just asked him questions that I knew he would know the answers to, or checked Facebook just to see how he was doing.  Before I watched his class graduate without him, watching his friends walk to the stage-not needing their names called because I recognised them by the way they stood or walked and knowing that somehow-deep down- I was looking for Steeler even though I knew he wouldn't be there. I was in shock, I think, still when I wrote that. I was not yet accepting that he was really gone and that I would mourn him in a way I had never mourned or grieved for anyone or anything in my life. It is a grief I am not sure I have a right to, but there are days when the reality hits me like a punch in the face and I am sometimes almost doubled over again with crying that this person who was so alive, and so dynamic and so very good for the world is gone. I have seen Steeler's mother, Genny, a few times since his death, and often times I feel angry afterwards. Angry and confused because I want to know why....why Genny's child? and these are answers I don't have....
So tonight I will watch the game with my son, and to be honest, tomorrow (maybe even tonight) I will probably yell at him for something. I will think, as I do every day, about this son of another mother who is gone and I will pray for her, for him, and for my son. And to be honest, I will wait for the world to be normal again, and know it will not be.

Steeler

There are certain unwritten "dos and dont's" about being a "professional" teacher. "Do" enforce rules fairly and equally; for instance don't write passes to let students out of class fourth hour because they are hungry and you have snacks. "Don't" play favorites, meaning don't allow some students priveleges others can't have-like keeping their gym clothes and hats in your desk. "Do" stay on topic-if students try to distract you by, say, asking you to call them "Nighthawk" don't let it lead to a side discussion starting with "What, why do you want to be called Nighthawk?" "Don't" let students eat in class, espescially not cupcakes you baked them. "Do" dress professionally -cover your new tattoo so none of your students yell "skank!!!" when your boss walks by.
I doubt I am remembered as much of a professional at Willard High School, and that's fine. Professionalism was never why I was there, I was there because I liked working with kids, and it is one of those kids that has left a hole in my heart tonight. As I sit here with tears running down my face, remembering, it is making those exceptions for three years that allowed me to know Steeler Seaburn. And I am so thankful.
Anyone who knew me in any of my final three years at Willard probably knew Steeler, too. And by anyone, I mean my neighbor knew him from my stories and a football game she went to; my kids knew him from the stories; my Facebook friends knew him (in case your wondering about this status: "Sorry Mom, I'm coming out of the closet"-Steeler's handiwork); Ed knew him (Steeler would check if he noticed I wasn't eating); a couple of unfortunate males I briefly texted knew him (my phone didn't always lock, and even when it did-he knew the code)  My final year there I think he spent more time in my room than any other student, and I've kept in contact with him in the months since I left Willard. I was going shopping for his graduation gift later this week.
By the time I first met Steeler, as a freshman in my seventh hour class, I was a pretty "seasoned" teacher. There wasn't much I hadn't seen, but I was slowly being transitioned from a Health teacher to English and I was becoming less and less happy at Willard as I became stronger and stronger in my recovery. Steeler was one of a group of boys who managed to find themselves sentenced to three years of English with me, three years in which I changed dramatically as a person while watching them grow up. Three years is a long time, espescially in the life of a teenager. Three years shows you who a person is, what kind of heart they have and I have met few people who had a better or kinder heart than Steeler Seaburn.
When you are an English teacher it is a given that many kids won't like your class and English was not Steeler's subject. And his personality was the very defintion of classroom distratction. He was loud, hysterically funny, and increasingly inappropriate. Between the books he didn't want to read and the papers he hated writing, and the mother who wanted him to do both, it would have been very easy for him to hate me. But he didn't. Instead he asked for help, and I helped him with the papers, the assignments, the books, and eventually a little of everything else. And he helped me. When someone is in your room, in your desk, in your life, they learn about you. Steeler knew me, he knew my kids, he knew the struggles and the ugly rumors that last year; yet he stood by me, family is like that.
I could fill pages of blog with funny stories from the years I knew him because he was truly one of the most hilarious people I've ever known. I used to tell him he WAS Elf, from the movie-a movie I had never even seen until he announced (one day in my class for no real apparent reason) "the best way to spread Christmas cheer is by singing loud for all to hear." But I don't think I'm talented enough to capture who he really was in memories typed in a blog. It's too two dimensional for one of the most 3D people I've ever known. Anyone who has ever known him has probably laughed, or blushed, or both at something he said to them. And anyone who has ever known him has probably been touched by something he did. And it is those somethings that are ripping my heart out tonight. I know a lot of funny people but I don't know that many who were as thoughtful as Steeler Seaburn.
I'm thinking tonight of his mother, we used to have our yearly conferences in October (these days I see her sometimes at the Mall), and can't even imagine what she is feeling. I don't know that I have enough prayers but every one I have is going out to her on the loss of her son. It is selfish, I know to grieve, as he is in a better place, but tonight I am feeling that the world is an emptier place without the boy she shared with me for several memorable years. On my birthday (which I do not advertise on Facebook) I got a Happy Birthday text from Steeler. I have no idea how or why he remembered my birthday but he did, although I guess I shouldn't be surprised. That was Steeler. In the days before I left WHS, I told him "everyone moves on no one will even remember I worked here before long"; his answer was "you will always be our second mom." It was an honor, Steeler. Thank you.

Our Sons

I think it was the Skittles that really broke my heart. Trayvon Martin had Skittles candy and a bottle of tea in his hand-it's the same thing Aaron picks out when we stop for gas or a snack on the way home from school sometimes. Children are killed in our country, children are brutally murdered in our country every year. That is a sad, but true fact and those murders often make headlines. Why have I felt Trayvon Martin's death so personally? I think it is because, as I said on Facebook one day, he could be my son. My son, only a few years younger, plays sports, loves Skittles, watches the NBA and doesn't always make the wisest of decisions. My son loves wearing hoodies. Walking to a nearby store at night for candy, even if it was ill advised, would be the type of decision I could see Aaron making. So I could easily see this boy as my son, or one of his friends. As a mother I can only imagine the pain another mother is, and has been, feeling this past month. It wrenches my soul. There is no greater sorrow than to lose a child, and to lose one in such a senseless and terrible way must bring both pain and anger I can't even fathom.

Is anger the way we should react? I have anger. I have anger with myself that this story made headlines for weeks before I learned about it...on Twitter....from LeBron James. Really? Am I an adult? But at least I learned. I talked about it with my children. My son, who looked at the pictures of the Heat in their hoodies and wanted to take one himself. My daughter, only two years younger than Trayvon, would have gone to school with him in a different place. They discuss it in her social studies class. I wonder about those discussions, in a school where she has heard the word n**** used in the hall as a racial slur numerous times.
I don't know exactly what happened in that neighborhood on that night, but I know a child died. I don't know if his attire, or his skin color, had anything to do with it. Hopefully, these things will be answered over the weeks to come and will be reported to us openly and honestly.
I've already said Trayvon somehow reminded me a bit of my son.Would the color of my son's skin save him on a dark night in a neighborhood? I don't know. It's a question I've asked myself, I think it's a question maybe many of us have asked ourselves. Perhaps it's a question, or a fact, that has allowed some of us to distance ourselves from this case. To not be as outraged as we should. It's an uncomfortable task, to examine your own deepest prejudices, to examine the racial bias of your community or country. I don't know where this country needs to go from here, but I know this-if I have any more children they would look much more like Trayvon than their brother and sister. And I know this, if those children would not be safe because of their skin color on that same street than this is an America I don't want to live in. If those children would not have every opportunity because of their skin color as the two I already have, then it's an America I don't want to live in.
In the America I want to live in, they will be treated exactly the same in school, have the same opportunity to go to the college they choose, succeed in the career they want, have a family. In the America I want to live in, young men can walk down a street and not be shot-not by young men of their own race, not by men protected by misguided "self defense laws", not by any sort of statistic just waiting to make the nightly news. But the America I live in...has some work to do and we should not need the death of a child to remind us. Perhaps if we are willing to ask the hard questions and learn the hard lessons, we can build a better country for the family Trayvon Martin left behind and the families yet to come.

**Footnote: (all references to any future children are hypothetical, Mom. I'm not having any more kids at this time or in the foreseeable future)

A Letter to Peyton Manning

(You, Peyton)

Dear Peyton,
I've been there. Believe me, I've been there. You have a job you like, maybe even think you love. You've been there a long time, longer than many others. People tell you you are good at it, you seem popular even though you make a few mistakes. Sure you have some critics and you don't have as many big awards (Superbowl Trophies, ahem, ahem) as some might like-but you're doing pretty well for yourself. Then-BAM!- management decides you are not exactly the direction of the future. Maybe you just don't fit in. And suddenly you are unemployed....
It's disorienting, although it appears you handled it pretty well with the National Manning Interest Tour of teams. Not all of us had that luxury, but I digress. You landed on your feet just fine. You found a new job. Who knows, maybe you will even be better at this one. Maybe your new job will let you use skills you didn't know you had, show sides of your personality that you couldn't before. Maybe you will feel free to speak your mind, voice your beliefs, have a social life and not have to worry who is watching or agreeing with you.
Perhaps Denver holds wonderful new friends for you. People who are fun, and who want you to be fun too. People who laugh at your jokes and who have open minds. People who support you in every decision. Perhaps you will have a stronger line blocking for you, so you won't get knocked down and feel left to fend for yourself. Perhaps your new coach has nothing but the best planned for you and will develop a plan to get you there.

(Still You,Peyton)

It won't be long and you might not even recognize the person you were in Indianapolis. You might wonder why you stayed  there so long. Your smile might be wider, your jokes will actually  be funnier. You will look younger because you are more relaxed. Your kids (do you have kids?) will like you better because you have time for them, even though you may be working harder because success in this new place is suddenly so important to you. Your social life will improve with all these new friends you are about to make. Maybe you are making less money (No, wait you are not making less money. In fact, you have more money than God) but you are squeaking by.

(Not you, but is this really about you?)

In short this new life will take some adjusting but you will reinvent yourself in Denver. The person you may become will be one who likes himself and everyone around him. You will be happier and healthier. Leaving Indianapolis-however you did it-will be the best decision you ever made. When you say your prayers at night you will Thank God for guiding you down this path and placing all of these wonderful new people in it. You will remember that he has a plan if you will just trust him. He knows what he is doing with you, Peyton. He knows what he is doing with all of us. After all, I've been there.
Your biggest fan,
Jean Ann