The Importance of Doing It Yourself

Jennifer Burns

I remember a quilt my sister had when she was a baby. It was pale white and yellow, with white lace trim, and, along with a pillow I gave her when she was born, she took it everywhere she went as a baby and toddler. It was her blankie. It didn't have fancy stitching, I think it was just plain cotton with no batting, and the lace was the simple stuff you get in the bargain bin of the craft store. But, it was made with love. And my sister poured love right back into it.

Fast-forward 23 years, and my son has the same affinity with another blanket. This one was actually bought for me while I was pregnant with him, but was bought for me by my husband. It's fleece, it's way too hot in the summer, and it's not as soft and snuggly as it used to be. My son loves it, and drags it everywhere he goes.

The difference? The fleece blanket is starting to get holes in it, and my son is only 17 months old. My sisters quilt didn't start getting holes in it until she was around three. Do I think the fabric had something to do with it? Of course! Fleece isn't as sturdy as straight up cotton, due to the structure of the fabric itself. But, it feels as if handmade items demand to be taken care of in a way that store-bought items don't.

Handmade isn't always better. Sometimes, it can be downright horrible. But, overall, anything you can buy in the store can be made at home, sometimes for a fraction of the price.

That doesn't mean that you have to start from scratch, weaving your own fabric. Making a homemade toddler dress can be as simple as taking an old sweater from your closet, making a few modifications, and sewing it together. Voila, an old, unused sweater brought back to life, and a little girl gets a cute new dress. The same can be done for hats and gloves (for adults, as well), if one has the inclination to spend some time to learn how to get it right.

I grew up poor, but I didn't know it until other kids pointed it out when I got to about 2^nd grade (because I got free lunch, not because I looked shabby). Until that point, I reveled in the handmade dresses, dolls, hats, toys, and bedding that my mother, grandmother, and aunts made for my sisters and I, and never knew anything different. Between handmade goods and used goods bought through Goodwill, I never felt poor, and never went without. I had toys, I had books, I had craft material, I had dress-up clothes, and I sometimes had more than the kids who had all-new toys had.

Now, I'm a mother, and it's my job to pass the DIY spirit on to my children. They both have clothing, toys, and accessories that I have hand-made for them, and I even sell a little from time to time at farmers markets and online. Not ony that, but my kids are always there to “help”, which usually means tangling up the yarn or thread I haven't used yet or ripping the paper or fabric I'm working with. But, I always buy a LOT extra in case I mess up anyway, so it's not a waste. They're learning, they're becoming creative, and they're enjoying being with me. Sometimes, that matters a lot more to kids than how much you give them. When they grow up, they won't remember all the little things they had, although they will remember a few. What they'll remember more is the time they spent with you.

Social Media: My Love Affair, My Addiction

Social Media: My Love Affair, My Addiction

Jennifer Burns

On any given day, any of my 405 twitter followers or 430 Facebook friends will be bombarded with things I find important, things I find interesting, or the fact that my husbands scrambled eggs smell like poison. Some of it is information that some people can use. Some of it is information that I feel people need to know to better themselves. The rest of it, I'll admit, is me thinking I'm hilarious and that everyone needs to hear what would come out of my mouth if they were sitting across from me anyway.

The downside of all this isn't the most common complaint I hear, which is the potential for identity theft. If someone wants to steal my identity at this point in my life, they'd be the one with the problem, because even I don't want my identity. I'm a realist in that the chances of my children being abducted by a stranger are much lower than the chances of them being abducted by a relative or friend, so I've never been paranoid that someone in Nevada will see a photo of my kids and go off the deep end and HAVE TO HAVE THEM. No, the downside is that, in order to get the latest gem my brain has popped out, I eschew important things, such as writing this essay, to get my words out to the masses. But, here I am, a full 24 hours after it was assigned, and I've written well over 1000 words on both twitter and Facebook that could have been put to better use on this essay. Because, apparently, I felt people needed to know that: 1) A fellow student had an annoying ringtone in the lounge, 2) I don't hate math, I just think fractions are illogical, 3) and that I think getting high before an exam is one of the easiest ways to fail said exam.

This isn't a recent happening. I've been utilizing social media since the early 2000's, when you had to code your blog by hand because Wordpress and Blogger hadn't been invented yet. But, I didn't always know my audience. I would write poems, write graphics tutorials, post photos of my son, and badly written short stories, usually to an audience of 3-6 friends who would pat me on the back and tell me I was amazing no matter how horrible the content was.

I have always been a very opinionated person. It got me in a lot of hot water when I was in high school, but I learned at a young age that there are places and people you don't share your opinion with, like at work in front of your boss, or at the dinner table in front of my mom. One shouldn't opine openly about religion, politics, or sports unless the temperature of the “water” has been felt and is comfortable.

In this same regard, there are things I know I can post without controversy on each social media platform I use, and I try to use my judgement accordingly to keep from unnecessarily ruffling feathers.

For instance, my Facebook “friend” list contains mostly family members and people who know me from my work as a 3D artist and the moderator of an art community. While I am a member of a handful of politically motivated groups, I don't post a lot of politically themed messages on facebook because I'd rather not offend my very conservative family members and members of the art community that are also conservative.

In contrast, I pretty much let loose on twitter. That is not to say that I hide behind anonymity and spout abusive statements all day long. I just post more politically motivated thoughts there than I do on Facebook. This isn't to say banal thoughts don't slip through. That's actually most of my stream, and it's how I gain followers. With 140 characters, you have to actually say something catchy or funny to catch people's attention and keep it, and I'm apparently doing a good job for not being a celebrity or spam-bot.

There are times when I've taken a self-imposed vacation from social media. Not because I'm paying too much attention to it and not to my family, but because it can become emotionally draining. I've always tried to see things from other points of view during a discussion, but the one thing I can't get my head or heart past is hatred, especially when it's not coming from a place of honesty. I can understand disagreeing with a political figure, whomever they might be. I can not understand wishing death or harm upon them, or their families. I can understand praying for someone to change their mind. I cannot understand praying that God will remove them from this earth. Unfortunately, too many people don't realize that saying something on the internet doesn't mean you didn't say it at all. But, I've learned that, sometimes, it doesn't matter how much positivity you present; sometimes angry people want to stay angry. So, rather than remove myself from the picture, I now remove the negativity from my feeds, explaining why if they're actually family.

This frees me up to enjoy lively discussions based on respect and mutual interests. This isn't to say that I have culled my lists down to people who agree with me on everything. That would be boring, and I would be missing out on a lot of great people. And, you know, I just can't see myself cutting people out of my life.

Live is Change Essay

Life is Change

Jennifer Burns

I have always thought of myself as somewhat of a boring person. I don't travel the world, I don't party on the weekend, I have been known to just hit “repeat” on movies while I clean the house or work on crocheting hats, and most of my music collection is the same stuff I've listened to since I was 17. But narrowing down a subject for this essay has taken nearly a week. Every night, I've written upwards of 1000 words, none telling a specific story. Then, a news story reminded me of one specific instance that I still hold close to my heart today.

As a child, I spent a lot of time in the hospital. I was born with an Atrial Septal Defect, and I was physically too small to have it repaired until I was four. I'd had 4 blood transfusions by the time I was 3, and several months-long stays in the hospital just to stay healthy. This is the part where people usually say “aww, that's sad!”, but, really, I didn't know anything different. I grew up trusting doctors and nurses, and always had great care. There were always other children there with me, with various forms of cancers, injuries, diseases, or disorders. We all got to go to story time, we all got to watch the movie on Friday, and we all fought for the prized toy of the week.

I don't remember any names, but I remember all of their faces. Most of them didn't grow with me, and are forever young. We played games, and would make up stories in the books (since most of us were to young to have learned to read yet), drew pictures, and kept each other company. The thing is, whether parents want to admit it or not, sometimes, kids can tell when another kid just needs a little room to JUST be a kid.

About a month before my 5^th birthday, I finally went in for my ASD repair. I would have the surgery that would allow me to run without giving my mother a heart-attack and live a long and healthy life. It was a special occasion, so I asked my mom to curl my hair. The night before, I took a bath, and got my hair done up in pink sponge curlers, and picked out my favorite blue dress to wear to the hospital. I didn't find out until years later that my mom spent the night crying, because even the doctors did not expect me to make it out. She indulged every whim I had that night, and in the morning, we left for Salt Lake City to Primary Childrens Hospital about an hour away from home.

I got set up, got my pokes and my IV's, and got prepped for surgery, my golden curls pushed up under my cap. The nurses called my Goldilocks, and I quite liked the attention (what 4-year-old doesn't?).

The next morning, I woke up, surrounded by some of the members of the Bishopric of our Ward praying over me, for me to heal quickly. During the surgery, I'd gone from two IV poles to one, which made it easier to move around on my own. It also made it easier for me to accidentally pull out my IV. The Doctor and nurse arrived to re-insert my IV and do a general checkup, and promised me that if everything looked ok, I'd be able to go play the next morning. I was not ok with waiting, apparently. The moment they turned to talk to my mother, before they re-insterted the IV, I had bolted out of the room and down to the play room. The play room that contained a sign that said “No Doctors, Nurses, or Needles Allowed”. This room was safe from poking and prodding and everything that I didn't want to deal with.

Inside, there was a little girl. Only one little girl. She looked like my friend two beds away who was there for treatment for Leukemia, only sicker. But, she had a smile on her face. Because someone had come to play with her. We played together for about 10 minutes before her nurse spotted her, and came in and not-so-gently grabbed her by the arm, reprimanded her for leaving her bed, and took her back to her room. My nurse showed up moments later, and did the same.

There was a lot of commotion, and they cleaned and sanitized the entire playroom before anyone else was allowed in there. I was poked and tested. And I never saw her again the whole time I stayed there, which was about a week for recovery.

Fifteen years later, I went back to Primary Childrens, for my oldest son's circumcision. One of the nurses recognized me, and told me stories of when I'd come and make a mess of the play room to put on a play about lords and ladies. So, I asked her if she remembered that little girl. Teary-eyed, she nodded her head, and said that yes, she remembered her.

“Why didn't I ever see her with the other kids at story time or movie night?” I asked.

“Back then we were overly cautious, especially with kids who had a chance to make it. We knew that you couldn't catch what she had unless you roughhoused, and none of you ever did.”

“What did she have?” I asked.

“She was dying, of AIDS-related Pneumonia. She passed away 2 days after we caught her running into the play room to play with another little girl.”

I was shocked. I mean, she certainly looked sick, but I know enough about AIDS that in 1984, the medical community knew that AIDS was a blood-borne disease, and simply playing with her would not have caused the transmittal of HIV.

“She didn't run into the room to play with the other little girl,” I said. “I ran in there to play with her.”