Applicant #27: Erin Jennings

Erin Jennings is a mom from Bainbridge Island.

My video application:

A bit about me:

My children are 13 and 11 and the days when they get along are my happy days.

Brian and I have been married 16 years and we still know how to make each other laugh, which comes in handy when raising middle-schoolers.

In addition to being a mom and pet pooper-scooper (with two dogs, two cats and multiple chickens, we generate a lot of, ahem, waste), I write part-time for my community newspaper. I cover local lifestyles and entertainment stories and also write an advice column. The questions I’m asked range from dealing with noisy neighbors to what to do when you accidently knock over the apple display at the grocery store.

A few years ago, I realized I didn’t want to forget the ins and outs of parenting, so I began the blog: www.supergluericekrispies.blogspot.com. Why the name, you ask? Have you ever tried to scrape off Rice Krispies from a cereal bowl once the milk has dried? Nearly impossible.

Aside from the dried out cereal bowls and socks strewn all over the house, I love my family something fierce.

My blog post:

For 32 years the quilt stayed wrapped in plastic.

My mom made me the quilt shortly before she died. And up until recently, I hadn’t wanted to use it, for fear of ruining it.

But a few months ago, I was in an antique store and came across a quilt of similar patterns and colors of mine.

"Who owned this?" I wondered as I fingered its threadbare fabric. "Who was wrapped beneath it on cold winter mornings, or who slept off a fever underneath the artistic fabric?"

The faded fabric and holes told a story. They told of comfort and love and life.

My quilt, in its pristine condition, had no real story to tell. It hadn't kept me warm on powerless nights. It wasn't turned into a fort when my children were younger. It served as a reminder of my mom— but only when I happened to come across it in the attic.

I decided to risk exposing my quilt to coffee stains, pet fur and other daily mishaps.

I unpacked it from its plastic and placed it on the living room couch.

“Isn't that the quilt your mom made?” asked my family. “Are you sure you want to leave it there?” Yes, I answered.

For every stain or small tear, tells a story. Keeping it in plastic doesn't allow it to gain a history.

The quilt reminded me that as a mom, I sometimes strive too hard for perfection. By doing so, I am missing out on fun memories. (I’ve been known to clean the house before my children’s friends come over because I fear the young guests would tell their moms how filthy our house was — what 11 year old reports on cleanliness?)

My life will never resemble a magazine cover. And it shouldn’t. A full life has laugh-lines, crayon marks on the walls and bleach splatters on your favorite sweater.

One day my daughter will be grown and gone, but her name —which was accidently etched into our dinning room table when she used a ballpoint pen— will remain.

And some day when my son no longer lives under our roof, I might even miss the milk cartons that he leaves out on the counter on a daily basis.

So I now embrace life’s imperfections. They prove I truly am living a life, instead of pretending to live in a photo-shoot.

Erin