Though I still feel like 20 is a lame age, I had a very fun birthday and I want to say thank you to everyone who sent me FB messages, wrote on my FB wall, and/or sent me an email.

Yummy Key Lime Birthday Pie….home made by one of my roommates.

~Rebecca

Ali Landry Starts the Season; Talks Baby Style

“[For myself,] I’m a bargain shopper extraordinaire. We’re talking $20 for the shoes. For my baby I do not go cheap chic. I fly to Louisiana and buy all her clothes there, because I am very much classic, traditional [for] Estela. When we’re out and about people are like, ‘Oh, it’s a baptism. Oh, it’s a party.’ I’m like, ‘No, we dress her like this every day.’

I put her in bonnets till just a few weeks ago and she wears the shoes, little socks with the ruffles, a bow in her hair. She’s always a completely dressed and very classic baby. I refuse to do trendy. Babies — in my opinion — should not be trendy; they’re a baby for a very short amount of time; they should look like a baby. Now she’s 16 months and she wears dresses; I never put her in a pair of pants ever.”

Some of the commenters on the post thought that it was a bit over the top to not dress a girl in pants while others applauded Ali’s statements. I’m not into the pants vs. skirt discussion, but I thought this was interesting because it goes into the topic of baby girls and modesty.

A lot of the girl’s clothes I see on the rack now are basically shrunken versions of adult clothes; something in my estimation is wholly inappropriate. I’m not a parent so I can only speak from my opinion, but this new “trendy baby” generation seems to be step one in oversexualizing girls at a young age. It may not seem significant as we’re talking about infants who won’t remember what they’ve worn, but from what I’ve seen, trendy babies become trendy little girls, and some of the trends for young girls today are not ones that we should be encouraging. (Those whorish Bratz dolls come to mind.)

I haven’t asked her but I think my mother would side with Ali as most of the pictures I have seen of myself as an infant have been of me in a dress, stockings, and a bonnet. I guess I won’t know until if and when I have a baby girl, but I’m curious, what do you think about a baby girl’s wardrobe?

Classic or trendy?

~Rebecca.

A woman was walking by the clinic with her two children, and stopped next to our group for a minute to pray. Someone had given her a piece of our literature, which had detailed pictorial accounts of abortions and abortion procedures. The woman’s daughter who was probably about 9 or 10-years-old stole a peek at one of the pictures and asked, “If that’s what happens, what do they do with the dead baby after they’re done?”

The mom looked a little exasperated, and when she didn’t answer the question, her daughter looked at me as if she wanted me to answer her. I sort of froze and then looked at her mother who was also staring at me. We shared sort of an awkward parenting moment I guess you could call it, and I felt sympathetic because eventually she was going to have to explain to her daughter what was going on.

There are times like these when I’m sort of glad I don’t have any children. How do you answer a question like that? Interestingly enough, Feminists for Life has just released a new series of videos, one of which seems to be quite applicable:

I’ve volunteered my services and will be making some videos for 40 Days For Life within the next few months. I don’t know exactly what I want to do yet, but in talking to the Coordinator, we both agreed that we definitely want to make something a bit more positive. Eduardo and his posse have been handing out Dura Realidad, but we’re thinking I should make something about embracing motherhood and the joy of children.

As an aside…

Since people have been asking me, yes I did get into a car accident on Saturday right after I left FPA. I’m fine, as was the other woman involved, though my poor car is not. My left sider mirror is hanging and the driver’s side is dented, scratched, and otherwise maimed. Since it’s a holiday week I’m going to drive my car home as is, and then I’ll take it to my insurance’s autobody shop next Monday.

Pax Christi, Rebecca.

MyShape.com

Mango Shop.com

Overstock.com

All of these coats range from around $100 - $210. If you are in need of a new coat, I would also stop by the Burlington Coat Factory and Martin & Osa.

~Rebecca.

Oooh hey Shemar! Lookin’ all swexy solving crimes and stuff. LOL, let me stop.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I dislocated my right ankle while sliding into home base during a softball game. I was in a cast for the rest of the spring semester and started physical therapy during the summer.

A few weeks into therapy, my doctor told me I was strong enough to walk around for maybe 15 minutes a day, and after that I should put my walking cast back on. Being that I’m stubborn and by that point in the summer I had cabin fever, I decided to walk to the beach, hang out for a bit, and then walk back. (If my leg started to swell, than maybe I would put my walking cast back on.) The beach is only a few blocks from my home in San Diego, so it wasn’t like I had far to go.

On my way there I crossed a street at which a red corvette was stopped at a stop sign. A guy, mid-30s, yelled out of his car, “You havin’ a good time?” I ignored him and kept my eyes forward.

The following is an excerpt of a short story I wrote on what happened next:

I imagine he watched me cross the street, cross in front of his car. I imagine he watched me continue to walk down the street. I guess he figured I was an easy target; I was limping slightly. There’s no other explanation.

I continued to walk toward the beach. The one a few blocks from my house. My beach, in my quiet, quaint, little beach town. If he drove by I didn’t notice. He had the same car as my grandfather; that’s what I remember most. A red sports car. It was an older model, probably from the early 90s. My granddaddy loves to be flashy.

I went to a few of the beach stores. Just to look. I hadn’t been out of the house without crutches for three months. My ankle wasn’t hurting, so I went to the beach. I saw him pass me in his red sports car. It doesn’t register. It looks just like my grandaddy’s.

There are too many people at the beach; I want to go back home. Not the normal way. A longer way for more sunshine; I want more sunshine. He must have been watching me the entire time. There’s no other explanation.

I went through a neighborhood. He didn’t follow behind me. A civilian would have done that. I made a turn here and a turn there. I’ve never been in this neighborhood. No matter, I lived to the north of where I was. Go north till you hit the water and my house is right there.

I’ve never been on this street. I’m at the end of the block. There is a barrier because of construction. Right, left, or back the way I came. I only have three choices.

And here he comes. In my granddaddy’s car. He turns the corner, and it hits me. Rebecca, he is following you. Oh my God. God help me.

His car stops in front of me. He yells something at me. Something about giving me a ride. I can’t hear. My heart is pumping. He presses the gas slightly, and drives up next to me. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.

Oh my God. God help me. Stop it Rebecca. Think. Process the situation. He’s talking to me. My body is frozen. My brain is running a marathon.

He’s wearing camo. He’s in the military. No Rebecca, not necessarily, any loser with $50 can buy a camo uniform. Wait, the sticker. He has a sticker of an American flag on his car. He has clearance to get onto base. He is in the military. Father in heaven please help me. You’re alright, he’s still talking to you. Keep thinking.

I walk forward next to a large white van. He can’t see you, keep thinking. He puts the car in reverse. I can see the back of his car through the window of the white van. Oh my God. God help me.

“So you wanna run?” The southern accent I usually find adorable is now repulsive.

The engine turns off. He’s in the military, Rebecca. If he gets out of that car and gets his hands on you he’ll rape you. Maybe even worse. Defend yourself. Defend yourself, Rebecca.

The engine is on again. Thank you Lord. I hear him switch gears. He drives forward. I walk forward. I’m behind another car. He still can’t see me. He yells something. I can’t hear anything. I can only hear the instructions screaming from my brain.

The car switches gears, and he accelerates forward from 0 to 50mph in what seemed one second. He turned left on the corner, trying to cut me off around the block. I’m in pain. I look down, and my not yet healed ankle is swollen about twice the normal size.

It doesn’t matter, run Rebecca. Right, left, or back the way I came. I only have three choices. I’ve never been in this part of my small little beach town. I’m about half a mile east from my house. Run, Rebecca. I pick left.

I run; there are more houses. I can hear his engine stalking me. He’s on the other side of the block. I make another left. It’s a cul-de-sac. Great. The engine is getting louder. Hide, hide right now.

There is a house with a wall. I hide behind it, as the sound of the engine grows louder. He drives up right beside me, looking. I can hear the engine roaring loudly. He’s looking for me. A few minutes pass, and he turns and drives out the way he came; bored I guess.

I wait until I hear utter silence, and then I begin to run home. I zigzag through the blocks to make sure it isn’t easy to follow me. Every now and then I hear the engine of a muscle car. It’s not him, but the fear in my heart says it is.

I run into my house. I lock the gate. My ankle is huge and bruised. Not five minutes later my mother walks in the door.

She stops in the doorframe, staring at me, wanting to know what’s wrong. I tell her, she calls the police. They come, but that’s about it. There are plenty of blonde white males in their 20s between 5’9 and 6’1 with shaved heads wearing camo driving red muscle cars. This is a military town.

Needless to say, that was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. I had been harrassed by men before, but I had never been stalked for hours like that. The worst part is that I have seen him around town since that incident.

At the time I was running on adrenaline and my instincts—stay calm, put distance between myself and my predator, and then escape. It worked pretty well, but what I should have done was ask for help after my initial escape. I was in a neighborhood full of cars in the driveway and other indications that people were at home. I had my cell phone, but I also didn’t think to call 911 because my focus was on putting distance between myself and my attacker. He was in a car and I only had one good leg.

Since that incident I have been changed. For about a year afterward I was terrified of young white men. It was terrible because someone would introduce themselves to me, and I would have to breathe very slowly and tell myself that he was not going to hurt me just in order to shake his hand. I knew that fear was irrational and with the help of my family and friends I was able to overcome it. I would also get scared at the first faint instance of a roaring engine, something I also was able to eventually work through.

But there have been some positive changes as well. Whenever I go to a new place, I immediately scan the room for exit routes. It’s not paranoia, just preparation. If I am in a room with a bunch of men that I don’t know, it’s also now second nature to compare their height and weight to mine, just to see how big of a fight I will have to put up if they attack me. Again, this is not paranoia, just preparation.

Every woman must be prepared to defend herself. You must know what to do in any situation. Take a self-defense class and read up on the warning signs of an attack. 

I send up the petition to Our Lady that you never have to face a situation like I did, but you must be prepared to defend yourself.

~Rebecca

Beautiful and dignified…the way all ads should be.