Mama, who bore me.

I’m sure I am not alone in this opinion.

When the Casey Anthony verdict came down, I was at my summer job at the children’s theatre, working with some students on line memorization.  I got a text message from my mother, telling me she would be late in picking me up so that she could watch the jury decision live.  I was a bit sickened by this but I found myself glued to my Twitter feed the instant the group split for the afternoon. When ‘not guilty’ came through, I was stunned, nauseous, and furious.  But after the initial rage-tastic flail died down, what came through to me was a grave and sad realization: It was the necessary decision.  Not the right decision.  The necessary one.  Let me explain.

Two of my friends (one of which is my best friend) have just received their law degrees from a prestigious school in NYC.  Both of them agree with me and my sister when we say that despite the overwhelming desires in all of us to lock Casey Anthony in a cell for the rest of her unnatural life, the truth of the matter is that there is simply too much reasonable doubt to make a conviction.  Caylee’s poor little body is beyond autopsy.  Without an autopsy, there is no way we can properly discern what the cause of death to her was, whether it be chlorine or chloroform.

Should the prosecution have pushed for accidental/involuntary manslaughter? Maybe.  I would have gladly taken that conviction.  Casey could have been trying to calm down Caylee, resulting in ‘shaken baby syndrome’, much like the British au pair in the 90s who accidentally throttled her charge.  If it was an accident though, why the duct tape? Who covers up an accident to make it look like murder? Why did Casey feel the need to hide her pregnancy? Did she feel ashamed of the child from conception? What is the deal with the lying that comes from all corners of the Anthony family? Why did George feel the urge to commit suicide when Caylee’s body was recovered? Why did Kronk lie to his son? Who the hell is telling the truth? Why did Jose Baez object to EVERYTHING during the rebuttal (Honestly, he probably would have objected to the salad he got at the lunch break)?

There are so many questions and barely any answers.

The trial should not have been about justice for the victim. It should have been about justice for Casey Anthony.  And by justice, I could mean either an acquittal by the lack of substantial evidence (which is what happened) or the locking up of a woman who murdered her child (which I truly believe happened).  Either way, justice was done.  Not the kind I wanted, by any means.  But justice was done.  I truly do think karma is a bitch, and she slaps hard.  Casey eventually will pull an OJ, do something unbearably stupid, and get locked up.  All of life’s kinks smooth over eventually.

There is a reason I saved this post for today.

Today is my sister’s birthday.  She’s 28, married, with a son.  (I would just like to add here that being 25 and unmarried makes me a spinster according to my Nonna.  Either that, or only suitable as a streetwalker or corner crone.)

Jenna watched the Casey Anthony case like a fiend.  She would text me during the day, asking me questions about our legal system, and expressing different opinions about the case to me and to herself.

Like I said, Jenna has a son, nearly a year old.  I’ve taken to calling him Lovebug on here, simply for privacy reasons, however if you would like to know his real name, just Google it.  He’s gotten more Internet hits than me.  Or Dad, probably.

If Lovebug blinks too rapidly, Jenna is on the phone with the Center for Disease Control.  She openly wept the first time she had to leave Lovebug in the crib to let him fall asleep on his own.  If I shift him from one arm to the other, Jenna gets on high alert until he’s secure.  She once woke Todd in a cold sweat, screaming about how Christian was crawling on top of their windowsill, then fell back asleep again.

This kid will never get a cold a day in his life if Jenna has anything to say about it.  I have yet to change a single one of his diapers because ‘You don’t know how to do it the right way.’ I ask you, how hard is it to wipe a butt? We all have done it…God willing.

But I digress.

I look at her, the way she loves that child.  And by looking at the way she loves CJ, it is beyond any form of comprehension to me how someone like Casey Anthony could look at their own child, a little girl that grew inside of her, and make the choice to place her hands around Caylee’s throat and squeeze until there’s no air left.

Jenna loves CJ the way Casey Anthony should have loved Caylee.  Caylee deserved that kind of love.  In a way, she’s receiving that love right now.  But she should not have had to die to get it.

She should have gotten it from her mother, the way Lovebug gets it from his.

Thankfully, my sister is not Casey Anthony.

My sister.  The one who cut my hair with rusty kitchen scissors, forced me to sleep in the same bed as her when I had mono so she could care for me during the night, drove me to school forty thousand times, ran headlong into the side of our house during a game of baseball and burst open her knee, shares secret laughs with me when Mom says something insane, occasionally texts me with random medical questions (“What exactly does it mean to be a hermaphrodite??”), shares my obscene adoration of Chipotle, has the most impressive road rage I have ever seen in my life, laughs again and again at “Dramatic Chipmunk” and Lonely Island’s “J**z In My Pants”, outlined about fifteen parameters for my maid of honor speech at her wedding (specifically ‘don’t try to be funny because you’ll just look stupid’), re-pierced my ears on our deck with ice and a sterilized sewing needle so I could wear  the earrings she gave me as a wedding present, and danced to The Violent Femmes with me at 1 AM on New Year’s Eve.

In short? Lovebug has one badass mama.

And I have the best sister on the planet.

Happy birthday, Jenna.

taken at my 21st birthday party, at Huskies.  i have no idea what we were laughing at.  i only have the Grateful Deads I drank that night to blame for this memory loss.


Published by The Curious Ally Cat

I'm a 34 year old adjunct professor and writer in Connecticut. People seem to like me because I am polite and I am rarely late.

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