Nerdy Girls

Have you seen the movie Wreck-It Ralph? Well, if you haven't you have to. I've seen it about a bazillion times thanks to the boy. I don't know what Disney's deal is but every nerdy girl is a blond, blue-eyed, glasses-clad girl. Me.

I've had glasses since I was two. I couldn't see the fingers on my hand unless they were inches from my face. My parents tell me that I was legally blind. Since the tender age of 14 I have been wearing contact lenses.

Here are some comparison shots:

(Who doesn't love that late 80s hair?)

Do you recognize this little thing? She makes an appearance on Disney's A Goofy Movie when they arrive at a possum theme park. My sarcastic uncle lovingly compared me to her when I was in kindergarten after he saw the film. Nice.

Here's the girl from Wreck-It Ralph. As soon as I saw her, I thought, "Disney?! What the heck?!"

It isn't just me right?


~Lady Jane

"Memries, like the corners of my mind..."

When I was a little girl, I read a story in my elementary school library about a woman who wanted to make the world a prettier place. I loved the book, but promptly forgot about it, except this idea about a woman who could simply walk by a field and flowers would blossom.

Growing up, my mother's parents would come to visit, for months at a time! They would park their motorhome outside my bedroom window. I would come home from school and see granny unclipping her dry laundry from the line she put up moments after her arrival. I would drop off my bag and hop over to the motorhome for Danish cookies. Do you know the ones?

I loved these. (I wish I knew where to buy these).

I remember my mom saying that her rose bushes seemed to grow faster or bloom bigger after granny walked by. And that thought has never left me, imprinted in my heart and memories. So whenever I think of her, I would remember that story of a woman who walked by a field and flowers would bloom.

For years, I have been trying to find the title of the story that has been so much a part of my childhood and I didn't even know what it was called.

The husband and I have been living in our new home for almost a year now and we're trying to figure out how to decorate our bedroom. He had this idea to find scientific drawings for his side of the bed whether it was of sea shells, coral, something. On my side a painting of the same subject and in the middle (above our bed) a photograph of said subject. He brought up lupin. Apparently, there were lupin fields where he grew up. The name alone didn't spring to mind a picture so I googled it.

And this book was among the search results. The cover looked familiar so I clicked on it, revealing a story that I remembered but had long forgotten.

This story that had been in the recesses of my inner memories once again sprang to the forefront. I lovingly attacked the husband with thank yous pouring from my mouth. I almost cried.

Profession Confession

Sometimes I watch James Lipton's "Inside the Actors Studio". I'm not going to lie, sometimes I wish I was in the audience when he's interviewed certain people (none of them come to mind right now), heck sometimes I wish I was the one being interviewed, excerpts of my work displayed on the giant screen. But the one question he always asks that gets me thinking is, "What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?" In another life I wanted to be a prima ballerina. I can dance, and I learn fast (at least I think I do). I think the desire manifested itself when my cousins took ballet. I was beyond jealous. And it manifested itself again in high school when I was posed with the task of choosing a Phys Ed credit (traditional P.E. or dance). The choice was a no-brainer. I wasn't the most coordinated gal so dance seemed to be the least embarrassing of the two options in front of me at the time. It's amazing how quickly a girl can feel graceful with a short ballet unit.

I just finished watching a documentary on Russian prima ballerinas called "Ballerina" (I found it on Netflix). * GULP * If I was an aspiring Russian ballerina I would have been kicked out at twelve. Ballet choreographers don't like hourglass figures, long and lean is their motto. Thus the ever-constant dreaming of having the right body type for it. I wonder if those ballerinas ever wished to have a fuller figure?

So, what profession would you like to attempt?

~Lady Jane

Lesson Learned

One of the weirdest phrases I heard in my writing class was, "creative nonfiction." What does that even mean? I was at a loss for words. I had no idea how I supposed to get creative without being false or bending the truth. Had I been a reader of Real Simple magazine when taking the class, I would have known exactly what my professor meant. In each issue they have a section called "Life Lessons". I learn the strangest, saddest, and sometimes simple things when I read that section. This is creative nonfiction. These writers just seem to know how to paint a story without brushing over the truth.

So here goes, if I were to actually submit a piece for an essay contest about understanding the meaning of love it might go something like this:

My mother always used to say that I would never understand how much she loved me until I had a child of my own. There's no way that could be true. There were so many ways that my mother showed me love: supporting my talents by attending choir concerts, always being a listening ear, staying up with me to finish that forgotten term paper, always finding time to teach me valuable life lessons as she transitioned into grandmother-hood while I was still only eight. As I grew up with a matriarch overflowing with positive words and love, I never thought it would take me until I had my first child that I would truly understand. As I groggily woke up to feed my crying baby, carefully prepared his food, happily changed his diaper or enjoyed his coos and giggles I was reminded of all the loving attention given to me by my own mother as her youngest.

Due to medical complications, I didn't get to spend an entire week with my newborn and had to leave my son in the care of my mother. She was much older now, and physically less prepared to repeat the routine of a newborn baby. I ached to be out of my hospital bed and be home with my husband and son, but I knew that my son was more than competently cared for, perhaps even more so than by a brand new mommy like me. I knew that my son would be loved and given the attention that I would have given him myself.

My mom with my son

When I was finally discharged from the hospital, I still couldn't hold my son and walk at the same time thus the nighttime responsibilities again fell to my mother. It was after I had regained strength in my leg that I profusely thanked my mom for caring for my boy. She gushed about how much she loved being up with him in the middle of the night and not being sore or too tired (like having her own seven children felt). What I imagine she was trying to say, "You won't understand how much I love you until you have a child of your own." I wouldn't have done any different had it been my grown son and his family in need of service and I an older woman in her latter years. She managed to show me how much she could love her grandson and through this selfless act, I know what unconditional love truly is.

So mom, if you happen to read this I love you for all that you have ever done and still do for me!

~Lady Jane

Lady Jane: Zero, Parenting: Won

8 June 2012

Well, parenting certainly won that round today. I am near my wits end trying to nourish my son. The only thing he consumes without hesitation is milk, yogurt, bread, and bananas. If I try to mix bananas into his yogurt, forget about it. He will try a bite of other foods and will immediately spit it out. I did get him to each some pureed sweet potatoes, so that was a success. I think it's a texture issue with him. But it's driving me insane! I started introducing gummy vitamins so that I could at least feel good about making sure he got them in another source, but every time I give him the vitamins he asks for fruit snacks. I'm not worried that he isn't healthy, he is quite the little muscle man. Perhaps I'm overcomplicating the matter; I know what foods I like and the ones I don't and I could literally eat cereal every morning for breakfast because it's quick and easy and F is my kid after all. Maybe he's just trying to tell me in his limited vocabulary that a variety of foods isn't for him (at least not yet). I doubt I'll have a long respite during F's nap time since he's so incredibly stubborn that all he ate was a piece of bread for lunch. I offered him one teddy graham for each bite of parfait he ate, but this little stinker wouldn't even dane to try it.

~Lady Jane

Goldberg Nugget #6

Give me your morning

23 May 2012

I drifted in and out of consciousness as I heard the syncopation of the rain emanating from my iPod dock, awake just long enough to reach the snooze button for another glorious nine minutes of "sleep". As I tried to hold on to slumber, it slipped further and further away as I heard my husband cross the floor from the bathroom to his closet, turning the fan on a faster setting as he passed. "Drying off," I thought. I guess the rain was a little of the shower head too. I pulled the pillow sham from between my legs and propped myself against it as I checked on the boy from the video monitor. My drowsy hand searched for my glasses on the nightstand and discovered them exactly where I had left them the night before.

Even though the boy was mostly awake singing to himself, I figured I would have time to relieve myself and dress for the day. I softly closed my bedroom door behind me so as not to make a sound in the hope that I could take care of preparing the morning bottle. I trudged into the kitchen, flipping on the middle switch from the hallway. The light from the refrigerator brightened the kitchen by another 40 watts. I plucked the 8 ounce bottle from the shelf on the door, the gallon jug and proceeded to the microwave. Falling like a silk scarf, the white liquid gathered itself to the highest tick mark on the side of the bottle. I watched the bottle dance by itself as it heated in the microwave (or as I affectionately refer, a godsend). One last check on the boy on the monitor as I walk down the hall. I listen to the knob screech in excitement, echoing the happy shrills from my little man.

(6-7 months old)

On the Brain

I think my brain is empty. I've had so many things on my mind lately that I don't even know what to post at the moment. BAM! It just hit me. I could talk about my upcoming tea party I'm planning for my 28th birthday with my two cousins and their cousin from their mom's side and my good friend Danny.

Why tea party? Because they're fun. I'm hoping to recreate as much as I can remember about my 8th birthday tea party. I know that we wore Sunday dresses, costume jewelry, hats and faux fur shawls. And we felt like princesses. At least I did. My other aunt was generous enough to send down her collection of hats, jewelry and faux furs that I'm hoping she might let me borrow what she has left.

I am beyond looking forward to this! A couple of years ago, I had mentioned this idea to the original party guests and they all said they were excited to do it again for my 28th. I was worried when one of my cousins moved out of the country, but was immediately relieved when I found out she was coming for a visit. Who cares if it's not on my actual birthday, I'm just glad the original group (plus Danny) will all be here to join in on the fun. So stayed tuned for some fabulous how-tos from me about pulling off a smashing tea party!

Also on the horizon: I love to sing, so I'm going to work on my craft this summer by joining a choir. I'm stoked!

What do you have planned for the summer?

~ Lady Jane

Complexity is My Middle Name

I decided it was about time to get back to my original purpose for this blog and considering all of the events going on in my life that I cannot change, becoming a better writer is one thing I have control over.

"Where do you come from, who are you, what makes you?" One of the best questions posed by Goldberg to help the budding writer within.

The most obvious answer would be to expound upon my upbringing (which I have done a lot of) mention the skills/talents I have and hobbies I enjoy. BORING! So I will try and make it a little less boring.

I come from seekers and believers:

Not too long ago, I filled out a Mormon.org profile and one of the questions I answered was why I was Mormon. I think it's because my family is. It's in my blood. My 3x great grandfather was the first to become a Mormon, he sought after truth and believed. I owe him immensely for the knowledge I have because he looked for answers to his questions.

I come from music:

My grandmother is an amazing pianist! She lived next to me for nineteen years and when I say next to me I mean next to. I could get to her house through our garage. So I would often drop by and listen to her play the piano. Two of my older sisters also played the piano; music filled our house often and sometimes to the dismay of anyone in the house wanting to watch t.v.

I come from laughter:

My dad has the wackiest sense of humor, which I luckily possess a little bit of. He claims it was his mother's father that passed it down to him. I love to hear the laughter of my family and I get to hear it a lot.

I am Cowardice/Heroism/Peace/Contention/Love/Self-Loathing:

I am a complex woman. I am sometimes too afraid to confront a problem and other times, a raging bull out of the gate. I just wish I knew how to be bull when I'm a lamb. And with that cowardice and heroism, I am a blend of peace and contention. I don't like contention, avoid it at all costs and when I should be a peacemaker, I'm too afraid to mediate. I am freely giving of compliments, but not to myself, afraid of becoming narcissistic or egocentric. I'm also noticing a pattern here. Do you see it? I think my cowardly side trumps my heroic side by a long shot!

So, "where do you come from, who are you, what makes you?"

~ Lady Jane

And I Thought I Was Losing Brain Cells Before

A couple of months ago, I mentioned in my family blog that I felt like I had nothing to do, that I was losing my brain cells from being a SAHM. I couldn't have been more wrong! I have so much on my calendar that I'm a living episode of "Hoarders: Buried Alive!" I don't even have time to expedite a book club that my sister and I started at the beginning of the year. I don't think it helped any that our members were less than enthusiastic about reading different kinds of literature. (Ex. one doesn't want to read series [there goes Hunger Games and Harry Potter], another doesn't want to read books she had to read in high school [so long classics and thought-provoking works], another is so defensive that anything religious is inflammatory. Makes for interesting group of contributors and books to choose from doesn't it? I'm afraid I'll be calling my sister and telling her we're gonna have to wait until after May to start up again. Yeah, procrastinators!!!

And it's only going to get worse in the next few weeks. I mentioned in my last post, the dance rehearsals for the Centennial, but when I have the next four Saturdays accounted for it makes me wish I never said I liked having a busy schedule. I wish I was ten again. Where Saturday afternoons were perfect to catch movies from the 80s and the films no one bothered to buy. I am the youngest of seven so by the time I was ten, two sisters were married with a kid each, and one was living away from home and the other three were teenagers.

Back to the present: I'm so nervous that I'm going to forget something so important that I'm constantly turning on my smartphone, pulling up the calendar just to make sure I don't skip over any minute detail. Has that ever happened to you? When your life is so scheduled down to the minute that you just wish you could take a 100 years nap like Rip VanWinkle? Although, that brings up an interesting observation. I would miss out on all the events that got me to the final destination.

Have you ever seen "Click" an Adam Sandler movie that came out in 2006?

I really appreciated the moral of the story; as much as we would like to fast forward all the mundane parts of our lives, we miss out on the journey. A wise man counseled me before I got married to the hubs, "Live in the now, because you'll miss out on the present if you're constantly thinking about what the future holds." I have really tried to put that counsel into my life especially as a mother. Little F will grow up all too soon, so I try to cherish every stage he reaches instead of constantly dwelling on the times when he'll be more independent and less reliant on me.

Song for a Fifth Child, by Ruth Hamilton, 1958

Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth
empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
hang out the washing and butter the bread,
sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I’ve grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).
The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
and out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
but I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren’t her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
for children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

My eyes are welling with tears just thinking about my little man that recently turned two! I think most mothers would agree that their child/children are the best. I have a good'un! He's incredibly thoughtful and polite. His smile takes over his whole face, his eyes squish to near non-existence, his teeth shine brightly from his half-moon mouth.

Did I do him justice? As much as I like to pride myself on being a good writer, I always worry that my point won't convey to the reader. The picture above satisfies the visual learner in me.

And I just realized that my writing blog is becoming less and less about writing and/or becoming a good writer as my personal life creeps in more and more. Who knows, I may just combine my two passions: writing and becoming a better wife and mother into this nifty little blog.

Until then,

just keep writing, just keep writing.

Nearly There

The time is soon approaching where I don't have a million things on my plate. I thought after this coming Saturday I would be a little more free with my time. Alas, twas not meant to be. I forgot that I was helping teach a dance to 12-13 year old girls for Arizona's Centennial. So after April 21st, I will truly have nothing on my plate, other than all the mom juggling I'm already doing.

The wedding for my sister in-law that I threw the bridal shower for went splendidly. The weather was cooperative, cloudy and slightly breezy with a nice chill, or in other words: sweat-ah weath-ah! Arizona has been in early menopause for the last few months. We definitely had an Indian Summer in September (wondering when the summer would end!) and just last week I was sporting skirts and flip flops in March. It just can't make up its mind!

Next on the agenda is two little low-key get togethers in honor of F's birthday with a Toy Story theme. We already had a little celebration with the grandparents and an aunt and uncle on hubby's side. I can't believe he's going to be two! In my mind he's two going on ten! He is such a little mimicker at the moment and tries so hard to enunciate the words he hears and he's such a smarty-pants (no really, he is, I'm not just saying because I'm his mother. He really is smart!) However, there are some words I wish he wouldn't repeat. I don't swear, but I'd rather not hear, "Oh, crap!" coming out of his mouth. Don't get me wrong, it is so incredibly cute and laughter-inducing but a word like bummer seems slightly more acceptable to the most number of people. Here's to my little man who decided to grow up!

Spring Break

Happy Spring Break everyone! I hope you do something especially spring-y this week. See you next Thursday!

Walk to School

I decided to reflect a little more on what Goldberg meant by composting and I thought of a place that I know very well, still to this day. Even though it's been almost a decade since I've been to said place, I walked this stretch of road five days a week for a total of eight years! This stretch of road lead from my home to my elementary school. I remember walking down my driveway over the two speed bumps (installed because of my aunt's worrisome nature) and up to the main street of my little county island neighborhood. I would veer left heading towards what seemed another long driveway, towards my school. Once I passed under the steel-fence frame's opening I was greeted by a huge expanse of grass separated by a berm. I even still remember thinking about how funny the word "berm" was the more and more I said it. Berm, berm, berm...it's just funny.

I would get to school about fifteen to twenty minutes before the first bell. I dropped off my backpack at my classroom's spot on the edge of the basketball court and immediately ran off to play or gossip as the morning sun slowly brightened in the east.

I loved walking to school in the winter time, fascinated I could see my breath and absolutely convinced that it had snowed when in fact it was frost.

I had wonderful teachers at my elementary, still remember them all. Even the music, art, and P.E. teachers. They all had a profound effect on me as I grew up.

Kindergarten: Mrs. Alvin Music: Mrs. Cluff

1st Grade: Miss Brinkerhoff Art: Mrs. Taylor

2nd Grade: Mrs. Painter P.E.: Mr. Mullins

3rd Grade: Mrs. Walton Principal: Mr. Salisbury

4th Grade: Mrs. Peterson Office Ladies: Carol, Debbie

5th Grade: Mrs. Johnson Playground duty: Shirley

6th Grade: Mrs. Henkel Groundskeeper: Jay

I participated in talent shows, and assemblies. I embarrassed myself on more than one occasion. I learned that pulling the seat out from under a kid and trying to push it back in quickly warrants a note home and disappointment from your teacher as well as the truth that it always looks better in the movies.

Since I walked to school, I would sometimes go home for lunch. This kind of thing was only permitted if I told the playground duty where I was going before I left and when I came back. By the time I was in sixth grade they said I could just call the front office. I had such freedom and I felt like I was treated like any adult that worked at the school because I was trustworthy.

After I graduated from high school I worked at my elementary school for my childhood principal and with a few teachers that were still there when I was a student. I loved working with the kids and teachers which all helped me to discover that I wanted a career in teaching.

There are some good things that come from never being the "new kid". My family was established and by the time I was moving on from elementary school I had saved my family name that had been tarnished by a couple of older brothers (one mostly).

When I Think of Home...

Due to my incomparable upbringing, I have always had an active imagination. I grew up in the same house for nineteen years, I had freedom to roam our expansive three and a quarter acre lot with trees, grass, our cats and friends. Many nights were spent gazing up at the stars on the trampoline. Running, climbing, and eating filled my days. My paternal grandfather, who I call Papa, planted fruit trees in the backyard. For seven years at least, my cousins and I enjoyed picking the ripe plums, apricots, and pears. Our saliva, sufficient enough to clean them allowed us to move onto our next adventure.

Even when I was a little girl, I dreamed of bringing my children to the home I grew up in to play on the swing set in the backyard, to show them that with enough sweat they could climb the walls with their feet, slide down the stairs on an old mattress or fall asleep on the living room couch as the din of family chatter in the kitchen wafted through the house.

My dream came to an end in 2006. I had no children yet and my parents were being forced out to rebuild a dying company that my father had put his life into. No longer can I bring my children to that home to see their Gigi and Papa and play with cousins uninterrupted in the basement, play a round of 9-hole golf around the house or come over for Sunday dinners.

I hate it when people say, "Let it go" or "It was a long time ago", that doesn't make me feel any better. It doesn't make feel any better to believe that my parents are giving another family the opportunity to make memories in that house too. As childish as this sounds, it was my house first!

The song, "Our House" by Madness, perfectly illustrates the kind of home I had. Needless to say it has become our anthem for my family. We even used it on a video montage for a family reunion.

Father wears his Sunday best

Mother's tired she needs a rest

The kids are playing up downstairs

Sister's sighing in her sleep

Brother's got a date to keep

He can't hang around

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

Our house it has a crowd

There's always something happening

And it's usually quite loud

Our mum she's so house-proud

Nothing ever slows her down

And a mess is not allowed

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

Something tells you that you've got to get away from it

Father gets up late for work

Mother has to iron his shirt

Then she sends the kids to school

Sees them off with a small kiss

She's the one they're going to miss

In lots of ways

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

I remember way back then when everything was true and when

We would have a very good time such a fine time

Such a happy time

And I remember how we'd play simply wasted the day away

Then we'd say nothing would come between us two dreamers

Father wears his Sunday best

Mother's tired she needs a rest

The kids are playing up downstairs

Sister's sighing in her sleep

Brother's got a date to keep

He can't hang around

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our street

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle or our...

Our house, was our castle and our keep

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, that was where we used to sleep

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle of our street

I loved my house, still do to this day. I've even thought of knocking on the door just to ask if I could look around. I wonder what stories my house would tell me since my family's been gone? Don't you wish if you just pressed your ear up against the walls hard enough you could hear everything the house has been through?