Theme Song

Music speaks to me. It makes me reflect on my life and certain people in my life have their own song. Anytime it comes on the radio, my thoughts immediately flutter back to that simpler time.

I didn't have a boyfriend in high school but I did have a good friend who happened to be a boy. His parents were always so nice to me and constantly thanked me for being their son's friend. I couldn't help but feel good loved and welcomed. He didn't always make the best decisions, but he tried and that's what counted. He was one of the few people that helped me celebrate my 16th birthday. He came over at Thanksgiving and fit in like one of the family. He was my best friend. So every time I hear this song, I think fondly of him.

I will admit I loved those silly Facebook games of discovering the soundtrack to your life. I really liked it when the songs fit the category, I didn't like it so much when it didn't match up. Sometimes I wish that I had a soundtrack to smile and cry to.

Although, every time I hear this song, it reminds of a boy that I did date for a brief moment.

I wasn't exactly sure what it meant to him that I reminded him of this song, especially since a few weeks later, it fizzled out.

But the boy that stole my heart and made me a wife and mother has too many songs that remind me of him. But the one that makes my toes curl and my heart fly is this classic:

The first time that we ever danced to this song, was in front of my house. He was dropping me off from a date and this song came on the radio. He parked the car, but instead of turning off the car, he turned up the radio. He escorted me from the car and without light but the headlights, we held each other and swayed.

I had read about two characters who shared the same experience and thought that was the most romantic thing I'd ever read. I had never told the husband about this dream of mine. He just knew somehow and made it true for me. 

Music is powerful and seeded with memories.


What's your favorite song? The one that makes you happy every time you hear it?

~Lady Jane

Unfinished

I've realized something about myself as a writer: I never finish a project I start. There's always something impeding me from the task, whether it's life or another writing project that appears to be more promising. With that being said, I think I've finally found a writing project that holds some promise for accomplishment. It's a new direction for me (writing in the first person) it will somewhat resemble my own life (a teacher) and the highs and lows of creating relationships out of thin air whilst finding a soulmate.

I can't admit that I came up with this project all on my own. Like Oscar Hammerstein I have to give credit where credit is due; I've been watching old episodes of Parenthood on Netflix and a character uttered a phrase that I thought would be perfect for a book title (did ya really think I was going to give that away? Especially if I want to use it as a title).

Thanks television for giving me yet again another epiphany!

~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

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)

Deadlines

I missed my own deadline again! Check back next week for my new post. It's been a crazy week!

~ 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.

Monday's Child

Do you know the poem, "Monday's Child"? It was my earliest memory of reading. My mother had one of those Little Golden Books full of nursery rhymes and that one was always my favorite.

Monday's Child

Monday's child is fair of face,

Tuesday's child is full of grace,

Wednesday's child is full of woe,

Thursday's child has far to go,

Friday's child is loving and giving,

Saturday's child works hard for his living,

And the child that is born on the Sabbath day

Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

I too was born on a Monday and as far as this poem serving as a horoscope goes, it is still true to this day. Even growing up in a hot climate-where the sun shines 345 days of the year-I managed to stay fair. The European roots of my ancestry holding too hard onto me, I suppose. Always jealous of the girls in my class that could tan, I bet they don't get confused with teenagers. That was really embarrassing when I was six months pregnant with my son and working at a high school. I even wore a different ring on my left hand that was more obvious to prove I was in fact a married lady. Speaking of which, I have been married over eight years and have an almost two year old little boy.

My little guy was born on a Tuesday, and he is the most observant little boy I've ever met. I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, or a Mormon as we're more commonly known, I think. And my little boy has been close to heaven since the day he was born. At a young age, he's learned to fold his arms for prayers and says "Bless you" after he or someone else sneezes. My little angel, born on a Tuesday is full of grace.

My husband, was born on a Thursday. When I think back to the poem I chuckle quietly to myself because it is so fitting for my little family of three. When I first met my husband, he wanted to study international business, then he decided to go the route of business management (not that different right?) all while working for a student loan company. Then he got laid off and had to find a job. He doesn't do well with not having anything to do. He came across a company that seemed to fit for him, however menial his tasks seemed. It was while working at this job that he got heavy in economics, specifically the Austrian Economics philosophy of economics (if you are even at all interested, my husband would be so proud first of all and secondly, here is the address http://mises.org/) Then, he decided he wanted to become an Economics teacher. When he realized that he would have to take too many classes to cover an undergrad degree in Economics, the idea of becoming an instructor in the field waned. He, I hope, has found a joy in his current line of work. It would certainly open a lot of doors for him to attend economic conferences with the Mises Institute in his spare time as a hobby. This Thursday's child has far to go and has gone far too.

I will try and post once a week as I work through Natalie Goldberg's "Writing Down the Bones" an excellent book to help the writer who doesn't want to give up on writing. I wish I could say I was this excited to go through her book when I had to for college creative writing class, but here's to trying. I'm somewhat glad that college bookstores are terrible for trying to sell gently used books back, but I probably wouldn't be in possession of half the books I bought if the bookstore took them back.

~ Lady Jane