Latest column: Music

Hello, friends!

Look at this -- yet again, I'm giving you a three-day jump on my column. This one will run 5/23 in the Post-Bulletin (www.postbulletin.com). Shhh...

In other news: My picture totally flopped on my last post. What's up with that? Will work on that tonight... Jen

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Behold the power of the J. Geils Band.

I was pulling into the grocery store parking lot this weekend — quietly resigned to the drudgery ahead of me — when “Centerfold” came on the radio.

Of course, I couldn’t exit the van until the song ended. Instead, I danced in the driver's seat — screaming, “My blood runs cold, My memory has just been sold, Angel is a Centerfold” to the entertainment of the shih tzu in the Ford to my left and to the chagrin of the grandfather in the Chevy to my right.

My countenance reversed, I bounded in Hy-Vee’s automatic doors — head held high, shoulders swinging, thisclose to hugging my fellow shoppers. “What a wonderful life!” I wanted to exclaim. “Look at those fabulous oranges! What sweet asparagus!”

I love how music can change a mood, or even an entire day. I love how it can provide a soundtrack to experiences — whether you use it to augment a slow, Sunday afternoon (Sinatra) or add life to a party (Pink). Even more, I love the nostalgia of music. How a single song can bring back an entire period of your life.

In 10 years, I’ll look back on this summer as my Amy Winehouse phase. I’m obsessed with the bluesy, soulsy Brit, watching her videos on YouTube every night before I start work.

In the summer of ‘91, it was They Might Be Giants. My friend Nenna and I listened to their album, “Flood,” for 11 of the 12 hours it took us to drive to our summer jobs at Wall Drug.

Pink Floyd is my first real kiss. The Cars is dancing in my lace-curtained bedroom in high school. Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight” — a fabulous song by all accounts — was totally ruined for me by an ex-boyfriend who tried to convince me that the girl I caught him bringing home from a party was just a friend. (A “friend” wearing his shirt and holding his hand.)

The Isely Brother’s “Shout” is my husband and my’s first dance. India.Arie is my youngest son’s six months of colic. Willie Nelson is family.

My dad would play Willie & Family Live in the basement of our split-level house, he and my mom watching my sisters and I dance around the pool table, singing, “If you’ve got the money, honey, I’ve got the time….”

When my parents were out, I’d dig through their vast record collection — the music becoming the soundtrack of my growing-up years. My sisters and I put on elaborate performances to Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band. We discoed to Saturday Night Fever. We memorized The Doors.

I wonder how my kids will remember the music of their formative years. Will they, too, think it’s fun to belt out Prince’s “Kiss,” Alabama’s, “High Cotton,” or Beck’s “Where It’s At” like their mother does?

Or will they roll their eyes in embarrassment when they recall how I’d rap to them when they complained about my rules: “I’m a big bad mama and I’m here to say, we’re gonna do things my way!”

I can see them now.

Child (head hung in shame): “And then she’d cup her hands around her mouth and pretend to make microphone-aided sound effects.”

Therapist: “It’s OK, it’s OK. You’re out now. She can’t hurt you anymore.”

Child (staring into distance): “You don’t understand. I’ll never be able to erase the way she crossed her hands under armpits and said, ‘Word’ when she was done.”

Or maybe, instead, they’ll remember me fondly, recalling how I swung them in the circles, singing Paul Simon straight to their hearts: “Oh, my mama loves me, she loves me… She get down on her knees and hug me….”

Drumroll... First Picture!

I figured it out!! I added a picture! Oh my goodness, this changes everything -- now I'm going to be all picture happy with this thing.

This is a picture of the boys from a couple weeks ago -- way before the weather was really giving them any right to play in the sprinkler. They were so excited that spring had arrived that we couldn't stop them! (We figured their goose-bumped, blue-tinged skin would be a better educator than our words of warning. But we were wrong. The icicles forming on their noses didn't seem to bother them one bit.)

Mother's Day / Latest column

I had a great Mother's Day, thanks to my lovely husband -- who gave me the whole weekend off! I wrote about it in this week's column, which I will flow below.

Here's something I didn't include in the column, though: I somehow thought it appropriate to wear brand-spanking new flip flops for my walk around Lake Calhoun. Yes I did. So I only made it about halfway around before I had to carry my shoes and walk in my bleeding, blister-encrusted bare feet. The only time I wore my shoes for the rest of the day (because, of course, I walked around the lake first!) was when I entered a store. And then I'd shuffle agonizingly along.

Live and learn.

Speaking of Lake Calhoun, I just found out that I get to take windsurfing lessons there for an article I'm doing for Rochester Magazine. How fun will that be? I'll let you know how it goes. I've never attempted it...

OK, here's tomorrow's column. xoxo, jen

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Mother’s Day arrived with little fanfare at my house.

There were no good-morning kisses. No breakfast in bed. No bouquets of hand-picked dandelions.

No, I woke up alone on Mother’s Day. But don’t feel sorry for me.

It was all according to plan. My Mother’s Day Gift was a weekend of peace. It was my husband’s idea to load up the kids in the minivan on Friday afternoon and take off for Grandma’s House. And I didn’t stop him.

My sister thinks this is some form of sacrilege. “I can’t believe you’re spending Mother’s Day alone,” she scolded. “Won’t it be hard to be away from your children?”

Umm, no.

Judge me if you want, but I have no regrets. I spend 363 glorious days a year with my kids — what I really want, more than anything, is a day or two alone.

At first I thought I’d spend the weekend catching up on work. But then I realized that was insanity.

Instead I decided to celebrate Anti-Mother’s Day — a day dedicated to doing the things I did before I became a mother.
Uptown Minneapolis was the target for my celebration. It was my favorite lazy-day destination before I began my life as the family matriarch. I hadn’t been there in years.

I rented a cute little Chevy — no need for minivans when you’re traveling alone — and launched my Anti-Mother’s Day. My first official act was to buy a strawberry smoothie at the Tin Fish on Lake Calhoun. No one asked for a sip. No one slobbered on the straw. No one accidentally dropped it in the sand. It was delicious.

I walked leisurely around the lake. I didn’t push a stroller. I didn’t warn anyone not to touch the dead fish. I didn’t beg someone to hold my hand. When I wanted to wade in the lake, I did. When I wanted to lie on a bench and listen to the water, I did. Heaven.

I ambled up Lake Street, popping in shops I fancied. At Ragstock I tried on a red, “The Best Girls are from Philly” T-shirt without a tiny body sliding under the dressing room door. I searched through a rack of cargo pants without hearing, “Mommy! Find me! I’m hiding!”

I sat in my favorite Uptown bookstore — Magers & Quinn — for more than two hours, relaxing in a creaky wooden chair, reading lengthy excerpts from Don Cheadle and John Prendergast’s book on the Darfur crisis, Dave Egger’s “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius,” and David Sedaris’ “Naked.” No one said, “I’m bored.” No one said, “Can we go now?” No one asked to use the restroom.

I made my way to the Uptown Bar & Café, where I munched on a taco salad while reading the first few chapters of my new book. No one snatched my corn chips. No one slipped under the table to retrieve his fork. No one spilled his milk.

Roughly six hours after arriving in Uptown, I strolled back to my car — smiling and winking at other people’s children on the playground. But not in a way that would weird them out.

My boys called to say goodnight as I drove home. They gave me loud, popping phone kisses. My seven-year-old told a story about feeding the deer in Grandma’s backyard. My five-year-old told me he loved me “all the way to the sky and down to the earf.”

When we hung up, I realized that my husband is a genius. Not only did my Anti-Mother’s Day give me time to relax and rejuvenate, but it made me a better mom. A happier mom. A more thankful mom. And that pays off for the whole family.