Full Moon, Storm Coming, Time Slipping

From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I decided I'd have the baby on the full moon in March. I could see myself laboring under an equally round moon and a sky full of spring.

Tonight is the full moon in March in the western hemisphere.




This morning was gray and windy. Chup came with me to a midwife appointment where he asked the usual questions a male counterpart would ask.

"How do we know we are getting close?"

"Five minutes apart, one minute in duration." Explained Suzanne while nodding to make sure Chup caught the formula.

Funny we call it "going to labor." I feel like I've been laboring this whole time.

"You've got a ripe belly." Said the nurse as she measured my abdomen. "Anytime now!"




We moved The Chief out of his crib into his own bed last night. It was a rite of passage lost on him. Chup and I were managing our emotions stoutly enough, but both of us kept looking at each other wondering where time went. In the human experience, I declare passage of time is the biggest surprise.

You wait for it to pass and then wonder where it went.

I made quesadillas for lunch, because they were requested.

"Eeyas?"

We ate quietly. Our front lawn was a dust war, the wind was picking up.




With intent to help my son nap in his new room, I lied down next to him reading books and singing songs. I thought he was transitioning into slumber so I slid off the bed and retreated to my own.

But the wind would not let either of us sleep. The whole house was shaking and moaning. Branches were scratching the top of the roof. From the window looking out into the backyard I could see the swing-set rattling around and particles flying through the air.

I could hear The Chief talking to himself and when I crept down the hall to check on him I could see him--through the crack in the door--having a delightful dialogue with his push motorcycle. The machine had somehow climbed in bed with him as well.

They were fine.

I tried to sleep some, but I was restless. By 2:30 I had given up on naps and let The Chief play in the backyard as I organized our new bedroom situation.




The backyard echoed with my son's intense self-discussion. I went about cleaning dressers and dusting to the tune of his little voice. After awhile it became quiet. When I checked outside I saw The Chief boxing the wind. His little fists pumped in the air as he threw jabs into the moving atmosphere. Tiny jumps accompanied each thrust.

I am going to laugh about that tonight, I made a mental note, because I was too tired at that moment.




When Dad came home we had pizza. My nap-less child ate half a slice of cheese pizza and downed an apple juice sippy.

"Done?" He said to Chup reaching for help out of the high chair.

Then, like a baby zombie he walked over to me and scratched my belly--the unmistakable sign he wants to be held. I held him abandoning dinner. It took only twenty seconds before he was unshakably asleep. 7:23.




"This air is making me miserable," Chup said, his voice plugged with allergies.

"Let's go lie down." I suggested.

Our new bedroom is the nosiest part of the house. It sounded like a panicked zoo outside our windows.

"Tonight is the full moon." Chup reminded me, his arm around my shoulders, my head on his chest. "Could it happen?"

But before I could answer a maternally-minded reply, he was asleep.

So for the second time today, I slid out of bed. This time I retreated to write.

And so here I am, 8:18 pm. Full moon, storm brewing, my heart beating with hope.




But something tells me this time hasn't come. And when it does, I'll know it.



dear c jane
the party continues!
rock on baby party!

generous giveaways from these companies:

Shade Clothing

My Pillow Pets

Shey B

Armelle Jewelry

Stay Put Socks

Academy J

(click on invite!)

Shower the People You Love with Love

One night I received an email from my sister-in-law's good friend Heather Johnson (of Family Volley). Heather she asked if she could throw me a virtual baby shower. I was really intrigued because, as my friends know, I am not really a shower kind of gal. I have my intense insecurities and attending party-showers are one of them. Is there some sort of therapy for that? Call me.

Don't call me, actually because as long as we are talking about intense insecurities the phone tops that list. So, just, nevermind.

A virtual shower wouldn't require my bumbling presence or my wild nervous-induced social inappropriateness. I wouldn't have to apologize in every thank you card I write. So I said, sure! That sounds fun! Let's make it a party.

But see, what I didn't know was, Heather planned a HUGE VIRTUAL SHOWER with lots of gifts and giveaways for everyone from some of my favorite companies and kind posts from my friends. And as I sit here and write this, I am overcome. Mostly because I am pretty sure I don't deserve one second of it and also because I can't believe someone would do something so grand for me. Especially someone who I have only really met once in real life.

If ever someone doubts the charitable side of blogging, please send them my way.

So this week on my dearcjane blog I am going to post about the party and include all the giveaways because I am having a baby! And we should all celebrate! Please come! Print the cute Sara Jane Studios invite(above) and put it on your fridge! I want you to be there and I promise no over-the-top jokes.

Well, I can't really promise . . .

(thank you Heather--can't wait to give you that bear hug.)


day one: c jane soiree

I am having a baby so you should
enter to win seriously fabulous prizes
from these generous companies:

Magpie Lovely
Sarah Jane Studios
Vintage Pearl
The Signature Tee
Petunia Pickle Bottom
Down East Basics

(click on invite above!)


Guide to P-town:
Easter Basket Auction For A Great Cause!
I mean, a GREAT Cause!
Click on photo below!

No Gum Intended

Last week Lucy told me she might cancel her annual family Easter Egg Hunt held on their mini-farm.

"Ric and I aren't ready." She explained.

But when she sent an email out to the family notifying everyone of their intentions there was nothing short of a family mutiny.

"YOU CAN'T CANCEL THE EASTER EGG HUNT!" Everyone shouted via messages. "WE WILL SHOW UP ANYWAY!'

And that is because my family loves our traditions.

Lucy and Ric waved their white flag: "WE SURRENDER! COME NEXT SATURDAY!"

And that's when someone terribly health-conscious in the family suggested we sacrifice the traditional Easter candy and instead use seeds to fill Easter eggs.

I am sorry. Seeds?

That totally blows.

Look, I am all for new approaches to old rituals, but what child wants to open a basket full of Easter eggs and find zucchini rocks? Where is the reward for having out-smarted the hunt? Turnips? Radishes without high fructose corn syrup? Non-partially hydrogenated rhubarb?

Let the kids have jelly beans, for Easter's sake.

"I bought egg-shaped gum." Lucy told me later as she contemplated filling over 300 eggs with a viable treat inside (viable treat, seeds are not).

Gum?

Our family has a new motto, "Accept Everything With Gratitude" for the purpose of seeing God in all things. But I've never loved gum. It is sticky, stringy and rolled in spit. It actually turned me off in my dating years. There is a plethora of ways to refresh the mouth, and gum seems to be the least polished.

But here I was coming face-to-face with something I couldn't see the best of. Gum.

It was better than seeds . . . there was a start.

On Saturday morning we joined the crowd of family at the Beesley farm. The Chief came prepared with his tin basket, ready to retrieve. The whole excitement of finding eggs was lessened, however, when a fire bug flew directly into his bucket and became much more thrilling than the actual hidden prizes.

"BUG! BUG! BUG!"

See Dad? Bug?

See Mom? Bug!

See Umi? Bug.

So on.

Made me think maybe next year we should nix the candy and seeds and just fill every egg up with squirming insects.

When the hunt was over and lemon-wheat cinnamon rolls were devoured, we said our good byes, and with a bucket full of plastic eggs and one bug we headed to run some errands--the most pressing being fuel for our car. Only on our way to fill up we actually ran out of gas. Chup heroically pushed us off the busy State street and rolled us to a nearby neighborhood. I called the one brother I always call when I run out of gas, Andrew, who was just leaving the hunt with his family. He was about fifteen minutes away.

Great. I thought. The Chief doesn't sit still. I mean, I know most two-year olds don't. But My Dude, he will give you a hefty ten minutes before baby claustrophobia sets in and he goes mad. We had run out of gas, that was one thing, but The Chief's temper was only minutes away from dropping. That was another.

(Yes, we've tried a DVD player in the car. Still, ten minutes.)

Just as The Chief was beginning to arch his back like we had put him in a transportable torture chamber, Chup opened up one of the Easter eggs and spilled out the gum.

"Does he chew gum?" Chup asked.

"We'll see." I replied.

Chup popped a gum egg into The Chief's mouth.

And suddenly, we had magic.

We didn't hear from our son for the duration of our adventure. Not in the rest of the waiting period. Not when we filled our large tank up with gas. Not as we drove around town doing this-and-that. Every so often we'd look back at him pleasantly looking out the window as his mouth chewed in perfect motion.
He even spit out the gum and fell asleep before we arrived home.

Gum had quite seriously saved the day. It is true, keep a child's mouth busy, buy yourself some time.

And in my mind I started to calculate all the situations where gum could change our lives. Church! Restaurants! Checking my email! Plane rides! Stroller rides! Pony rides!

As soon as we get a pony.

Later that day I texted Lucy and thanked her for the party. And I added, "thanks for not doing seeds" --for not giving into the trendiness of alternative treats.

And as soon as she reads this post, she'll know why.

Manifesto Female: What I Have Learned

My older sister Page once said to me, "I don't know what it is, but giving birth to my daughters was an entirely different experience. It's almost as if they were made out of a different essence."

That is where I want to begin.

I am writing this essay with the essence I was birthed with, the spirit that fills my body, the soul that communes with divinity. This is the part of me where I am most comfortable, though I am not always good enough to be there. This isn't an official doctrine of my church, but it is influenced by what I have studied out in my mind and heart. It is me, essentially.

Every Sunday I stand with the young women in my church and repeat a bold statement called the Young Women Theme. It starts, I am a daughter of God, who loves me and I love him . . . (read the entire theme: here).

If I believe I am a daughter of God then I believe that every woman is a daughter of God.

Every woman who has, will and now exists has characteristics of heaven. This is not restricted to those baptized in my church, this is the genesis of all women. We came from a Heavenly Father who made our female spirits receptive to hearing inspiration and revelation from a Divine Source. These powers are written in the code of our biological make-up, as well as hidden in our spirit. We may know they are there, we may not. I believe they are there.

With these powers of innate wisdom and discernment--given from God, women are capable of anything. They can create. They can destroy. They can change. They can evolve. And because of this I believe in a woman's endless capabilities, that when paired with a God (also known as a sense of self) there is no end to what a woman can choose.

She can fight injustice. She can heal from injustice. She can help other women fight or heal from injustice. She can work. She can be satisfied in work. She can find confidence. She can capture truth and live it entirely. She can rise above. She can be aware. She can find intelligence placed inside of her that no force can destroy on this earth, no matter how hard it becomes. She can listen. She can hear. She can obey. She can develop her own rules, and obey those too. Woman is clever enough, resilient enough and strong enough to find paths that weren't always apparent.

She isn't less than, or more than, the next woman or man. She is her own entity which becomes cheapened when compared to others. When following the promptings inside of her soul to do whatever is important for her own life plan she simply has no equal.

But these powers are the most potent when used to love other women. To support. To carry. Lift. Encourage. Serve. Fight alongside. And in my experience, this is also the hardest part about being a woman. There are forces at work designed to turn woman against woman in an effort to completely destroy the massive amount of good we can do when united. But I also know that I feel the strongest as a woman, when I am helping another woman, or being helped by another woman--whether she is someone I know, or a someone who lives across the world. I'd be smart to unceasingly search for opportunities to serve. (Sometimes I regrettably forget this.)

I can't write for every woman, and every woman's unique circumstance. I am not aware of every tribal, local, religious, federal policy on women around the globe. I believe a woman's ultimate goal is happiness, but I can't begin to describe what that looks like for everyone. What I want to hear from other women, is what I will give in return: We can do it. Whatever it is. We can do it. We have done it before. We will do it again and again. We contain God-given endless abilities. We are here for each other. You teach me. I will teach you. God is with us. We can, I can, you can.

We can achieve our potential as wives, we can do it as mothers, we can do it with no title (or uterus) at all. If all we aim to do in this life is discover our eternal intelligence we'd still be fulfilled beyond human capacity. I will never feel sorry for a woman who seeks the best of what this life is offering, even if what she finds doesn't look like what I have found.

Our bodies are built to be strong in principal and natural femininity. Femininity looks different on every woman-- it is the essence that sets us apart from each other, and from man. Femininity isn't about dresses, make-up or shoes, it is about fulfilling our specific female identity. Only we know what that is, but it is encoded in our bodies. It looks good on us. And sadly, the sacredness of our bodies are the most exploited entity on this planet.

But we can change that too.

Women will seek out what feels inherently best to them--the simple life, the complicated life, the busy life, the communal life. I am learning to trust this as we all share the same birthright of being female. If women want labels, so be it. As for me, Daughter of God is all-encompassing. It is as practical as buying cleaning solvent from the door-to-door salesman, to leaving an unhealthy marriage. I know the women who came before me made sacrifices, fought battles and picked hard choices. I know they were led by the same inner voice I hear today, the voice of a loving God who champions his daughters, gives them hope in all things if they seek it, and looks after them even in the darkest of places. It is impossible to comprehend just how powerful he made us. Sometimes I get a glimpse, and it sends me reeling for days.

I've always like what Emma Lou Thayne said about writing as a Mormon woman, "The pillars of my faith are still intact, but the roof has blown blessedly off the structure to reveal a whole sky full of stars."

I am a happy woman and I owe it to my Father in Heaven.

This is my essence.

A Post About A Post

As you might have heard, I wrote a post a couple weeks ago about equality. Equality between the genders specifically. It was actually a post that woke me up in the middle of the night, made me sit at the computer, captivated me until it was all written and let me sleep in the next day. It was an intense relationship, that post and me.

And it was just getting started.

Due to the reaction I received from readers, I continued to date that post. It regularly woke me up in the middle of the night. It was with me first thing in the morning. I read reactions from people who agreed with me and I contemplated ideas that differed from mine. But for some reason, I couldn't write that post off.

I decided to do some research. Not because I doubted how I felt when I wrote that post, but because I was terribly ignorant of how passionately it would be received--even in my own heart. And as a blogger (one who gets paid to write, especially) I do feel a certain responsibility to not only write a post, but see it all the way through until it feels right (which is why I will write post-edits many times).

(I am also learning that a difference between being a writer and a blogger is instantaneous, and bountiful feedback. When I write to be published I work with one editor. But with blogging, there are hundreds of editors. So much for my idea that blogging would save me from the dreaded second draft, or worse, the fire-breathing editor.) (P.s. I love my editor.) (P.p.s. I appreciate your taking time to comment, Dear Reader, as long as you do not--as I have said this before--call me fat in my third trimester.)

But this post . . . this post came with it intensity I haven't felt before. And I wondered if I could see it through. Ideas are powerful especially when they are projected into a vast unknown audience. For the first time I was taking my blog really seriously. Heaven help me, I WAS FEELING RESPONSIBLE.

Many times in the course of writing this blog have I changed my mind about what I've written. I mean, I started out as an infertile Vegan and have become a fertile Meat Eater--just to name one HUGE transformation. But this post in question wasn't asking me to change my mind, this post was asking me to dig deeper.

So I did.

I asked trusted family members (including my own wise mother). I emailed with strangers (one particularly interesting one in Idaho). I studied scriptures. I had conversations with a therapist. I picked Chup's brain until it was raw. I read, a lot. I prayed. Lo, I even went to my nearest Mormon temple and mediated in one of our most holiest of places.

I told you, I got serious.

And I couldn't respond to that post, or to the responses of that post, with dignity and confidence until I knew in my heart I was ready. I respect those people who care enough to click on my blog to give them the best part of me--which once was heavily salted with pictures of me in my pink skirt--to now, which is my quest for self-examination as my life gets more complicated.

Funny how the term "enjoy it" has changed for me.

Anyway, the past week The Post (now a personable noun in my life) has been waking me up in the earliest of morning hours, telling me it is time to write down what I have learned. Due to a pregnancy-related disability to "hop out of bed" I gave myself until Thursday night to actually blog on this now-passionate subject.

So tomorrow night it is. And in the end, I have to know that I am going to write this for myself. Even if it interests no other person, I can say it was worth the adventure. Also, thanks to those who helped me along the way, both the upfront readers (agreed, disagreed) and the ones behind the scenes.

And then I hope to tuck The Post back into my archives for safe keeping. It has been healthy-life-changing relationship, and it will be time to move on to the next.

Consider yourself warned. At least.



Today on dear c jane:
Jo Totes!




Today on c jane's Guide to Provo:
Win a Jo Tote!

B52?

Today I was outside with my sister in law Megan and her two year old Luke. We were discussing the sometimes heated comments and emails I receive in connection with this blog and the great energy haters will expend letting me know of their dislike of my posts.

We were interrupted when a thundering warplane flew low over our heads. I'm not any military aircraft expert (SURPRISE!), but it looked like one of those heavy machines that would drop bombs if provoked. We all stopped immediately and stood underneath its intimidating presence in the sky.

Then Megan starts to wave her arms, shaking her head and yelling,

"I am not with c jane!"

It's nice to know who's got your back.




Speaking of the adventures of blogging, I am going to be answering some questions about it all on a:

It might be the longest I've ever been on my phone.
Pray for me, or better yet, join me.




dear c jane:
For Your Spring Cleaning Soundtrack



c jane's Guide to Provo:
Chastisement Over Fish Tacos

A Sucker I Tell You

I think I am a sucker for a thesis.

Anytime someone tells me they are working on a thesis I become a silly little girl. I want to hear about the details, the ideas, the results. And if I can help gather data about a thesis, oh boy, do I completely lose my mind.

Which is why I am spreading the word about Whitney King's thesis. Whitney is a student at Utah State University, wears cheerful vintage clothing and maintains that she will not have babies until her thesis is done. I know all of this because she drove the lonely hours down from Logan, Utah to come and interview me at my home.

Her thesis is about folklore, more specifically blogging. (Holy Grapevines! A thesis about blogging!) What she needs is for the better part of the blogging world to take part in a questionnaire, which shouldn't be hard right? I mean you are a blogger, you are already good at talking about yourself. Answering some simple questions should be a easy task. Plus, she is attempting to give away $100 gift cards to two lucky responders.

Surely you want to help me help Whitney's mother and mother in law in getting those babies here, right?

See here for more information.

Speaking of blogging and theses, I was recently introduced to the Mormon Women Project a collection of interviews about LDS women. It follows the same structure of the book I once posted about Mormon Women: Portraits and Converstations, a book that changed my ideas of what it means to be an Mormon woman. Specifically, what I am capable of when I use personal revelation in my daily life.

Tonight I read an interview about Michelle Glauser an expatriot living in Germany. She also wrote a thesis about blogging, specifically Mormon Mommy Blogging. Very interesting thoughts, some of them quite bold. You can read the interview here.


Here is my thesis: I need to go to bed.

In These Last Days

On Friday night I completely melted. I gave way to the instability of hormones, life changes and motherhood sensitivity. And it all started because The Chief was eating a bean and cheese burrito.

"What are we doing?" I asked Chup directly though I was staring at my son.

"We are feeding our child dinner." He responded without effort.

"No. No. I mean, what are we doing to our son's life?" I repeated, this time with feeling. Verge of tears feeling. Lump in throat feeling. Desperate to be understood feeling.

"We are . . . raising him?" Chup was now guessing.

"No. I mean, we are totally messing up his perfect life. One of these days he is going to wake up and there will be a new baby. There is no way to warn him, no way to help him understand what is going to be here soon. One day he will be the only child, the next he won't. Isn't that disturbing?"

"It is going to be the best thing that ever happened to him. A sibling will bless his life in ways we can't imagine." Chup said in his low, low voice.

But I started to cry anyway. Somehow my brain or heart or whatever organ couldn't compute how it would all work out. How could I love two little babies at once? How would he know I still loved him when my affection was going to be split? How could I say goodbye to a time in my life shared only with my son and no one else? Those busy mornings and slow afternoons just the two of us with cheese and juice and Booty--gone forever?

It felt like prepartum depression.

I cried until I went to bed.

The next day was Saturday. After naps we put The Chief in the car barefoot and drove to the mall. We let him pick out new shoes for his expanding feet. He chose Converse, blue with velcro straps. We put them on and he ran around the store excitedly, hiding in the dressing rooms and pointing at the exotic fish tank. The saleswoman gave him a blue balloon which I could see darting in and out of clothes racks as I paid up front.

We let him ride the escalator as many times as he wanted.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Later in the day we went to the park where he tested out his new footwear. Ran up the hill and across through the trees. Pretended he was a car zooming in and out of traffic with a guttural broom broom sound everywhere he went. Played in the rocks and around the large pavilion. Then, when he could no longer see his long shadow we decided to make our way back.

"Coold." His little voice said to me from the stroller.

So I wrapped him in my cardigan and he broom-broomed the rest of the way home.

And I know he will never remember a second of that day, but I will.

It was all for me anyway.

*photo of The Chief and me last May taken by Jed Wells

Dear c jane
dipped in chocolate:



c jane's Guide to Provo:
In Memoriam:

A Story of Repentance

This is how I hope to explain my first marriage to my children
(when they are old enough):

I was twenty-three.

The night I became engaged for the first time was really exciting. I wanted to be engaged, I wanted to get married and that night I really hoped those feelings would last. But when I woke up the next morning I felt like my soul had frozen over. I decided to pray and meditate about it, and when I did, all answers came from a very distinct, divine voice. We call it the Holy Ghost.

Do not do it.

The same voice whispered in the ears of my friends and family.

Do not do it.

They all said.

I could hear it all, I knew what they were saying was true, but there was a pride in me that could not be extinguished. The source of that pride was a deep insecurity about being wanted. I felt like I would never be loved by anyone ever again, this was my ONE CHANCE! At the risk of that, I decided to ignore the direct revelation sent to me from my Heavenly Father by the Holy Ghost.

I didn't understand this: the encompassing love of God.

I also decided to shorten the engagement to one month. For one month I could endure the pleadings, begging and flat out rejection of the people in my life. Or the loneliness of keeping pride in check. Not to mention the entire absence of my spiritual self. For one month I would carry on, plan a wedding and act as if I had all the confidence of a young bride.

One day while I was going about doing just that--planning a wedding dinner--my sister Page said, "You know we are here for you now, and you know we will be here for you when it ends." It was one of the most compassionate things anyone has ever said to me. Because at that point of course I knew it would end--my marriage--and yet I also knew I had to willingly walk into it for the sake of walking out of it.

All of these things are hard to explain. Unless you understand pride.

My mother helped me plan the wedding with all the energy she could muster. I was her second daughter to marry and I was given the same respect as Page and her wedding. Sometimes when I think about my mother driving me up to Salt Lake to pick out pricey, engraved wedding announcements and how her heart was breaking while we decided what font to use on my new last name, I want to cry. I pray I never have to go through that with my own daughter.

(Though I probably deserve it.)

On a very warm day in June I got married in the Provo Temple. I have explained before that as soon as it was official I felt as though someone had drained my entire body of blood. The room was tilting and I had a feeling of complete panic. I contemplating running out of the room.

It was this: the horrible consequence of disobedience.

But for the first time in a month I heard that divine voice--the Holy Ghost--again. It said to me,

You are going to be alright.

After the wedding luncheon I had this romantic idea of giving our guests rose petals to gracefully throw as we exited to our honeymoon car. I wanted everything to be over-glamorous to make up for how unglamorous everything really was (which is why I eloped the second time around, no need for anything but an official certificate, thanks). One of my brothers (I shall not out him) thought it would be funny to throw a fistful of crumbled petals directly at our faces, which made everyone else roar. At any other point in my life I would've laughed, but I remember feeling entirely devastated. I wanted to drop on the ground and sob.

I was married for nine months. Nine really horrible months. The details are not as important to me now, only that it was an unhealthy in almost all aspects where marriage should be healthy. After time spent praying, fasting, consulting with my bishop, my parents, and studying intently from the doctrine of my church, I knew I needed to repent. I needed to humble myself and ask for forgiveness, my health and happiness were at risk.

On one December morning while on my knees, I heard the Holy Ghost direct me again.

You can leave.

Which I did with the help of my petal-slinging brothers. There was no point in ignoring personal revelation anymore. I moved back in with my parents which had the odd feeling of being completely liberated. I was free. I knew what it felt like to walk hand-in-hand with God.

It felt like this: If no one ever wanted to marry me ever again, I would still have happiness beyond my imagination. I would always have a relationship with God. I would always be His daughter. I could always hear His council--I knew His voice. At that point, it was enough. Maybe even more than enough.

Of course, I knew that the voice could also have said, "You can work this marriage out" and I could've. The power of God has the ability to heal anything that is broken. It just wasn't what it said to me. It wasn't my plan.

My plan was this: one week later I met Christopher Erin Kendrick at a New Year's Eve party.

And at that point I knew I had been completely forgiven.




Today on dear c jane:
Good news! Toms shoes!




c jane's Guide to Provo:
Happy Birthday Stevie!

A Gift For the Local Crowd

If you live in Utah County I've just posted your date night plans on c jane's Guide to Provo.

You are welcome.

Click Here:

This is a St. Patrick's Day Tribute to One of My Favorite Irishpeople:

Sinead O'Connor.

Because one time when I was in junior high we had an after school dance. There was this gigantic screen on one end of the dance floor where videos were being played. When her video, Nothing Compares 2 U came on I suddenly felt this intense desire to feel something. Something dramatic and deep and completely mysterious. And I wanted to cry and have all my friends desperately ask "What is wrong?" And I wouldn't say anything, I'd just run away.

Isn't that awesome?

By-the-way, did you know that Prince wrote that song? I was just informed by Wikipedia.

Then one Thanksgiving Day when I was in high school I listened to her entire I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got album and fell into an obsession. I asked for a guitar for Christmas and had serious intentions of learning This Is The Last Day of Our Acquaintance. I wanted to be able to make those squeaky sounds on the guitar inbetween chords.

My guitar lessons only lasted two months, but I've listen to that album every Thanksgiving season since.

I know she's been controversial, and maybe a little overwhelming at times but didn't she make things right when she went on Oprah to explain Bipolar Disorder and let the cameras into her unpretentious, somewhat disheveled, humble flat in Dublin?

Anyway, I don't know. But I like her.



Stay tuned for next year: Jonathan Swift.

I Went Out Of My Way To Marry Your Father

Seven plus years ago I changed my name.

Well, I got married and then I changed my name.

Courtney Jane Clark turned into Courtney Jane Kendrick.

I stood in lines, I filled out papers, I called my bank and my United Airlines Mileage Plus account. I presented a marriage certificate as proof, I made it all legal.

It was sort of sad, though. Not that I didn't want to change my name. I did. I just wanted it to be more momentous. I wanted to come home from milling around the Social Security office to a husband ready to toast to My Big Romantic Gesture. Or Sweeping Sacrifice. Or something. I worked all my life (up until that point) at molding a reputation for Courtney Clark, and now here I was willing to take on a new alias all for love. All for the love of Christopher Kendrick.

Courtney Kendrick

Or as my brother Topher sings it (to the tune of Jimmy Crack Corn):
Courtney Clark Kendrick and I don't care.
Courtney Clark Kendrick and I don't care.
Courtney Clark Kendrick . . .

. . . you get the point.

I have found it somewhat tricky to re-establish myself with a married name. I never know if I should use my maiden name when re-connecting with former acquaintances. I sometimes wonder to myself if people like my friend's parents would know my married name. Or my aunts or uncles. Or my old Sunday School teacher. I don't know if it is common, but I think it can be confusing. For twenty five years I was Courtney Clark and suddenly I am Courtney Kendrick (and who cares?)

Tonight I went to the Mortal Fools production of The Glass Menagerie. And for some brave reason I decided to go alone. This was a new deal in the life of Courtney Kendrick--to actually do something solo out in public. Courtney Clark never understood how people could go to the movies alone, but tonight Courtney Kendrick came to a fine understanding. Being alone is quite refreshing. Especially in public.

Before the play began I headed to pick up my ticket at Will Call from one of the producers. When it comes to acting/theater/performing circles in Utah I never know if I should introduce myself as Courtney Clark, Sister of Christopher Clark, Director Extraordinaire or Courtney Kendrick, Wife of Christopher Kendrick, Veteran Actor of Film/Theater.

But when I arrived at the window, the producer already knew who I was--not Wife of, or Sister of but me, Courtney Kendrick.

And I can honestly say for the first time in nearly eight years I felt like my name was mine, not borrowed, not rented, not requiring a ". . . but I used to be . . .", not just legally altered. It was more than sharing a last name with the man I love, but being that name completely.

I had arrived at a point I didn't even know I was headed.

(Perhaps it was just a bit ironic--in light of this enlightening--I went to see a play about a mother's desperate approach to marry off her daughter for the express purpose of financial, social and emotional security.)

In the end, Courtney Kendrick talked it over with herself and thought the play was really excellent.

*as Chup and I actually eloped, this photo is actually of Halloween of the same year.
Photos of our actually wedding may or may not exist.

'Scuze me but...

I have something to say.

I love c jane.

She's my dearest thing, and I love her.

Just sayin.



Chup out.



p.s. now she'll change her password. place your bets on how long 'til I'm back...

Cry If I Want To

It is with great anticipation I announce this week, this very second week of March, a week in which I will join my family and friends in celebrating what I humbly call my birthday. I can't help it, I just want to raise my goblet in the air and toast another year of being alive. And I intend to do it with my whole, grateful heart.

In order to celebrate correctly however, I am forced to take this week off from blogging on this Enjoy It blog. Should you be interested, you are more than welcome to follow me and this week's daily celebratory adventures on my Provo blog. From local theater to food, we intend to revel until the week winds down. Or until I go into labor, which ever happens first.

Of course, either way I will see you back here on Monday when I resume my alias as c jane, Blogging Warrior Princess.

My Provo Blog:

*Blue Lily photograph

p.s. Are you interested in becoming a c jane advertiser? Or displaying your button on one of my two thousand blogs?

Yes?

Email my people at dearcjane@gmail.com

Operators (are sorta) standing by . . .

I Am Not, It Turns Out

I just finished reading this well-done post on how to come to the conclusion every modern woman asks herself: Am I a feminist or am I not a feminist?

Simply put, this post explains feminism in these terms:

If you believe in, support, look fondly on, hope for, and/or work towards equality of the sexes, you are a feminist.

I am relieved I read this article. I am relieved it was so well written. It simply defined something most complicated. I can say until tonight--one hour ago--I was not educated enough to answer the question for myself.

But I think I can answer it now. Tonight. Hopefully.

I am not a feminist. Because I don't support, look fondly on, hope for and/or work towards equality. Equality, that is my hang-up.

Equality has never done any good for me. When I try to look at the world with my equalizer glasses it leaves me empty and upset. Equality presents a scale and binds you. And when I dissect my marriage, nothing makes me more anxious then the expectation that things are equal. It makes a measuring stick out of our relationship. And I don't want to spend an entire marriage judging the allowance of equality.

Speaking of my relationship, Chup will surely remind me that this is all semantics, so let me define equality (for me) : fairness.

And life is not fair. So how can it be equal?

But even if it could, I don't want to be equal to the males in my life. I just want to be me. If that means I am more, then I am more, if that means I am less, I am less. But most of the time I think I am more. And I think most women are too, but that is a post for another day.

On a personal note, I was raised with five brothers in a family where being a boy was a joy. A joy! The boys went on fishing excursions, deer hunts and summer trips to Dodger games in LA. And even though I'd rather chew on tinfoil then do any three of those chosen adventures, I often resented their opportunities. Because I was looking for "me" in all of that. Where was my adventure? Where was my harrowing experience on the ocean? My Dodger dog? (Was that a Freudian slip?)

It was the very search for equality that made me feel unimportant. I wish I would've been happy for them. Supported their celebration without hoping for reciprocal experiences. Besides, they didn't owe me their good times to make up for my losses. In the end, I didn't even have losses. I just had differences.

And I will always have differences. Even natural occurring differences. Comparing male and female body structure negates the occurrence of physical equality. He has more there, and I have a lot more there. (Talking about hair on our heads, of course.) But even more complicated than a human body are human emotions. How do you measure something immeasurable as feeling joy or heartache? How can those be equalized? A paycheck? The ability to vote? Or be hired? Yes. But the harmonious-yet-horrid hormonal experience of a monthly cycle? There is no way possible to divide those spoils evenly.

Equality to me is like elective plastic surgery. Sure you can get the desired results, but it won't guarantee certain happiness.

And days like today when a coughing fit in the final month of my pregnancy induced spontaneous vomiting which in turn released all contents of my bladder before I could make it anywhere near a toilet, I think two things:

Male and female will never be equal.

And,

I (me, personally, c jane as of right now, in my life) wouldn't want it any other way.

*photo taken by Jed Wells May 2009

On dear c jane:
Yummy, yummy newborn caps.





c jane's Guide to Provo:
Your Weekend Plans!
Hot off the press!

Show Off

Chup and I have decided to spring clean our finances. For instance, how do we feel about our hefty T-Mobile bill when in reality I don't use my phone for actual calls? Some texting, some checking email notifications but besides Time and Temp--an app on my phone now--I don't do much actual dialing.

Another bill we were thinking about cutting is our fancy 2,000 (rough estimate) channel tv package. We only really watch a couple channels, rarely use the DVR or On Demand. No doubt it has served us well during these dry, cold months but with this new warming trend I don't suppose we'll be watching as much.

Not so much to warrant a thick montly bill, anyway.

Still, The Chief likes his morning show, sippy tucked in tight to his chest, eyes taking in all the goodness of his favorite hostess, Kelly. Kelly is perky as a peony with her two pigtails and a voice tinted with flirt. Even Chup himself has developed a crush on Kelly and I can't be jealous because I see where he's coming from. Kelly wishes children a Happy Birthday, sings, dances and charms the heck out of the toddler set.

Kelly was especially cute this morning, I noted as I contemplated losing this channel to our monthly cut backs. She was talking to a dinosaur sock puppet on her hand. Even the puppet was dreamily staring at Kelly with his glued button eyes. But just as she went to wish a couple petite Pisces some birthday joy she inexplicably started to choke.

Her face went red.
Her eyes started watering.
And her flirty voice was nothing but gusts of desperate air.

I swear I almost lost it.
I texted Chup, "Kelly is choking on live tv!"

Some quick-thinking producer switched the shot to a still photo of a birthday boy, but we could still hear the audio of Kelly choking in the background. And then it went silent.

Silent.

I held a sympathetic breath.

A few seconds later, Kelly appeared back on the screen carrying on as if nothing had happened--with the dinosaur still on her hand. But quite red-faced, with wet eyes, and a rasp in her normal buttery voice. She continued to converse as if choking while talking to a hand puppet was PERFECTLY NORMAL. Certainly nothing to request a commercial break for--much less a need to TAKE OFF THE DINOSAUR HAND PUPPET (which is really the part I can't believe, even though I saw it with my own (not button) eyes.)

Smiling, red face, wet eyes, dinosaur hand puppet, even a dead-center camera wink.

The whole thing was so disturbing to me--how emotionally attached I had become to The Chief's morning show--I decided right then and there, tv package had to go.



Today from Dearest c jane:
A classic I can't get enough of.

Improving the Shining Moments

Before you continue on with this post, you should click "play" on my video, and then read my post as it plays. It will actually enrich your post-reading experience. What? I am not kidding.



Every morning I try to practice the piano. This post is not about that, though.

I would say I am--oh--moderate at piano playing. And you know what? I don't mind being moderate in any realm, I actually seek out moderation. Except I am not moderate in my chest size, but I can't do anything about that right now. Or for the next six months really. Or ever. Really.

I choose to practice my moderate piano skills using the LDS Hymnal. I sit down at the piano bench and flip through the book until it stops flipping and whatever hymn physics sees fit to fall open I play. Unless it has more than one sharp or flat, or both (some of those 17th century tunes do not use flats lightly-- you know). I like a solid non-sharp/flat hymn like Sweet Hour of Prayer. Sweet Hymn of No Sharps or Flats is more like it. Sweet Hour of No Needing To Pray During This Practice, that works too.

As you will hear--from the video--sharps are hard for my moderate piano playing skills.

(Have you heard that part yet?)

The point is, the hymn fate chose for me this morning was Improving the Shining Moments. Maybe you can tell from the video I've never heard this particular hymn before. But the title intrigued me and as I played I thought about the concept.

Improve the Shining Moments. Interesting.

Because usually I feel admonished to improve the crappy moments. Or the hopeless, lonely moments. But what if I let those go, and I actually took time to improve the good in my life? Take the best of what I experience and enhance it with even better results.

Improve the shining moments made me also think about perfection. I seek perfection as the opposite of imperfection. Maybe improving the shining moments means I realize perfection is all around me as long as I am grateful. And imperfection comes when I am ignorant.

Maybe improving the shining moments means I need to stop being ok with moderate piano playing and seek to become a concert pianist. Why not?

(I will tell you why not. I don't like sharps or flats.)

(And also, I've already got a gig being a Professional Sippy Cup Refiller.)





Provo Guide by c jane:
Quick, rapido, depeche-toi, click here
about how to be Justin Hackworth's Stranger
Hint: YOU DON'T HAVE TO LIVE IN PROVO
OR EVEN UTAH . .



Dear c jane,
A giveaway winner only fate could've planned.



My Community:
Interesting discussion,
How do I help my child through withdrawl from video game addiction?

March Right In

March brought with it the sunshine.

We met up with it at the park, where hangliders were landing from their mountain escapes and the whole neighborhood--it seemed--came out to play.

Soccer, tennis, swinging, scooter-ing, tight-rope walking, frisbee-ing.

What a day March. What a day!

I started to feel like maybe
the worst of winter is behind us,
nothing but blue skies,
daffodils
and a new baby
to look forward to
sometime near the end.

(Welcome back March, we've been waiting.)





Dear Oreo?



Part Two of the Ellen Switzer Project:
Or how I got SMALLER



My Community:
Heather asks about losing tempers
And I share how I lost mine.