Wednesday 7 March 2012


I thought today I’d hit upon something non-political, since my last blog seemed to light up a small corner of Facebook in a heated, yet healthy debate. Nothing like a good political, socioeconomic, and religious debate to get the morning rolling.

Anyway, today it struck me how much a difference it makes to one’s day, not to mention life, when you rediscover something you love. Not that it’s lost or anything (I suppose sometimes it can be), just when you finally get off your butt, dust off the cobwebs and perhaps conquer whatever fear had been preventing you from doing this various thing you so love doing. Yes, I realize I’m being hideously ambiguous, but the point is, it simply doesn't matter what it is, as obviously it will vary from person to person. It’s more to the point that every person should have a thing like this, that no matter what else they stuff in their day, month, life, doing this one little thing simply make them feel good. Maybe for you it's dancing, or baking, or going on six kilometer runs by the beach. For some perhaps it's more complex, and dissecting the entire works of Shakespeare makes their true motor hum. Whatever it may be, it's that little thing that is all your own that can so easily put that smile back on your face.

For me, it’s singing. I used to sing a lot. I love singing. I remember how singing used to make me feel – it’s indescribable almost, but there is a definitive high when you are singing a song and you truly connect with it. Some sort of door opens within yourself, and without sounding like a total hippie, you literally get lost in the song in the best possible way. And for a heady, over-thinker like me, that is utter bliss. I'm assuming this happens to even those that don't know how to sing that well, considering all one has to do is watch one episode of American Idol to confirm this (heeeeellllo tone deaf America).

The King has sweetly endured my atrophied singing voice – who is he kidding, he has no choice – the last 19 months as I’ve warbled through songs, realizing I can’t hit half the notes I used to. So of course, sick of feeling shamed when I can't hit the high notes in Twinkle Twinkle Little star, a fire was lit under my butt. Now I’m determined to get myself in better vocal shape and sound at least respectable when I bust out The Wheels On the Bus for the fiftieth time. I have many years to embarrass him, so I may as well save the hefty embarrassment for later – like whipping out a mini skirt when I’m 50 or stalking him on his first date and hiding behind a garbage bin to ensure that no two-bit floozy breaks my son’s heart (what??...I’m not saying I’ll do it, it’s just an idea).

Back to the singing of course, the funniest part is whilst I’m doing my warm up scales – yes I’m taking this very seriously - the King looks at me as if something is wrong with me. It could be because I sound like a dying cat and he’s concerned his mother is physically hurting herself. He gives me this look like, “I won’t laugh cause I can see you’re trying, but please put on some music and put the neighbor’s out of their misery.” Then just to crack him up, I walk around the house singing everything I say to him instead of speaking it; he likes this game and thinks it’s exceedingly funny especially when I start singing ‘poo-poo,’ at the top of my lungs. Yes, a mother’s day is LONG, you have to fill it with amusement wherever you can.

I suppose the best part of this new quest of mine is that when I get to the end of the (real) song I’ve chosen to sing to us (the King is a sucker for anything with a groovy beat), the King looks at me and bobs up and down and mutters, ‘mooor, mooor.’ At the moment, I’m taking that as a good sign. 
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