FIND ONE HUNDRED WAYS, James Ingram
Songwriters: Benjamin Wright, Anthony Tyrone Coleman, Kathleen Wakefield
Produced by Quincy Jones
Compliment what she does
Send her roses just because
If it's violins she loves
Let them play
Dedicate her favourite song
And hold her closer all night long
Love her today
Find one hundred ways
Don't forget, there could be
An old lover in her memory
If you need her so much more
Why don't you say?
Maybe she has it in her mind
That she's just wasting her time
Ask her to stay
Find one hundred ways
Being cool won't help you keep a love warm
You'll just blow your only chance
Take the time to open up your heart
That's the secret of romance
Sacrifice if you care Buy her some moonlight to wear
If it's one more star she wants
Go all the way
In your arms tonight, she'll reflect
That she owes you the sweetest of debts
If she wants to pay
Find one hundred ways
Love her today
Find one hundred ways
Send her roses just because
If it's violins she loves
Let them play
Dedicate her favourite song
And hold her closer all night long
Love her today
Find one hundred ways
Don't forget, there could be
An old lover in her memory
If you need her so much more
Why don't you say?
Maybe she has it in her mind
That she's just wasting her time
Ask her to stay
Find one hundred ways
Being cool won't help you keep a love warm
You'll just blow your only chance
Take the time to open up your heart
That's the secret of romance
Sacrifice if you care Buy her some moonlight to wear
If it's one more star she wants
Go all the way
In your arms tonight, she'll reflect
That she owes you the sweetest of debts
If she wants to pay
Find one hundred ways
Love her today
Find one hundred ways
I spent the night out again with some wonderful friends. It is always a relief when I find friends with whom I can talk, be free, and relax and whose children are equaled loved and adored by my own kiddles. Talking about how each couple first met and fell in love, I found myself silent. Silent because my husband was out of town on business and I hoped to have him share the story with me rather than reminiscing alone, recounting and recalling by myself. We all laughed and then waxed nostalgically about life lived in the metropolis--Manhattan, Brooklyn, city versus life out in the burbs.
Looking around the table, each of us creative, talented, sharp, tired parents, in various stages of "in love" with our partners (something that anyone, but certainly any parent, will tell you is often in flux), I thought of how the heck I'd gotten here. Here in the place where I was talking about my life BC (before children) longingly, lovingly, relishing the memory of possibilities that city-dwelling afforded me. I was becoming heated, angry, hurt, completely forgetting how lonely, exhausting, tiny my life was BC. I was quietly simmering because Didier was away working, cooking for a wealthy family while they vacationed and that I was home, home alone with the people taking care of their every need, want, whim, scheduled activity, supervised or unsupervised, housework, homework, work. I was tired.
When I am alone for long periods of time, I often forget that I am not "in it alone," that it is not me against the world, that I have not been abandoned by my husband, left to raise my children alone in a cruel, darkening world. This is my stuff. This is me. I cannot and do not dare claim that this is the stuff of all mothers, but it is my bag. As I go through the routine, the day to day handling of the lives of three people, meeting basic needs and occasionally offering some spiritual guidance and emotional support, I feel alienated, isolated, stripped. It isn't that I don't feel like my children appreciate me because I know that they do in their way. It surely isn't that I would change my life. Being a mother is probably one of the most profoundly defining and yes, rewarding experiences of my life. I just think that the woman I was before the children came, before the responsibilities of caring for and guiding two souls through the universe, two people through the world, would have never believed the heightened level of anxiety, joy, panic, possibilities that motherhood would bring. When I am alone with the girls, I get into gear, click into mommy mode, and run like a well-oiled, efficient machine with moments of humanity and kindness, but mostly strict routine so that everyone can get to bed by 8 o'clock and Mommy can have a glass of wine in peace.
And then my husband returns as he left. In a huff, in a hurry, tired, in need of care, tenderness, compassion. And I offer it. From Mommy it is given, as it is always given. But I am not a machine and days, weeks in the pattern, in service, without a shower (or at least a meaningful one), comfort, or stillness can make a lady crazy. I remember my mother listening to this song on the radio when I was a girl. I thought it was pretty (if not a little schmaltzy) and was moved by the tenderness of a man, advising another how to care for a woman, to attend to her. I couldn't imagine, truly, that any man, except for in the movies or on Fantasy Island or the Love Boat, would even give a damn. I have been humming this song all week as I count down the days to Didier's return. He will come back and life will continue on as if he'd never left. I will release the control on the conveyor belt, set it to a different speed but keep it working, and continue loving the people, caring for them, guiding them, tending to them, but there will be no 100 ways. Not from my husband. Maybe from the girls.
While I assume that song was meant to be a love song to win over a woman unsure and insecure, it serves better the wife and mother. The woman, already committed, toiling away for her family--husband/wife/partner and kids--who recalls being that unsure woman and is now the unsung hero. I am feeling sentimental these days, nostalgic for my younger, attractive, wittier self. I wish I recognized more of her in the mirror behind my greasy-haired, head-banded, yoga pants rocking, make-up-less self. I really hope my husband does too.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
Looking around the table, each of us creative, talented, sharp, tired parents, in various stages of "in love" with our partners (something that anyone, but certainly any parent, will tell you is often in flux), I thought of how the heck I'd gotten here. Here in the place where I was talking about my life BC (before children) longingly, lovingly, relishing the memory of possibilities that city-dwelling afforded me. I was becoming heated, angry, hurt, completely forgetting how lonely, exhausting, tiny my life was BC. I was quietly simmering because Didier was away working, cooking for a wealthy family while they vacationed and that I was home, home alone with the people taking care of their every need, want, whim, scheduled activity, supervised or unsupervised, housework, homework, work. I was tired.
When I am alone for long periods of time, I often forget that I am not "in it alone," that it is not me against the world, that I have not been abandoned by my husband, left to raise my children alone in a cruel, darkening world. This is my stuff. This is me. I cannot and do not dare claim that this is the stuff of all mothers, but it is my bag. As I go through the routine, the day to day handling of the lives of three people, meeting basic needs and occasionally offering some spiritual guidance and emotional support, I feel alienated, isolated, stripped. It isn't that I don't feel like my children appreciate me because I know that they do in their way. It surely isn't that I would change my life. Being a mother is probably one of the most profoundly defining and yes, rewarding experiences of my life. I just think that the woman I was before the children came, before the responsibilities of caring for and guiding two souls through the universe, two people through the world, would have never believed the heightened level of anxiety, joy, panic, possibilities that motherhood would bring. When I am alone with the girls, I get into gear, click into mommy mode, and run like a well-oiled, efficient machine with moments of humanity and kindness, but mostly strict routine so that everyone can get to bed by 8 o'clock and Mommy can have a glass of wine in peace.
And then my husband returns as he left. In a huff, in a hurry, tired, in need of care, tenderness, compassion. And I offer it. From Mommy it is given, as it is always given. But I am not a machine and days, weeks in the pattern, in service, without a shower (or at least a meaningful one), comfort, or stillness can make a lady crazy. I remember my mother listening to this song on the radio when I was a girl. I thought it was pretty (if not a little schmaltzy) and was moved by the tenderness of a man, advising another how to care for a woman, to attend to her. I couldn't imagine, truly, that any man, except for in the movies or on Fantasy Island or the Love Boat, would even give a damn. I have been humming this song all week as I count down the days to Didier's return. He will come back and life will continue on as if he'd never left. I will release the control on the conveyor belt, set it to a different speed but keep it working, and continue loving the people, caring for them, guiding them, tending to them, but there will be no 100 ways. Not from my husband. Maybe from the girls.
While I assume that song was meant to be a love song to win over a woman unsure and insecure, it serves better the wife and mother. The woman, already committed, toiling away for her family--husband/wife/partner and kids--who recalls being that unsure woman and is now the unsung hero. I am feeling sentimental these days, nostalgic for my younger, attractive, wittier self. I wish I recognized more of her in the mirror behind my greasy-haired, head-banded, yoga pants rocking, make-up-less self. I really hope my husband does too.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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