Our Song // My 2023 Listen to Your Mother Storytelling Reading

A few weeks ago I had the distinct pleasure of sharing the stage with a group of incredible storytellers for a Listen to Your Mother performance.

It’s taken me awhile to process and put to words that experience for me. And I think this is because there were just so many stories to tell from that moment.

The gratitude for ALL of the neighbors who generously took my children into their care for every rehearsal and performance in my season of solo parenting.

The support I received from both local and long distance friends who celebrated with me in the audience as well as the cheers of encouragement from those who couldn’t be present.

Catching the beaming smiles of my children and my husband–the leaders of my fan club–as I read my story, nerves calming just knowing they were there.

The appreciation for the creators, Ann Imig who envisioned the idea years ago, and Galit Breen and Vikki Reich who welcomed me into the family of Twin Cities storytellers this year with their leadership and love.

My fellow storytellers who made me laugh, made me cry, made me believe in the diverse tapestry of motherhood with their stories and their love.

The sheer magic that is bearing witness to hundreds of friends and strangers alike receiving–holding–my story in real time, a moment that is unusual to a writer used to writing in solitary, sharing in solitary.

But I think the most significant memory I will carry with me from this experience is this…

Years ago, my mom shared a small moment with me, one that at the time probably felt trivial, perhaps to my mom it didn’t feel like enough. It was just us, in a car, listening to Kenny G. But that one moment stayed with me. It stayed with me so long that I carried it into my own motherhood, gave it new life with my own daughter, and in time that moment became a story with meaning I could share with others.

So thank you mom. You taught me that these small moments I share with my children do matter. They make up a greater story, one I hope I get to listen to one day.

Also thank you for letting me wear your blazer from the 70s(80s?). I felt so bad ass in it.

Here is my story.

When I was young, my mom and I had a song. We only listened to this song when we were alone in the car, just the two of us. Maybe another mother would use this time for intentional conversation laced with motherly advice. Not my mom, though. Instead of words, she chose to connect in other ways, in this case, through the sound of the legendary saxophone playing heartthrob of 90s soft rock–Kenny G.

It would be a Saturday afternoon and we would jump in the car headed for the mall. Before we even left the driveway, I would hunt in the console for my prize–a cassette tape with a black and white photo of the hunkiest man I could name at the age of 9, chest hair peeking out from behind his open buttoned shirt, tight curly locks best described to a Minnesotan as hockey hair.

I would pop the cassette into the tape player and that familiar sound of synthesizer and saxophone filled the air. If the weather was just right, we would roll our windows down, bee-bopping to the beat while we waited for the moment to sing along to our song–“What Does It Take…”

My mom took lead vocals and then I would come in as her backup singer echoing every line into my mechanical pencil microphone, until we got to the chorus where we would both belt out our very best emotional performance of one pining for a true love in exquisite agony, as if a happily married woman and a 9 year old girl knew anything about heartbreak.

But that didn’t matter. For us, connection was the sound of boldly singing through open car windows words we didn’t quite understand but wanted to feel anyway, just my mom and me and Kenny G.

This memory bounced around in my mind as catchy as that synthesizer beat for years.

That is until that fateful slumber party.

I was 13, sleeping over with some new friends, cool girls. You know the kind I mean. The ones with real Doc Martens and properly teased bangs. We were listening to music and everyone seemed to know the words to every song.

Everyone that is, but me.

I tried to hide my shame, but that’s an impossible task for a 13 year old. And with shame, came a new feeling to me–anger. For not only had my mom not taught me how to tease and shellac my bangs, but I was clearly very much behind on the music of my time. Kenny G? Really mom?

Still hoping I’d stumble upon something I recognized, I scrolled through my friends’ CDs when I stopped at a teal and pink cover with the title Jagged Little Pill.

“Ooh Alanis. You’ll love that one,” my friend said as she took out the disc to put it in the player. And she was right. The wailing harmonica and Alanis’ breathy voice hooked me at first listen. “Do I stress you out?”

I didn’t understand half of what she was singing. But what I did understand was that when Alanis sang, she screamed, even as she whispered. Her music touched on emotions that were still new to me at 13, but ones I knew I needed to feel.

By the time I went to sleep, the sound of electric guitar and big feelings had drowned out that sparkly memory I once carried of my mom and me. I made a promise right then and there–I would never do to my own child what my mother had done to me.

And like most promises I made about motherhood, I forgot about it entirely.

Until I found myself in a rare moment alone in the car with my own daughter Caroline, also 9 then. She was having a hard week, so instead of forcing her to walk to school like other terrible mothers, I told her to hop in the car. Maybe I could use that moment for connection, to dispense some much needed motherly advice.

Except, I didn’t know what to say. This stage of parenting and all its emotions were new to me. Before I came up with any words, though, Caroline interrupted my thoughts. “Hey mom, can we listen to some music?”

Instantly my mind swirled with a memory. Slumber party, CDs, harmonica. OH NO! This was the moment I had promised all those years ago. Here was my daughter asking me to pass down the musical baton of cool girls everywhere, and I panicked. All I listened to was the same playlist I made in 2010, back before motherhood, before I stopped being cool. What were the cool girls listening to these days anyway?

But then another memory took its place. Open windows, soft rock, just my mom and me, and Kenny G.

I realized then that maybe I didn’t know about cool girl music or the right words to say at that moment. And I still didn’t know how to style my bangs. But I knew about creating a memory. And I knew who could help us get there.

I pulled out my phone, found an album I hadn’t thought of for years, and pressed play. The familiar sound of electric guitar and Alanis’ wailing harmonica filled the air. In the rear view mirror I peeked at Caroline bopping to the beat, the hint of the first smile I’d seen on her face all week.

Instead of words, I let the music fill the space between us in the car that day, both of us learning to sing through open car windows words to a new song we didn’t quite understand, but wanted to feel anyway.

And who knows, I wondered. Maybe this would become our song.