Name That Blog

Many of you have written in asking how I came up with the title Life Is A Lark for this blog.

Ha! That felt really cool to say, but is, in fact, a lie. No one has written me, but I'm going to tell you anyways.

My blog. My rules.

As a reckless, defiant teenager I had many things on my mind.

How do I mute the noise on a three way phone call? How can I make my crimped hair last all day long? How do I drink a two liter of of Rockaberry cooler at the powerline party without having to pee outdoors?

I know. Growing up in the middle class suburbs of small town British Columbia can be daunting.

My lovely mother had a whole other set of problems.

How do I teach my daughter to do her own laundry? How do I make her understand the value of a dollar? How do I hide my two liter bottles of Rockaberry coolers so that she won't find them?

Her house. Her rules.

Or so she thought.

She does deserve an A+ for effort. There were the scare tactics, the reasoning, the tough love, and the tears, all of which failed to get me to make my bed and take out the garbage.

It was the era of 'no thank you', 'maybe later', and 'whatever'. I am still so shocked that they kept me around.

It was also the era that produced my mother's most famous line : 'Lulu, life is NOT a lark!'

Of course at that time, I was much too busy lip synching Jewel songs in the bathroom mirror and hanging up posters of Leonardo DiCaprio on my bedroom walls to even think about what this strange saying meant.

I remember the day when that changed though. I was about seventeen years old and had skipped my chores so that I could carefully apply six layers of clear mascara and eight layers of Bonne Belle bronzer in preparation of the most important powerline party of all times.

On my way out the door I was stopped by mother and scolded for skipping out on my responsibilities.

Here it came.

'You can't just do whatever you want! Life is NOT a lark!'.

Too stressed out about meeting my bootleg on the corner to think of a decent response, I blurted out the first thing that came to my frazzled teenage mind.

'Life IS a lark!'.

Stunned by my own brazenness, I stood and waited for the consequence.

All that awaited me was laughter. Laughter from my mother, so stunned and speechless, that it sparked my own.

It was a turning point.

Times have changed. My mother has relaxed into an easy going hippie that considers art projects a higher priority than a clean home. I responsibly go to work, hell or high water, and cringe if I can't remember whether or not I've made my bed.

It is now my mother that reminds me when I have worked myself into a frenzy over money or am turning into a lunatic over life's logistics, that life IS a lark.

It is meant to be enjoyed, explored, and embraced with open wings and an open heart.

Life is a lark is the running joke that reminds us of this. Reminds us to give ourselves a break. To be gentle with ourselves. To take only the good from every situation. And above all, to do what makes us happy.

It's a lark's life. Lark's rules.