I'm a bookworm, nature lover, kick-boxer, candy fiend, sci fi geek, home body, progressive Christian and part-time student. I love my crazy life and the messy, fun, stubborn, silly, brilliant people who populate it.
The frantic buzz of the strings – busy, busy, busy boy.
The lilting chime of the bells – sweet, charming girl.
The rock ‘n roll squeal of the electric guitar – dramatic, fun girl.
The delicate dance of the woodwinds – gentle, beautiful girl.
The deep thrum of the bass – steady, brilliant man.
The every-changing melody of the lyrics – clumsy, passionate woman.
This is our song.
The syncopated beat of everyday routine
The discordant strains of conflict
The lighthearted whistle of totally adorable
The crash of tantrums
The faint hum of grief
The trill of humor
The every-changing tempo of life
And always, the counterpoint of
purpose
prayer
joy
This is our song.
It’s the only one of it’s kind!
So here’s us, in this Five Minute-ISH Friday. Not exactly by the rules, written one line at a time throughout a morning of errands and border waits and toddler chasing. But I loved the prompt – SONG.
It’s a game we play, and replay, a lot at our house.
“But it isn’t FAAAIIIIR!” they whine.
I act Alarmed. Affronted. Confused. “Who told you life was fair? How dare they!”
It’s not entirely an act. I happen to think that teaching our kids they are entitled to a life of ease and comfort is irresponsible, possibly cruel. Someday the real world will come calling. If they haven’t had an opportunity to build important coping skills, they will likely to fall to pieces. The small, everyday disappointments of life are an important curriculum.
You won’t be able to watch that movie tonight, because Dad is watching his team lose the Stanley Cup.
There’s a hole in your favourite hoodie (the only thing worse than this is my suggestion of sewing on a patch, apparently).
Your sister has a sleepover tonight and you don’t. You’ll have to hang out with your mom instead.
I’m sorry, but your sister ate your homework (true story).
All valuable lessons, if handled correctly. Somewhere between “Vlad the Insensitive, Destroyer of Dreams” and “Schmoopy the Rescuer, Enabler of Dysfunction” lies good parenting.
My parents certainly didn’t subscribe to the “protect-at-all-costs” parenting philosophy. In their mind, suffering builds character, even for kids. They didn’t push us down the stairs or pinch us when we smiled too wide. But they didn’t apologize for the reasonable disappointments life brought our way – doing more chores than any of my friends, wearing second-hand clothes, bypassing the candy aisle, bringing lunch instead of buying… a whole lot of making do with what we had, without complaining.
This wasn’t easy to swallow as a child. And if I’m being honest, it’s still a struggle. Although I wasn’t raised to believe my life SHOULD be easy, I still feel somewhat surprised and ripped off when it isn’t. “But God, it’s not FAAAAIIIIR!”
Because it’s really not. Life isn’t fair.
Lessons I’ve learned from Disappointment:
Perspective: As I write this, on my personal laptop, in a warm house, dressed in a new (second-hand, but still newly bought) shirt, after eating a filling lunch, while my healthy son naps and my well supported children attend a well equipped school nearby, I realize that whining about life being unfair is pretty, well, unfair, to the billions of people who could only dream about a life as good as mine. Nevertheless, my small disappointments gave me a taste of suffering and dose of reality. Life is like this. Bad stuff happens (the slightly less poetic, but much more child-friendly truism). There’s not always someone to blame. No one is entitled to a trouble-free existence.
Health: How many of the worst patterns/habits/addictions we hold are attempts to escape or numb the pain life brings our way? I can personally attest to the tranquilizing effects of too much food, which I begin to crave whenever things start going wrong. One of my children asked if it’s true that ice cream is medicine? Ummm… A healthy person is learning to accept this discomfort and process it in a healthy way. Cry. Pray. Laugh. Create. Throw socks at the wall (really, it works).
Selflessness: Selflessness is learned in the hard places. After we process the disappointment, we have a choice. Where will my focus be? Will I wallow in my misery? Or will I think beyond me and what I want? Without a doubt, the instruction most often handed out, but not always followed by myself is: “It’s okay to be upset, but it’s not okay to make everyone around you miserable just because you are.”
Gratitude: What comes easy is often taken for granted. When I’m familiar with disappointment, then getting what I want/need/hope for is a gift and I will truly appreciate it. Our daughter B was born the year after we buried her brother Simon. Although her diagnosis with Down Syndrome threw us somewhat for a loop, it paled in comparison to the glorious fact that she was ALIVE and healthy.
Compassion: Disappointment is very real to the person feeling it. Whether anyone else understands or not, there it is. Someone who has faced their own disappointments may not be any better equipped to understand a unique sorrow, but we are open to the experience. Where it would be more convenient and comfortable to stuff our own pain beyond conscious reach and whitewash over the pain of others, the student of disappointment is not afraid to go there.
How to Grieve: My small disappointments have prepared me for the devastations in life. Not entirely. Nothing can. But it’s a start: the basic skill to face the hurt, work through it, find the joy in the midst of it and reach out to others regardless.
Disappointment isn’t lethal.
Disappointment is a natural part of life.
Disappointment is a good teacher.
I believe it and I want to live it… but doling it out as a parent is a lot harder than I expected. Perhaps it is my generation. Perhaps I’m just a pathetic softie. It’s hard to say no. It’s hard to watch those sad little faces. It’s hard not to jump in and make everything fair and smooth out the rough edges and bribe them back to happy.
So, I’m thankful for the times we really can’t afford it. Or there isn’t enough time. Or enough energy. Or it just really grosses me out (see: pet snake argument).
There is nothing wrong with WANTING to give your children everything. There IS something wrong with actually giving it to them. Unless you’re hoping to raise spoiled, greedy, miserable brats. If so, then by all means, appease and rescue and avoid disappointment at all costs. You’re on the right track.
So here’s me, hoping we’re all disappointed just enough to build strong character and no more.
That’s my future you are raising. That’s my children’s future and my grandchildren’s too. That is the spouses and friends and employers and employees and neighbours who will populate our world for years to come. That is the community we are making for ourselves.
So, to all the mothers, and the mother-ing, we wish you well. We think you are heroes! We appreciate you! We pray for your success and courage and energy and patience and unwavering love.
I know the job is rewarding, but overwhelming. I know that you are tired more often than not. I know that there never seem to be enough hours in the day to do it all (because there really aren’t). I know that most of you are doing your best, and all of you want to do better.
I know that you have beautiful dreams for your children. I know that you are haunted by fears for their health and their safety and their choices and their one day learning to pee in the potty (or maybe that’s just me). I know that you have good days when you see their eyes light up with discovery and are struck speechless at their sweetness and brilliance and beauty. I know that you have bad days when you wonder how you are going to survive this endless nightmare (granted it’s only been 45 minutes, but at 2 am, it feels pretty damn endless) and are equally speechless with frustration and exhaustion and despair.
I know it’s not easy, not for me anyway. But I know that it’s important. Not just for me and my children, or you and yours, but for all of us. That’s our future you are raising.
So we thank you.
THANK YOU for . . . every night of interrupted sleep, for every unnoticed menial chore (especially the smelly ones), for every second of patient listening, for every warning and inconvenient discipline, for every slobbery kiss and sticky hug you lovingly received, for every “but why?” you’ve answered, for every hormonal tirade you’ve diffused, for every teeth gritting smile while they make their own mistakes… for every sacrifice of your time, your energy, and your own plans.
This is love.
To love another person, as much as we love ourselves, is the most important job God has given us as human beings. I can’t think of a better here-and-now example of that, than a Mom.
So here’s to the Mom’s at the grocery store and school parking lot and splash park and church nursery and all around the world.
The week before Mother’s Day and the holiday is officially on. A large display of sappy, overpriced cards in the mall. A coupon in the mail for extravagant flower arrangements. And a messy painting project underway on our back deck, as we corral the littles into creating one-of-a-kind cards for the many moms in our life.
One more made up holiday to fill our life with saccharine rituals and construction paper crafts. It’s a lot of effort (and often expense) in our already busy lives. But it’s all worth it, because Mom doesn’t get to be the star of the show most days.
Most days it’s about everyone, and everything, else. Most days no one says thank you, because no one even notices all the little things that keep life moving. Most days it’s a grind, nothing glamorous or exciting or worth posting in a Facebook status (not that we don’t post it anyway). And most days, we do these selfless, thankless, menial tasks quite happily, because mother-love is the most practical love of all.
So you bet we treasure our gluey crafts and roses-are-red-and-so-is-your-hair poems. We eat Cajun-style toast and undercooked eggs off our laps in bed. And we grab our pink carnation on the way out of church like it’s a badge of honour.
We take our turn in the seat of honour for a change, and it feels good.
But not all mothers are celebrating with us. For a hundred different reasons, there are those who feel the pinch of this holiday. The celebration is like salt in a wound, and every sugary sweet second of it burns.
I remember that.
My first Mother’s Day after giving birth, I went home to an empty house. I was a Mom without a child. And I wondered if it still counted. If, on this day, I counted.
I hadn’t changed any diapers. I hadn’t soothed fussy cries. I hadn’t agonized over cloth or disposable diapers. I hadn’t taken 1,000 pictures of the exact same pose, because it looked like he just “might” be smiling.
I had changed my plans. I had cried myself to sleep. I had agonized over cremation or burial. I had taken pictures of the tree we buried our son under, because I wanted to watch it grow over the years.
That year there were two families in our church who had new babies. That Mother’s Day, our church family called both myself and my friend Cheryl up to the front and gave us each a keepsake in honour of our children. They made sure we knew it counted. That we counted.
This Mother’s Day I wonder how many other women are asking that same kind of question. Is Mother’s Day for me too?
For the women with empty arms. For the women who are waiting, longing, and hoping to be called “Mom.” For the women who did not give birth or sign adoption papers, but pour themselves into the children around them. For the women haunted by a twisted version of motherhood. For the women filled with regrets. For the women who are grieving and hurting and just trying to survive.
I think it is. Maybe especially so. It’s impossible to understand the gift of Motherhood without acknowledging the pain and the struggle. As a child is born, so is a mother. In pain. In giving. In supreme effort.
Not all mothers are born in the labour and delivery ward. Some are born during a long wait, intrusive home studies, and stacks of paperwork. Some do not hold their children in their arms, but in their hearts, with a love that is not diminished by the loss. Some give birth, then give again so their child can have a better life with a grateful family. Some suffer the long wait, wondering when their turn will come, going to extraordinary lengths for their children-to-be. Some instead wear the title “Auntie” or “teacher” or “nanny” or “friend” but give unconditional love, and time, and energy, beyond normal boundaries.
All mothering is done in the same way. In pain. In giving. In supreme effort.
All women who are in the labour pains of being or becoming mothers represent us well. Mother’s Day may not be a Happy one for you, but it still counts. You still count.
So here’s some cheesy affirmation and bad poetry, just for you:
So here’s me, so grateful for all my children this Mother’s Day: the ones here with me and the ones in heaven. Also for the other mothers in our life, the foster-mother and birth-mother and birth-grandmothers, who’ve given us so much, at such a high price.
Unfortunately I don’t have any openings in that department, so here’s a list of “What I’m Into” as of last month – part of Hopeful Leigh‘s monthly link up. It should give you a feel for life at our house. Just add copious amounts of Wonder Pets, dirty diapers and shrieks of happiness/rage/frustration/surprise/just-trying-out-my-lungs-to-make-sure-they-still-work… the kids are pretty noisy too.
Books:
Divergent by Veronica Roth – I’m a sucker for dystopian fiction. This book has all my favourite things: a tough but relatable leading lady, a strange and horrifying new world, with just enough romance to keep things moving. In this new world all people are sorted at age 16 into 5 factions, which were created to counter what they percieve is the most dangerous human failing. These subcultures are called Candor (people are deceptive), Amity (people are too aggressive), Erudite (people are ignorant), Dauntless (people are cowardly) and Abnegation (people are selfish). Beatrice just turned 16…
The Gifts of Imperfectionby Brene Brown – I’m crazy about Brene’s TED talk on the importance of vulnerability. She is brilliant! Her book is more of the same, not quite as compelling, but still plenty to chew on. Self-help isn’t my favourite genre, but I still found this a good mix of entertaining and challenging.
The Colours of God: toward an emerging theology by Dave Phillips, Quentin Steen and Randall “Peg” Peters – So much of Christianity, and the emerging movement within it, seems to focus on what we oppose; this book is about what (and who – hint, it starts with an ‘e’ and rhymes with shmeveryone) we are to embrace. Although the discussion format takes some getting used to, this unique vision of how to BE church is intriguing.
Wrestling with Angels: Adventures in Faith and Doubt by Carolyn Arends – I’m reading it again. I’m loving it as much as ever. Enough story to make it feel like light reading, but enough profound to reach deep into my heart and soul. Just what a busy mom like me needs.
TV Shows:
It’s more than a show at our house. Chopped has become a favourite game for the big girls. Just like on the show, each participant is given a basket of 4 mystery ingredients. They are given 20-30 minutes (depending on the round – appetizer, entree or dessert) to prepare something delicious, creative and beautiful. They must use all 4 ingredients in their dish. Their Mom (I mean Judge) must eat it and declare a winner. Sometimes the results are surprisingly tasty. And other times… that’s what mouthwash is for.
Although I continue to dislike cooking, for some bizarre reason I enjoy watching almost anything on the Food Network – Top Chef Canada, Restaurant Impossible and Pitchin’ In are my favourites. None of them are “must see” but if we have some down time I’ll look for them.
Fringe – still working my way through the first season on Netflix. It is creepily fascinating. I can finally see Joshua Jackson as someone other than Pacey. Though I’m still rooting for him to get the girl.
Movies:
The Host. I’m always nervous when they make a movie based on a book I love. But, they did an okay job. It’s tricky transfering complexity of plot and depth of character development from page onto screen, so at times they choose simply to focus on kissing instead. I wonder if the editor was a teenage girl? More likely they were hoping to entice this audience. I’d still recommend it – just read the book first, okay?
After a week on my own with the kids I missed my husband so much that a few minutes after he got home I ran out to see a movie. Oblivion was pretty good. The entire movie is spent trying to figure out what happened and what is happening, but not so confusing that my brain hurt.
Music:
Phillip Phillips, despite his ridiculous name, is the flavour of the month. Most of the time I don’t bother with a playlist – just put his album on shuffle. So good.
I downloaded The Parson RedHeads’ latest album and it’s pretty good. They were amazing live, which is saying something, because I don’t even like that sort of thing.
It goes without saying that The Airborne Toxic Event is usually heard somewhere in our house throughout the day. After my groupie experience at the beginning of the month, I appreciate them more than ever. Their song Timeless is on repeat in the car. The girls and I had a great discussion about the phrase “Oh my God” as we listened and concluded that in this song it is a good thing, because those who grieve aren’t being flippant.
Blogs:
The tagline alone is worth the read: Living my life as is, instead of as if. The Actual Pastorhas been my go-to destination this past week. It’s awesome. Go read it.
I love getting to know a brand new blog. Not just the writing, but the writers themselves. Mewhoami is a kindred spirit. I especially enjoyed Trapped Within - a slice of life, from her son’s perspective. For many parents, autism is something bad to be stomped out at all costs, but to others it is a unique perspective and a mystery to be unravelled. Love.
Have you ever found a poem, just a little piece of prose in an unexpected place? It might be the work of Poem Elf. She sets poems free from books, leaving them in public places for everyone to enjoy (then tells the tale on her blog). I’m so glad I stumbled on this site. Poetry isn’t my first love, but it is something I really enjoy in small bites. I’m enjoying this gentle education.
App:
Good Reads is the newest reason I love my smart phone. When I’m at the bookstore, or library, or snooping on someone else’s shelves… and I see a book that looks interesting, I just scan the barcode with my camera and up pops a listing for it. After seeing the rating and reading a few reviews I can decide if I want to add it to my “To Read” list. I can also type in an author or title if that’s easier. The best part is the running list of books I want to read, books I am reading now and being able to rate/review books I’ve just read. Every bookworm needs this app.
Other things I’ve loved this month:
At the beginning of the month we spent one day in the hipster mecca, Portland. I would love more time to explore someday, especially Powells Book Store (taking up 4 stories and a full city block of books, books, books… including enough used books to win over my frugal little heart). Such a cool city!
Which brings me to the absurd show Portlandia. It’s Red Green for hipsters. It’s the only reason I have the YouTube app on my phone.
With more and more sunny days, it’s time to turn my attention to that important spring activity: avoiding yard work. I’ve heard friends complaining about putting it off until the last minute, then doing a haphazard job of it. Amateurs. The best way to avoid it is to run away from home; bring some food and enjoy the sunshine where someone else has done the yard work. Around here we call that a picnic and it’s my favourite thing to do with the kids this month.
On this blog:
little mirror, little me- was written in the car on the way home from Portland. I was thinking about my girls, especially C. I constantly see myself in them, in their strengths and their weaknesses. It is both gratifying and terrifying.
I’ve always been cheesy kind of gal. And I’m not just talking about hamburgers and pizza.
I savour the warm, gooey embrace of a predictable chick flick, a sappy romance novel and an estrogen-fueled women’s gathering. I’m a fan of baby showers, wedding parties and craft circles. My favourite, however, is a time-honoured church tradition: The Ladies Retreat. With youth group and summer camp in my rear view mirror, this is where I go for a regular dose of silly fun.
A lot has been written online about this phenomenon, and women’s ministry in general, over the past few years. One of the bloggers I love most wrote a piece this past weekend, while I just HAPPENED to be at our church’s bi-annual Ladies Retreat. Her account was funny, honest and mostly positive, in a surprised and begrudging way. Many I’ve read are not nearly so gracious.
I get it. I do. They’ve had bad experiences. I have too. There are judgmental cows. There are sugary sweet phonies. There are women who live to make everyone miserable in the name of God.
As someone who used to organize these events, I have heard every complaint in the book. It’s impossible to please everyone… The die-hard athletes and the girlie crafters. The all-night-gigglers and the crack-of-dawn-whistlers. The girls-who-just-wanna-have-fun and the women-with-deep-thoughts-to-share. The single-and-loving-it-professionals and the babies-are-my-life-wives. Then there’s the food and the location, the uncomfortable beds and finding a speaker who is just the right mix of fun and profound.
There’s a lot that can go wrong. It’s not for everyone. My husband would rather cut off his own thumbs than attend a men’s retreat. It ranks right up there with third degree burns and eating peanut butter for him. Knowing him as I do, this is the right call. Ladies Retreat might not be for you.
But it is for me.
Every time I read the mocking posts or hear the complaints I shrink a little inside. Suddenly I’m back in Jr High and the cool kids are snickering at me. They’re too grown up to play. I wonder if it is childish and wrong.
I wonder if I am.
I’m that dork in the front row, with tears streaming down my face as the speaker shares an emotional anecdote. I’m the belly laugh during the “share an embarrassing story” activity. I’m front of the line for silly games. I’m the introvert who is comforted by schedules and ice-breaker games and name tags. I’m the lady rushing around doing Very Important Work, so I don’t have to mingle so much, but still be part of the group all the same. I’m the one taking a nap and solitary walks during free time, because this is such a luxury. I hear God in the nature and the songs and the words of the women around me.
It’s not perfect and I barely sleep and I always have a few awkward, this-isn’t-working-for-me moments. But I push through, because there’s more good stuff than bad.
I LOVE Ladies Retreat!
So to all those people rolling their eyes and folding their arms: We get it. You’re too cynical and insecure cool for this stuff. That’s your perogative.
With a critical streak a mile wide myself, not to mention a cynical husband, it’s something I understand. There may even be some truth in it. You don’t have to come to the parade, but please, try not to rain on the rest of us.
When I look at the women I admire most, they aren’t the ones on the sidelines. Last weekend I sat beside 80-something year old Gladys. She was gearing up for the Sun Run race the next day. “I take a lot of rests, mind you, dear.” She wore a grass skirt to the tropical dinner and was front and centre, neon pool noodle in hand, for the ball relay. She knows how to laugh at herself and she’s game for anything. I want to be like her when I grow up.
I’m not in Jr. High anymore. I’m learning to embrace my enthusiastically dorky side. It’s not for everyone. But I’m glad I’m me.
I’ll take EXTRA cheese, please!
So here’s me, after a totally awesome Ladies Retreat. Carolyn Arends (one of my FAVOURITE authors) was our funny and insightful speaker – and she remembered me!!! – but I was totally cool about it (sort of). It feeds my soul – the beautiful decorations, the goofy games, the Indian Head Massage (developing a slight girl-crush on Lisa), the worship time, the hanging out with friends, the path by a waterfall, and most of all, no one needing anything from me for a day and a half!
NOTE: My friend Jessica attended this retreat with me. It’s not really her thing, but she’s a good sport like that. She has plenty of good reasons to stay on the sidelines, but she doesn’t, and I respect that a lot. Her post Be Kind to the Cynics is the slap upside the head I needed, a reminder to be more patient and understanding. It had me doing some soul searching today. Not always comfortable and rarely fun, but definitely good for the soul.
I thought about ignoring it. I thought about deleting this post or parts of it. I thought about rewriting. I thought about chocolate (cause that always helps). In the end, I decided to add this link and hope you will read it too!
That tiny little detail, on top of a mountain of craptastic, that sends you falling to your knees.
Literally. “God help me, I am circling the drain.” On my knees.
It wasn’t the 3 hour getting-out-of-bed, running around and refusing to sleep marathon. Despite our removal of all toys/books/stuffies from the room.
It wasn’t the severe lack of sleep after a wakeful night “sans Daddy.” I never miss him more than during that 2-5am stretch of horrible.
It wasn’t trimming the littles’ bangs going horribly, horribly wrong. C warned me, “Moooom, not a good idea…” Perhaps people will assume they did it to themselves. What kind of Mom would do that to her own child?
It wasn’t the salt shaker malfunction adding an unexpected Cup of seasoning to the dish. So much for meatloaf.
It wasn’t B peeing, through her pullup, on the McDonald’s play structure, dramatically showering the table below. Nor even the fact that a family from our school was there to witness our fun evening. Nor S immediately running through the puddle of urine.
It wasn’t the double melt-down on the way out. Not S’ supersonic screams of indignance (granted, he wasn’t the one who peed on everyone, but nevertheless we had to leave). Not even when B started her I’m-so-mad-I-could-spit… so-I-WILL trick, interspersed with dramatic shouts of “NEVER! spit NEVER! spit NEVER!” while I dragged her out.
Today, the only thing I couldn’t handle was realizing my flannel pjs were still in the wash.
I’m not difficult to please. I don’t ask much of the universe. After surviving a day like this, all I ask is to recline in comfortable fuzzy pants. That’s it.
It seems silly. But it really was the last straw.
After a mini-meltdown I realized that lo and behold, I had another pair waiting for me. Like a gift from God, fresh from the dryer. And that made it all better.
Sometimes it’s the little things.
So here’s me… not a day I’d like to repeat, but at least it makes for a good story. We have a lot of those lately. At least my prayer life is on the upswing.
My husband is a cool guy. In temperament, if not fashion. He accessorizes with adjectives like steady, dependable, logical… not given to flights of fancy or emotional outbreaks (totally my department).
Which is why it surprises most people to know he is a SUPER fan. A trivia spouting, memorabilia collecting, cyber stalking, concert hopping, backstage haunting, true disciple Groupie. He doesn’t scream like a teenage girl or throw his underwear, but it’s a close thing.
Under that stoic exterior runs a vein of intensity. A passionate devotion which very few things incite. Things like…
His wife (score!)
His children
His favourite books
His hockey pool team
And his favourite band: The Airborne Toxic Event
Setting the Stage
You can imagine the thrill… the joy… the utter celebration when he heard they were coming to the Pacific NorthWest this spring! Three shows in three nights were within reach: Portland, Seattle, and Vancouver. You couldn’t tell by looking at him (his excited face looks pretty much the same as his cleaning-out-the-garage face), but he was ecstatic.
There are very few things my husband enjoys more than a rock concert. Certainly nothing I can publish on a PG blog.
My appreciation for live music, however, lies somewhere between blech and meh. Between the crowds, the noise, the standing, the haze of weed and nicotine, and the ringing in my ears that lasts for days, I’m left feeling like a cranky old woman longing for home and flannel PJs.
It’s not the music. I love the music. I simply prefer singing along in my car, or in the shower, or dancing around my house with the volume up and the headphones on (which is probably really good for my hearing). Sometimes I even listen to The Airborne Toxic Event.
I’ve done my time. I’ve seen more live shows than most hard-core music fans. Conversation starters like “remember that time we saw Def Leppard AND Tom Cochrane?” or “remember that cold, outdoor music festival in a muddy field in the middle of Podunkville, Nowhere?” are followed up with “which time?”
As Glen outgrew his love of 80s hair bands, our family outgrew frequent concerts. Not only is there the expense of tickets to consider, but babysitting and that most precious commodity of all: time. So, he started going without me (insert huge sigh of relief).
Usually, he’s able to harness the inestimable power of “The Concert Buddy.” Eric is his go-to guy, but there’s a list in his head. When he asks you what kind of music you like, he’s not just making conversation. But, he’s not opposed to going all by himself if need be. Like I said: Super Fan.
But this time he wanted me to come with him.
…really?
…ummmm
…doggonit
…okay
The Getaway
Grandpa Barb and Grandma Bill (as they’re known in our house) drove out from Calgary the week before. I updated my Anal Mom Family Manifesto Handy Babysitter’s Guide with our schedules and health care numbers and emergency contacts. I gave myself numerous pep talks about my baby (he’s in his own house, he loves my parents and knows them well, his sisters will help, there’s nothing they can’t handle and I really, really, really need a break). And we set off for Portland.
It was our first getaway since adopting the boy 8 months ago. The first extended “Just Us” time in a couple of years. And boy, we needed it.
I had planned our first romantic getaway a bit differently. There would be sleep. And room service. And sleep. And lingerie and candles and romance. And more sleep. There would be NOTHING on the schedule (except for sleep). There would be NO demands on us. We would do anything we wanted. For a change, it would be all about ME, ME, ME.
Instead, we had a deadline. The show started at 8:00pm. So naturally, we had to be there by 4:00. Super Fan isn’t interested in leisurely drives or romantic dinners, it’s all about Front Row seating.
Seating. That’s the other thing. There’s no actual sitting. Not for Front Row people. Sounded miserable to me.
We brought our camping chairs and umbrellas and warm clothes. I was briefed on concert line etiquette. Apparently, there are rules.
The Wait
Here’s where I admit, I wasn’t looking forward to this experience. At all. And he knew it. We arrived in Portland amidst a flurry of “thank yous” and promises to make it all up to me.
Turns out, our extensive line prep was unnecessary. We were able to spend the afternoon in the bar downstairs from the concert hall, keeping an eye on the door and policing the line up with a judicious use of guilt and peer pressure.
Turns out, the “we” wasn’t just Glen and I, with nameless strangers in the line up; it was a strange community of instant concert friends. Some Glen knew from online or previous shows, some we met that day. There was a kinship as we snacked and drank and peeked out the window at passing band members and swooped in for pictures and handshakes and “I can’t believe it, he totally put his arm around me and gosh, isn’t he dreamy and WHY do I look so goofy in this picture of us…” and talked music (and I just nodded my head and tried to look intelligent).
Turns out, those 4 hours were kind of fun, even for an introvert like me. There were fans from different generations – parents and their grown children. There were single folks and couples and professionals and students. There were people who lived down the street and people who flew in from Idaho and people who took a ferry and drove half the night. There were people who scraped and saved to find their way there and some who didn’t give it a second thought. As different as we were from each other, we were a team. We were galvanized by the inevitable line-cutting drama (insert grave head shake here). We passed the time getting to know each other, sharing pictures, exchanging e-mail addys, handing out concert advice and taking turns going to the bathroom (with one eye on the line cutters all the while).
Turns out, Glen got to go in and see the band! They agreed to put their handprints on a canvas as a fundraiser for the Down Syndrome Research Foundation. I’ve not seen him that nervous in a long time. Nor have I seen him so elated, when he came back and told me how kind/cool/funny/wonderfully human they were, how one of them remembered meeting him before, how they took a picture of his new Airborne tattoo and asked him what song he wanted to hear.
This canvas will be auctioned off to raise money for the Down Syndrome Research Foundation. If Glen can part with it.
The Concert
As promised, there was no sitting for us. But there was a lovely fence to lean on, right at the very front. It might have felt claustrophobic, with all those other people pushing up against me. But by now, I knew them – Stephanie and her best friend from UVic (it was her first concert and she was SO excited), Karen and Mistie (who also have 4 kids close to the same age as ours and are very sweet), Kari, Andy and her daughter Kara (yes, the Kar- thing was a bit confusing), Elva (who calls me Mrs Glen, has great concert connections and takes care of everyone), Morgan and her parents (she helped Glen with the handprints and felt like it was a favour to her), and all the poor schmucks who came after 7 and didn’t get a great spot.
I wasn’t looking forward to the two opening acts. I mean, isn’t it enough that I came to see one concert?
However, the first act was excellent. The Parson Red Heads (excellent name) were pure Portland with their plaid shirts and bushy beards and folksy-hipster style. The music was just my style and the words… well, I’m a writer, so that’s the kind of thing that makes me fall in love with a band.
The second act was misplaced. I felt bad for them. They might be the best screaming thrasher band in the entire NorthWest. How would I know? It was so loud you couldn’t hear the music. Besides, I hate that kind of thing. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one, since their reception was lukewarm at best. But, there was a videographer filming some of their songs for their new album. And I felt so bad for them. So whenever the camera panned our way, I screamed my head off and jumped around like a real fan. I’m sure suburban soccer mom isn’t their usual niche, but who knows, maybe I’m in their music video now.
Finally, the main act arrived. They reminded me of my boy, with all that energy and jumping around. Did I mention that I was a bit homesick by now – how sad is that?
I’ve been to a lot of concerts. From U2 to Petra to Jann Arden to Coldplay to Arcade Fire. And I’ve tolerated them all.
This was one of the best ones, top of my Most Tolerable List. They are excellent performers. I knew all the words to all the songs (inevitable if you happen to live with this man). They are more storyteller/poets than simple songwriters, which appeals to me the most of all. It helps that I’d heard all the back stories of each song, what they meant and where they came from. Somehow it means more knowing the context. I cried when they played Timeless.
What’s more, they seemed genuinely surprised and deeply grateful that we all showed up. I hope that never goes away, because it’s so appealing in a rock star. And a human being.
But the best part was the Huge Ridiculous grin on the man beside me. It’s kind of amazing to me to see him so exuberant.
Goofy Grin with lead singer Mikel, showing off his tattoo, and for some reason, giving us all the finger.
The Romance
Over the past couple years it’s become easy for me to think of Glen as “the other parent” and “the guy who does the banking” and “the man who holds my hand.” More co-worker and teammate than person in his own right. It’s easy to forget that he exists apart from our world together.
He was pretty thrilled that I shared this concert/road trip with him. I thought I was a pretty darn-good wife for giving up my romantic weekend dreams. Turns out, it WAS a romantic weekend after all. Better than anything I had in mind.
He shared a corner of his world with me. I got to know him better. In a new way. And he was genuinely surprised and deeply grateful that I cared enough to show up.
Sometimes love looks like this.
I recognize it, because he’s done it for me so many times. At every sci-fi movie he’s sat through. In the museums and art galleries he’d rather just bypass. On mall benches and ski lifts and holding my purse while I ride the roller coaster one more time.
Concerts aren’t my thing. But he is.
In fact, I’m a SUPER Fan.
So here’s me, and lest you think me too heroic, I got ME time too. I spent the next morning in a huge bookstore, the afternoon poking around Seattle and the evening BY MYSELF in a hotel room with a movie and pile of junk food. I felt so bad for Glen, having to go to another concert while I revelled in the quiet. To each their own.
The frantic buzz of the strings – busy, busy, busy boy.
Linking up to Lisa-Jo Baker’s Five Minute Friday post
There is power in story
