I have been pretty open about the fact that I’m struggling lately, so I think I will mention every once in a while how therapy is going. I figure that talking about it might help someone, especially if they have never been to therapy before.
One of the things that happens when you go to counseling/therapy (or “therpy” as Pop used to call it) is that you and the counselor discuss your background and go over your issues at a very high level. (There is also a lot of discussion of privacy and patient confidentiality and insurance.) After all that, at the end, they give you homework.
The homework that they give you at that first visit is pretty. damn. daunting. I’ve been picking up those homework pages all week, and then setting them back down with a sigh.
– “What do you want?” – “How do you envision your life when you reach your goals?” – “How will you know when you get there?”
(I mean, really? Does anyone really know how to measure that, even if they are happy all the time? Aren’t we all just works in progress, always working towards there, but never getting there?) There were a number of other very specific questions (and by specific, I mean worded in such a way that you cannot prevaricate when answering.)
“What do I most want?” “What is it that is causing my problems?” (be those anxiety, depression, anger, resentment, etc.?) “What exactly is causing me pain?”
Please, Dear Reader, imagine for a moment asking yourself that last question. Now imagine yourself dredging the depths of your brain and your heart for the answer to that question. There are answers to it that are easy to say, but those snap answers, the ones you would say if a friend asked you this question, are very likely prevarication.
Dig deeper. Answer the question as if only you will ever hear the answer.
Ouch.
So, that’s where I am. All in all, I’ve felt pretty crazy and not at all myself of late. It’s good, though, to know that there is some “me” left inside: Procrastinators unite! Yeah, I totally put off doing my homework until the night before it was due. Total Roswell-High-School-Ms.-Swearingen’s-Great Expectations-project flashback. The funny thing is that, in 9th grade, I thought that was insurmountable.
Maybe in another 30 years I will look back on tonight’s homework and laugh at the fact that I ever found any of this difficult.
I haven’t even written anything this year. Not one post. I used to write every day. I’ve mentioned it before, but life has gotten in the way a lot lately. I am often tired. Part of it is due to going back to work. There is also a part of me that wrestles with things I never struggled with in the past. Mortality, politics, race, education, relationships. Many things preoccupy me, but cannot be put into writing. Not because I’m not capable of writing about them, but because it is painful and would cause pain to others.
But I feel a gaping hole where my writing used to be. Or maybe it is more of a malignant growth that I used to remove daily with my writing. And now it just grows larger and larger and I feel the weight of it more every day. I realized this so much yesterday when my son turned 11. I used to write about my kids on every birthday, but sometimes it would take me hours; I just don’t have time like that anymore, and when I do, it is at night, and I am so brain dead from work that it just doesn’t happen. So yesterday, I promised myself I would write something today. I wrote for an hour. I wrote for me, not for public consumption, but to cut out some of what had been growing unchecked.
After that, I wrote for the daydreams. I spend a lot of time in the car, listening to music, and sometimes I have things I want to write, but they are just warehoused in my head, daydreams or movies in my brain. Believe me, you can imagine a whole lot when you’re stuck in a 10×10 metal box for almost two hours a day. You have to create your own little world, or you will just lose your shit completely. So, I wrote a little of that world down. It is not the only world, but it is the one that has most recently been occupying my mind. A snippet of a photograph from a dream I had a month ago, to which I add a little bit of the story every day. Aren’t brains and books amazing? Sure, they educate and inform, but their true value is that jump to another world. It might be vastly, wildly different than our own world, or it might be so very similar, comforting, but with only the best or worst of what we have to offer. We pick and choose which worlds we travel to when we pick up a book off a shelf. For some of us, if we can’t find the world that is just right, just what we imagine it should be, we create our own.
The writing of those imaginings is much harder than just writing what I think about real things like life or politics, or what it is to be a mother/wife/daughter/sister/member of the human race. Those things are concrete. They dictate to me what I will write about them. But Fiction? Fiction requires me to dictate to the story what must be written. And that requires dumping out my mental purse for the world to see the little pieces of what I most value, of what I most desire, of what scares me most, and of what turns my mind on.
What I get off on, the real me, not the me that people see, or the one that I choose to show to others, but the one that lives in that car for two hours a day. And that, i think, is what is preventing me from writing more. I guess we all feel like we are freaks on the inside (and maybe on the outside too). It’s fear. Pure fear. Not so much of what others will think of me, but more of what I will think of myself if I see it laid out on paper. What if it is all there, and it isn’t even freaky? What if it is just uninteresting crap? A meaningless, cliched, sentimental, boring, shallow, poorly-executed pile of poo?
I’ve promised myself I’ll work on overcoming that fear. And the only way to do that is to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard.
I thought i would post an update about my cousin Jane’s murder case. The man who killed her was sentenced today. I was going to just put the link on Facebook, but I know there are some folks who read my blog who aren’t on Facebook, and also, I just felt like i needed to write a little about it. I haven’t written about it all very much, but it is one of those things that stays with you, and reminds you that there is true evil in the world.
I know that will sound hokey, and i hope that if it does, you will never know what it feels like to have it touch your life, and that you can continue to think there is no such thing as evil. I hope you never experience the equivalent of being unable to put away leftovers in your own home without thinking of your cousin’s murder. I hope you never have to get a call and hear a loved one’s voice as they try to tell you what happened, or look in their eyes and see the complete shock and disbelief. I hope you never have to wait years to see one iota of justice, and i hope you never have to truly know what you really, deep down, when put in the situation, think of the Death Penalty. I hope you never have to sit in a courtroom with the person accused of killing your loved one, or know what it’s like to see him living and breathing while you look at coroner’s drawings of your loved one. I hope you never know this much about damn zip ties.
That stuff goes away most of the time, but then every once in a while it comes at you, and you still just can’t believe it is real and not some CSI Miami show.
It is truly magnificent, though, that when you see someone lost so suddenly and in such a tragic, violent way, that you are also reminded of how many lives they touched, how much of an impact each and every one of us can have on one another, and of how strong people can be in the face of unspeakable circumstances.
I will take away from this my wonderful memories of my cousin, of time spent in her warm, cozy home, of the wonderful weekend i spent with her when i was in college and visited for a weekend, of the time she and her brother, Finley, and Mom and I sat up until 3 in the morning and i wrote down every story they told, and of the times we spent with her when I was a child at my grandma’s apartment. I will never forget the last time I saw her, on Mother’s Day two years ago, when she gave my mom, Sister, and I the pleasure of her company for Mother’s Day Lunch. She was one of a kind. And as Rachel so eloquently says, she definitely “told it like it was.”
Some things run in families.
That is one other thing i will take away from this: I am so proud of my cousins for the way they have handled themselves throughout this all. I come from some strong people. Some damn strong people.
Thanks to everyone who still continues to pray for my family and keep us in your thoughts, and who continue to ask for updates on the case, and who never met my cousins, but ask after them with true and genuine concern, and to all of the wonderful people whom I don’t even know, who take care of my cousins every day in their “real lives.” There is evil in the world, but there is also good. And i think the good always rises to meet the bad.
L-R: Cousins Nancy, John, Jane, and Virginia (my mama)
And here she is today. Brownie bridging ceremony at Stone Mountain Park Grist Mill. Almost 8 years old, 2nd grade, October 2013.
She’s eight. I’m no longer one of those moms with babies. Or toddlers. I’ll never have a preschooler or a kindergartner again. It’s sad, but so so sweet, too. She can run her own bath, and swim laps, and brush her own hair, and boy does she have ideas about how she wants her hair to look. She has beautiful, soft hair. It still smells good after a bath, but smells more little girl than baby. I know now why grandmas want to smell babies heads – it’s like crack. You get a whiff and you want it the rest of your life.
She’s in 2nd grade now, and reading stuff like Tales of a 4th Grade Nothing, and likes clothes and puppies and stuffed animals and jewelry. She likes reading and writing and homework, and god help me, crafts. She is sensitive and sweet and nothing like me. She wants to please us and her friends and her teachers. She wishes she had a sister. She still writes notes to Fairies, and believes in Santa and the Tooth Fairy. She still loves my hugs, and wants to be with me whenever she can. She sits next to me comfortably, and without pulling away. She is a Brownie. A swimmer. She has the most amazing smile, even with that little snaggle tooth. Her laugh is my favorite song. And she laughs a lot – she likes to make up jokes, and she likes it when we make jokes. She wants to be a vet. And a zookeeper. She likes math. SHE LIKES MATH. She makes up stories. She writes stories. She loves loves loves her Grandmas. She wraps Grandpas around her fingers with just a smile, or a hug. She adores Leah and Syd, Mia and Liliana, Rachel, and Gia, Nathan, Tristan, and Michael. She loves her brother, but god do they fight sometimes.
This week, at the lake, I watched her, and she didn’t know i was watching. She sat under a tree, and wrapped her arms around her knees, and gazed out over the lake. And I knew she was thinking. Just like I used to think under Connie’s dogwood tree. Or on the front rocker of our porch in New York. Like i still think when I lie on the boards of the dock at night and ponder the moon and the planets and the constellations. Sometimes she lies with me. Sometimes she holds my hand. She holds me in her hand.
MUSHY. Let’s talk about the party.
So, yeah, we had an old-school carport cookie-decoratin’ party. October birthdays might be the best.
Tiller loves beanie boos.
Watching tills open stuff.
Miss Chloe.
Lilian, I think? Tiller collects beanie boos and twins.
Yeah. Twins. Maybe Syd.. Gah. I have trouble when they are not together.
Boys focused on cornhole and that jumpie thing.
So, yeah, not sure what the deal was with the gems on foreheads. Hopefully not insulting to my Indian friends and family – They were part of the scavenger hunt treasure, and the kids started putting them on their foreheads. I like to think it is their multicultural upbringing that made them do this.
A rare moment of still sitting with this whirling dervish of a nephew.
My sweet girl. Best smile in the world.
He was pretty bored.
The basket and bell, because why would you make a girls’ bike that doesn’t have these? Where would you put acorns, rocks, bows, and beanie boos?
Just what all 8 year olds need. A messenger bag She loved this gift, and it actually looks really, really cool.
Chloe and Tiller, about to blow candles out.
My baby is 8. This cannot be. Also, i just ate the rest of that cake with coffee for 2nd breakfast. A pitfall of working from home.
Chloe always has the best expressions.
My sweet, tissue-paper pasty skinned, freckled nephew. I want to eat him up.
Leah, i think.
Yeah, that’s definitely me. With tills and . . . uh syd. I’m going with Syd.
My sister will eat some cookies.
Good sister, bad sister. Guess which one is which?
Pretty sure that’s syd, and leah. Syd on left. It’s like a puzzle.
These kids are just a bunch of peas in a pod.
Jimmies my ass. There were sprinkles. Lots of sprinkles.
Rollie doesn’t go for hugs anymore, not even from his Aunt, not unless his fever is at least 102. He’s ten now, you know. Way too old for your hugs.
We decorated cookies. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
Yeah, long week. And yeah, that was me walking up the street in flip flops, my shorts, pj top, no bra, carrying a bottle of wine i mooched off my awesome neighbors because I went to the store to get wine, came home with US weekly, bad red box movies, and ice cream, but forgot the wine. Watched HORRIBLE movie with my sis, and I guess it was the borrowed wine, because it tugged at all sorts of sad, cliched heartstrings that I guess I could blog about but it would just be sad, and cliched, and also, I’m just not ready to talk about it, even 20 years later.
Dang. And I have to leave at 7:05 pm for kids’ county swim meet. That should be fun.
Wait. It’s 10:45 pm on a Friday. 20 years ago I would have gone OUT at 10:45 pm.
First of all, 15 hour days completely suck ass. Especially when you are completely worn out, fighting a cold that won’t die, and with the specter of strep throat haunting your future.
The last thing you want to do? Go to an elementary school talent show. You’d rather have that torture guy from Game of Thrones cut off a pinkie finger or two.
But to the talent show I went. Right after putting makeup on the girl, and slapping peanut butter on bread for the both kids, because you have nothing else to eat in the house because you had pantry moths and had to throw it all out.
We got to the talent show. I saved myself a second row seat, made sure the girl went potty before it started, and took the boy to the backstage area.
Went back and found my seat. Sat through the damn PTA meeting. And then it started.
Wow.
If you ever need to restore your faith in the youth of America, and in the parents that stand beside you in trying to improve things at your school, or even if you’re just having a crappy day and need a good laugh, OMG DO YOU NEED TO GO TO AN ELEMENTARY TALENT SHOW.
There were two emcees, both female, and one was dressed like Austin Powers. She was so not into the whole outfit and she told me she was only wearing it because her mother paid her ten bucks plus ice cream. She did the worst Austin Powers accent you ever heard. It was awesome. There were two best friends – one sang a . . I don’t know who did the song. It doesn’t matter, because the awesome part was her best friend getting up there with her and hula hooping the whole time her friend sang. There was a kid who did a bad ass Smooth Criminal dance. There were two acts playing guitar and singing Beatles songs. Kids singing The Beatles? It slayed me. There was a kid who did a comedy skit that bordered on offensive to little people, and I’m pretty sure he’s like the next Richard fucking Pryor. Little girls in frilly dresses played minuets on the piano; a boy played the James Bond theme song. Dressed as James Bond. There was a kid who called himself “Rollin’ Nolan,” who dressed in a disco getup, and roller-bladed on stage to the Bee Gees. There was a little 3rd grader who sang a Taylor Swift song, and almost made me cry. There were dancers galore. There were comedy troupes. There was one duo that sang some song I’ve never heard before, that sounded like some kind of Boys II Men/Rap mashup. I think one of them dropped the F-bomb. They were pretty good.
There was this little girl, who I think secretly wanted to perform, but yet she just signed up to help behind the scenes. Turns out only three kids signed up to do that. And then the organizers realized they needed someone to introduce the acts. And so they asked two of the kids to emcee. The little girl was one of them.
And she was really excited. And she must have really practiced her lines, and standing on the little stool that made her tall enough to be seen over the podium, and adjusting the microphone to her height, and her speaking into the microphone at the perfect volume. She wore a sequined, psychaedelic 60’s dress and white Go-Go boots. She loved the boots the moment she tried them on. It might have been the boots that transformed a first grader into a young lady. A poised, talented, well-spoken young stage professional. She watched every performance in between her introductions, and clapped with the music, and mouthed the words to every acts songs. She was more in her element than I have ever seen her. Every time I looked at her, she looked so very happy, and it was like looking at someone grow up in the course of an hour. I was swollen with pride. I could not contain my smile or the tears that threatened to spill over onto my face every time I looked at her.
And then the boy came on. The boy cannot sing. I knew he could not sing when he tried out. I thought for sure they would cut him. I secretly hoped they would cut him, because I didn’t think i could bear to watch my child fail so terribly at something. They did not cut anyone. There were probably three or four they could have cut, but they didn’t. He came on stage wearing a Hawaiian shirt with the collar popped, swim trunks, and flip flops. His sunglasses on his head. At home, he said he was “dressing for the weather in Istanbul.”
He looked scared. I felt sick.
The music started. And he smiled, and he began to sing.
Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it’s Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Now it’s Turkish delight on a moonlit night
It was shaky. It was terrible. And I was so very in awe of my smart, unsmiling, ornery, stubborn, easy-to-anger boy, who had the nerve to get up in front of a cafeteria full of his peers and their parents, and sing that song. And people clapped along with the song, as they did for all of the performers, and it didn’t really matter that he was not in tune, and he was off key, and a little out of time.
And I laughed. People know it’s your kid up there, and so naturally they also look at you, to see you watch your own kid perform. And that laugh of mine somehow turned into crying, because I was so relieved that he was okay up there, and at one point during the song, he very coolly pulled his shades down over his eyes, while nodding his head and not missing a word, and then i was laughing and crying, and the only other time I remember having that exact feeling was when I was standing at an arbor in Auburn, Alabama with my husband and I was saying my vows and i was crying and laughing all at the same time.
You know that scene at the end of the movie Parenthood? The one where Steve Martin is sitting next to Mary Steenburgen in the crowd at the school play, and she’s knocked up, and he’s lost his job, and the whole family is there and Steve Martin is watching his weird, emotional kid freak out and knock over the sets on stage, and things are in slow motion and you start to hear the sound of a wooden roller coaster in the background, and Steve Martin is laughing and crying and watching the play and riding the roller coaster all at the same time?
That was me. I was riding the roller coaster and i was proud and scared and crying and laughing all at the same time. And isn’t that what life is all about?
I fight to keep my kids away from the tv. Even when we are at the lake, with all of nature around us. So today, I finally said, turn off the tv. We’re going fishing. We did it old school. We walked around the whole cove. We stopped to poke sticks in ant hills. We saw a snake and just watched it. We talked about the birds we saw. We untangled fishing lines from trees. I stayed patient. The dog followed us and laid down and rubbed his face in things that smelled dead. We laughed at a startled turtle flopping off a log into the water. We talked about the old outhouse and what it was for. We peeked in a deserted house. I showed the kids how you could use a vine like a whip and how cool the sound is. We poke more sticks in anthills.
We didn’t catch a thing.
We walked back home. We sat on the dock. I made them bait their own hooks. They did it and didn’t cry, poke eyes out, or let the dog eat a hook. I drank a Moscow mule as the sun set. We laughed.
We came in, took a shower and heated up leftovers. We ate them on the screen porch, by candlelight. We talked.
After dinner, we went down to the dock. We had left the lights on for night fishing. We caught three fish. (Not exactly a mess o’crappie, but enough to keep’em interested.) tiller brought her blankie. We watched the poles, and we looked at the stars. We talked about Jupiter, and life on other planets. We talked about the moon.
The kids got cold. Rollie grabbed my hand to hold as we walked back up to the house. He’s 9. Almost ten. He might not reach for my hand next April.
We had a really perfect day. The kind that I think I’ll recall 20 years from now.
Or maybe just on a Thursday afternoon next week when I’m sitting in a cubicle, wishing life were more simple than it is.
When I was a little girl, my nickname was “Annie Mouse.” (Lisa was “Sport Model.”) I wanted to be Annie Horse, because I loved horses so much. I’m not sure where the Mouse came from – maybe mom or dad will chime in with an answer to that. My Grandma Smith called me Annie Boo. And even when Grandma was in her eighties, she called my Mom “Baby.” And now I’m a parent and i understand why grandma called her 40 something daughter “baby” until the day she died.
Not sure where I’m going with this one, except that I know I’m still their baby, and now I understand why.
So, it was really cute when I got this card from mom and dad for my 41st birthday. I think it would be kind of hard to find a birthday card for a grown child that doesn’t sound hokey. Mom was super excited – she said she was so excited to find it because it is perfect for me. And I have to admit; it really is. Pretty much sums it up. Mom knocked it out of the park. (Cash is still good too, though, Ma.)
Sorry about all the times I worried you sick; I know payback will be hell. And it’s still not that easy to get me to wear a dress, but good job – I survived! Thank you for reminding me that you always loved me, despite the tomboy ways, the explosiveness, the skinned knees when I did wear a dress (and this was well into my 30s!), the times I just had to see for myself; Y’all were more often right than not, but thank you for not resenting that I didn’t believe you until I tried it anyway.
I know it’s just a card, but it’s nice to know I’m loved for who I am. I’m gonna try my damnedest to do the same for my own Boos.
A week ago yesterday, I turned 41. It was a Tuesday. Why does it seem like birthdays always fall on Tuesdays? It fell on Tuesday. I got up at 6 am at my mom’s house, put on my Dad’s underwear*, and went to work. My own mother forgot to wish me happy birthday before I left. (No hard feelings. I don’t remember that stuff either.)
I worked all day. Got home at 5pm or so. Started my period. (HAPPY-BIRTHDAY-TO-YOU-HAVE-CRAMPS-AND-BLOOD-AND-WANT-TO-EAT-YOUR-YOUNG-AND-CHOCOLATE-ITS-AWESOME.) Turned back around and got back in the car to go to the Japanese steakhouse, because that’s what you do when you are middle-aged and it’s your birthday. I’m not saying that it didn’t taste good, but sometimes after a long day at work, you are tired and you just want to have your cramps and wine in peace without someone throwing shrimp at you or singeing your eyebrows.
It was actually really nice, and my husband gave me a lovely necklace and my kids were good. (Okay, one was kind of a jackass, but he at least contained it until the end.) So, we came home, and the kids went to bed, and then Toddler and i decided we should watch “This is 40.” I totally didn’t get what people liked about this movie. Other than Paul Rudd is cute. That wife’s voice makes me want to jump off an overpass after about ten minutes. It didn’t really matter, because I ended my birthday by promptly falling snoringly dead asleep in the middle of the movie. Todd woke me, i wiped off the drool, thought “Huh. So this is what 41 feels like,” and went upstairs to fall asleep in my own bed in order to be able to start all over again at 6 am the next day.
So, I woke up and kind of felt. . . a letdown. I felt old. There’s a lot more to it than suddenly turning 41 and feeling old – aging parents, bad stuff happening, marriages around me on rocky ground, a general feeling of being tired all the time, change, change, and more change, and not having DONE anything with my life – more than I can recount here. But i woke up feeling old.
(Happiest wake up feeling old song ever.)
So, I finished out my week, with this . . . oldness. . . hanging over my head. I wanted my sister to have drinks with me on Saturday. She didn’t feel like it. God, I’m so old, i can’t even get anyone to go have a drink with me on a Saturday night. So, she says, “You and Todd should go.” And todd heard her, and suddenly, he is hellbent on going to see Camper Van Beethoven that night. And i was like, okay, i guess I’ll go. And my husband, when he decides he wants something, he is damn well gonna go after it. So, he managed to procure one precious ticket, which he just about wrested from the jaws of a giant EAV possum, and we went to the Earl, thinking, well, at least you have a ticket, and if I don’t get one, you can just take a cab home. But for some reason, i got out, and I sat at the bar, and i thought it would be a good idea to hang out there while he went to the show. So, i sat there, and I only had a couple of drinks, and I talked to some guy who knew about ten people that I know, and I talked to a few folks I hadn’t seen in a long while (we used to live in the n’hood, you will remember), and then I talked to some young people from out of town on a road trip who had just been to the Clermont for the first time. One of them thought i was a Crip. This was the funniest thing i ever heard. I actually think he might have been serious. And then the show was over (never did get a ticket) and then suddenly, i was heading off to the house of a friend of my friend Terri, and then we were drinking beer in a basement and listening to records. We were all of an age, and we listened to Beastie Boys and The Pixies, and the Meat Puppets, and I had to listen to this TV on the Radio song:
No idea why i love that song so much, but it always makes me feel good to listen to it. And one of the guys there, whom I didn’t know, told me as he was leaving that he thought i was “a rocker” and maybe he was making fun of me, but I took it as a compliment.
And then there were four of us, and I’m pretty sure that Terri and Todd were completely ready to go, but me and the vinyl guy were geeking out on Bowie, and we listened to my favorite Bowie song twice in a row:
And I got home at 4 am. And then it took me like two days to recover, but it was totally worth it. I didn’t really feel old anymore. I felt tired, but not old.
So, I already had plans to go see Ty Segall with my sister on Tuesday. I have turned into a person that listens to music all day long, at home or work or in the car, but who never has the time or energy or money or babysitters to go see music live anymore. I had mentioned in passing that I loved him and wanted to see him live, and that we should go, and then she kind of twisted my arm. I don’t usually go out and see bands on school nights. It’s just too painful to stay up til 1 am, and then get up at 6 am and then . . . think . . . for a paycheck. (It’s really the getting up that’s hard – not so much the thinking.)
So, there I was, downing coffee at 8 pm on a Tuesday night, one week after my 41st birthday, in hopes of being able to stay up until 10 or 11, or whatever time these young whippersnappers go on stage these days. And then we got there, and . . . wow. It’s been a long time since i’d been to see a “current” band. I usually go see bands, and there are some young people there, but it’s mostly people in their 30s and 40s. Let’s just say that I almost cried at how good the people watching was. You know when we were 20? I am pretty sure we were stupid. We looked stupid, we acted stupid, we acted cool, we thought we were hot shit. We were not. We were stupid.
I was amazed at how they all looked so much like people i knew. People I knew in 1991. You know. When they guy I was going to see play was about five. There were people wearing shirts for bands whose albums were released before they were born. There was a guy wearing silver sequined pants. The only things different were that you couldn’t smoke inside the establishment (Terminal West, by the way, which is a GREAT venue – i thought it was nice and the sound was great, and it was a really good size. Kind of 40-Watt-sized, actually.) and that they had craft beer. In cans. Tons of craft beers in cans. And when you’re 41, it ain’t that easy to pick out what beer to order when you can’t see the cans across the bar. Also, no bottles? In my day, you drank out of bottles and chanced the glass breakage! Oh. And in my day, we just watched the damn band. I wanted to shove everyone’s iPhones down their throats, what with all the video and camera flashes. Don’t get me wrong. I love my iPhone. But it stayed in my pocket.
No, seriously. All I could think was Everyone. Was. So. Young.
Then I ran into this guy, and i was like, oh, awesome, you are old too, and he was like, “you’re never too old for rock and roll!” and i loved him. Also, he was like ten years older than me. And he was right. Because as soon as the music started, I was super happy, and it was loud, and it could have been 2013 or 1993 or 1963. I wasn’t tired any longer, and people were stage diving and it was so fun to watch, even though they just seemed a little . . . weak. I mean, it just seemed very safe compared to ye olden days. It bordered on polite. Someone through a beer at a guy in the band and Ty was like, “Please don’t throw things at us; we aren’t a punk band.” And he was so polite. Mom me took over a little, because i really don’t want my babies being thrown around over concrete floors, and these kids, the ones around me, who were born when I was like 20? They have moms too, and I might have gone to college with them. But then I decided that hey, my sister was there, and she’s a nurse, so we were all fine.
It was something like this, but a lot less people.
And then I let go and i rocked out. I did that awesome thing where you watch live music and you just get lost, and sometimes it’s so loud that it almost affects your vision for a few seconds. I had forgotten that if you hold an empty beer can to your chest while the music is loud that the drum and bass will make it vibrate in your hand. And I smiled. I couldn’t wipe that damn smile off my face if I had tried.
And after a while, it ended. And I was sad. But also happy.
And I did not feel old. I remembered what it was like to leave a show all sweaty and feel the cool air outside, and feel complete and total release. I remembered that I can sleep when I’m dead. Or at least the next night. I felt like I should go see more bands I love. I felt like maybe I should learn to play guitar. I felt inspired to write again, because I’m happier when I write.
When you grow up, your heart doesn’t die. It just gets really tired.
And then I was thinking tonight, I am old. I am tired. But I should write. Because I did fall asleep on the couch on my birthday. And I did rock out last night. And Saturday night. And I don’t get enough sleep. But I need to seek out the things that make me happy. I need to love them and nurture them, even if I feel too tired. You know. To keep my heart from dying.
And so that I will remember, when I’m 60, that this is what it is like to be me now. That this is my 41.
Todd already posted this on Facebook, but it was so adorable I wanted to capture it for posterity on Dogwood Girl. Kids are funny. I had a bit of a rough day yesterday, and I was actually in the bathtub trying to wind down when todd walked in to show me this, warning that I might not be able to handle the cuteness.
And he was right.
There are so many things that I love about this.
Obviously, the fact that she still believes in fairies. I think that means we’re doing something right and all the world is not going to hell in a hand-basket.
The fact that the tooth fairy failed to come the first night, and that this response is completely T’s personality. Instead of anger, disappointment, or sadness, she just writes the offender a sweet letter wanting to know more about them.
The fact that she wants to know more about the fairy, where the fairy lives, and who the fairy hangs out with.
“Tiller loves fairys!”
Fairies wear hearts on their shirts.
Maybe there are such things as fairies. . . and maybe, just maybe, they show up at just the right time, right when you need a little lifting of your spirits.
