Concerts Through the Years

Jason and I went to see The Killers in concert Friday night, while the kids were with my parents.  I had a blast.  The Killers put on a great show.  They sounded perfect and included some neat tricks, like fire work-type pyrotechnics and masses of confetti falling from the ceiling.  I found myself standing with Jason, a little more than halfway to the front of the arena floor.  Here, the people were thick, but not pressed up against each other, as they would be closer to the stage.  I jumped, danced, clapped, sang and really really enjoyed myself.  It occurred to me I was actually having more fun than I had at most of the concerts I went to pre-children, when I sometimes attended a music venue just because my friends wanted to go.  Don't get me wrong; there were a couple of stand-out concerts I'll never forget.  One was seeing Pearl Jam at South Park Meadows, back in '95, when it was just a big, open field and not the massive shopping center it is today.  I had just turned twenty years old and started my junior year at UT.  It was September, and if you know Austin, Texas, you know it was still hotter than hell.  My friends and I all got separated.  I pushed my way to the front, where I contentedly mooned over the band, despite the bodies pressed up against me so hard I had trouble breathing, the blistering heat, and the doc martened crowd surfers who periodically kicked me in the head.  I obsessively loved every moment of that concert, and when Pearl Jam made their final exit from the stage and the crowd receded, I stood there, staring at the stage with the goofy grin on my face I'd worn all day, sweaty and tired and unable to believe it was over.  Then, there was The Toadies at Austin City Limits Festival, circa 2002.  Again it was, September, this time right around my twenty-seventh (?) birthday.  I started the Toadies portion of the show up front with friends, and ended it up front by myself, as the crowd got to be too much for everyone else.  I was so close, I could see the sweaty pores on Todd Lewis' face.  It was a fabulous set, complete with all my favorites.  I hollered the words to  Tyler and Possum Kingdom along with the band and the rest of the crowd.  Then, when it was over, I dragged my spent body away from the stage, dirty, sweaty, missing an anklet, and entirely happy.
Most of the concerts of my youth weren't like that, though.  There was, for instance, the Lollapallooza sometime in my early twenties, where we spent all day outside in the blistering heat (What is it with outdoor music festivals in the heat of the summer??) anticipating the headliners, Sound Garden and Metallica.  While I was a fan of both bands, by the time Sound Garden took the stage, I'd been standing in a crowd of sweaty bodies pressed against each other for hours.  It seemed everyone around me was over six feet tall, and cut me off from any breeze as effectively as a dense forest.  I tried to be cool and tough and stick it out, but not too far into the set, I began to feel faint and see little stars at the edge of my vision.  Then I started feeling a little sick to my stomach, and there is nothing tough or cool about barfing all over your fellow concert-goers.  I was also unnerved by the idea of passing out in that crowd, as my ass had already been fondled several times while completely conscious.  So I stood on tiptoe, stretched my arm up above my head, and waved my hand at a security guard in the front isle.  I hollered, "I need out!"  The guard reached in, grabbed my wrist and pulled, as the mass of sweaty humanity pushed (None of them wanted to be vomited on, either) and I was free.  I walked to the outside, circled around back, got some water, and watched the rest of the show from the back.  I was so tired by that point, I was relieved when Metallica finished up and it was time to go home.  There were a lot of other concerts.  Many when I went just because it was the cool thing to do, but I was secretly counting the songs until we could emerge from the throngs and get back in the car where it was quiet, and I could sit down.
So why did I enjoy The Killers so much, even though I am ten years older and supposedly lacking twenty-something energy levels?  I mean, I like The Killers, but I don't worship them (or any band anymore, for that matter) like I did Pearl Jam or The Toadies.  Well, for one, I hadn't spent all day drinking Miller Lite in the Texas sun prior to the headliner coming onstage.  For two, I actually have more energy now, since my eating habits have improved, and I am no longer perpetually anemic.  But I think the primary reason is this:  I spent ninety percent of my time in my twenties doing whatever the hell I wanted to do.  Going to a music venue where I could do just that wasn't novel, especially since I went to lots of concerts.  Now, things are different.  I can count the number of concerts I've been to since becoming a mom five years ago on one hand.  I spend ninety percent of my time concerned with the happiness and welfare of the kiddos, always on alert for someone who needs a nap, a snack, a potty, or a hug.  And it is not only novel but absolutely freaking wonderful to be able to stand in the middle of a crowd at The Killers and jump up and down like an idiot or just stand still, if that's what I want to do, without having to be concerned about long it's been since Gage has been to the bathroom or how many hours it's been since Jack has eaten.  I love my kiddos so much sometimes I feel I could just eat them up, and I love that I spend so much time with them.  One thing I'm starting to realize, though, is they also enhance the time I spend without them.

Soap Operas and Bon-Bons

Recently, I read an article about how women, who have taken time off from paying work to raise children, should "lean into" their careers, meaning, they shouldn't feel guilty using child care or letting their children play on their own a bit while Mom tends to her payin' gig.  There were a ton of comments on the article, a lot of praise and sympathetic voices, but also a lot of angry women who felt the article denigrated the stay-at-home mom.  There were several self-righteous declarations stating how deciding to stay home with children was the best thing the commenter ever did, yadda, yadda, yadda.  I read all eighty comments and came away with this:  wow, do we parents ever feel guilty, no matter what our choices are.  If we work, we worry we're neglecting our children and not being the parents we should.  If we stay home, we worry we aren't using our intellectual talents or we are lazy, bon-bon eating soap opera addicts.

I could say I work outside of raising children, but that would be, while not entirely false, a bit misleading.  My father and I have a business we run out of my parents' house, which requires, at most three hours of my attention per week, and I take the kids with me.  For all practical purposes, I am a SAHM.  I have a ton of respect for parents with full or part-time paying jobs.  That is a lot to juggle.  I don't think they are any worse parents than I.  In fact, some parents who have paying gigs are way better at spending quality time with their kiddos than overwrought ones who stay home all day.  That being said, I'm going to address the stay-at-home parent guilt, because that is what I am most familiar with.  

One of the comments I read on the aforementioned article pointed out that some stay-at-home parents work really hard at making sure their job is really hard, like ridiculously over-the-top hard.  They run themselves ragged to play dates and soccer practices and mom and tot swim classes, because they have a need to prove to themselves they work just as hard, if not harder than their spouses or friends with paying jobs.  I know because I used to be kind of like this.  I felt guilty if I had a relaxing couple of hours with the kids, where I just watched them play in the back yard while I drank coffee and did my own thing.  We should be off learning Spanish, or how to knit, or climbing on colorful objects at some indoor play-place, while a teenage employee blows bubbles and talks in a loud, over-the-top, syrupy sweet voice!  I'd feel like my choice to stay home was somehow the lazy choice because I wasn't, at the moment, schlepping my kids all over town to organized activities,  exhausting myself.  That's kind of messed up.  The reason I wanted to stay home was because I love hanging out with kids.  I love watching them play and learn and grow, and not because I love strapping kids into car seats and listening to "Wheels on the Bus," on repeat, as I drive all over town.   And I didn't choose to stay home necessarily because I thought it would be better for them than being in child care.  I chose it because that's what I wanted to do.  That's what I knew would make me happy, so I feel very lucky to be able to do what I want.  It doesn't feel like sacrifice....well, not most of the time.  Sometimes, though,  having a glass of wine in the afternoon on the driveway with my neighbor while our kids play, more or less on their own, running between our two yards, I feel a twinge of guilt, like I should not be enjoying myself this much.  This staying home with kids stuff is supposed to be thankless, grueling work, with no respite!  But how ridiculous is it that I can't relax before nine PM without guilt?  I have a job.  That job is raising my kids, with whom I stay home (or at the park, or at a friend's house, or at the grocery store) all day.  I love my job - not one hundred percent of the time - but all in all it's a pretty sweet deal, and how lucky am I to be doing what I love.  I am not going to feel guilty for being content anymore.  It's the best thing I ever did....yadda, yadda yadda.

Getting the Poison Out

Yesterday, I lost my shit.  And by "lost my shit" I mean I threw a toddler-style tantrum, complete with screaming, kicking the wall and throwing things.  What, you might ask, prompted this break with mature adult behavior at six forty-five in the evening?  Hot Wheels - little metal cars, strewn about the play room, that Gage absolutely refused to pick up.  My reaction may seem a bit extreme, and I am the first to admit it was, but to know what put me in the state of mind to become so unhinged by tiny cars and my own tiny, little person, we have to backtrack a bit.  

I started the day yesterday at a disadvantage.  I woke up tired and irritable due to PMS.  This does not excuse poor behavior, but any woman thus afflicted, can understand it makes  not ripping everyone's heads off a colossal exercise in restraint.  We had to be out the door by nine o'clock for me to get the kids over to my parents' house, so my dad could watch them while I went for my annual exam at the gynecologist  (yee-haw, what fun).  I was having the house cleaned while we were gone, so in addition to the normal struggle of getting everyone dressed, fed, pottied and out the door, I was trying to get everything picked up.  (I am not suggesting you feel sorry for me because I hired someone to clean my house.) I did, I thought, a remarkable job of not yelling at anyone during this process, but by the time I had all of us, including the dog, in the van and was backing down the driveway at precisely nine, I felt like I'd already expended my daily allotment of energy.   

I dropped off the kids, went to my appointment (again, yee-haw) and returned just before Gage's nap.  I put Gage down for a nap, went upstairs and did some work for Dad's and my engineering business we run out of their house.  As soon as Gage woke up, we gathered the amazing amount of crap we take to my parents' for a mere three-hour visit, and stuffed everyone back in the van to head to Jack's soccer class.  At the class, I spent my time trying to watch Jack practice and keep Gage from flooding the place with the water fountain at the same time.  We went by Randall's on the way home to pick up one thing I needed to make dinner, and I decided to (gasp!) leave the kids in the car.  I got sausage, paid, and was back at the van in under four minutes.  No one stole the kids, which doesn't surprise me, because what nut job wants a five-year-old and a two-year-old they are not biologically beholden to take care of??

Back at home, we walked in to the smell of pinesol, which made me smile.  A clean house makes Momma happy, even when she knows it will only last five minutes.  Then, I discovered the cleaning crew had broken a ceramic handprint ornament the kids had done for Christmas, ate the cookies I was saving for dessert, and rearranged the pillows on Jack's bed. (Okay, that last one was only a big deal because Jack was extremely upset about it.) I took deep breaths, and left Jack in his room to scream and, "get the poison out," as Jason says.  When Jack was calm, we went downstairs, where the kids watched Mickey Mouse, while I made dinner.  Dinner was uneventful, except for the kids not eating what I cooked.  Apparently, black beans and rice with turkey sausage is a very suspicious dish and not be trusted.

After dinner, I was emptying the dish washer while the kids played surprisingly nicely together in the playroom.  I thought, "I made it.  It was a really busy day, I was in a bad mood, but I did all right."

Then I walked into the playroom to help the kids clean up before bath and it happened:

Me:  Let's pick up all these cars.

Jack:  Gage dumped them out.

Me:  Gage, come help clean up.

Gage:  (Ignores me while engrossed in a plastic bracelet.)

Me:  Come on, Gage, clean up, clean up...(I sing the clean up song to no avail.)

I pick Gage up, carry him to the cars.

Me:  Toss the cars in the basket, Gage!  Two points! (I try to make a game out of it.)

Gage:  giggle, giggle, giggle (still not cleaning up)

In hindsight, I should've just let it go.  I know I need to be consistent with the clean-up thing, but I knew I didn't have the patience, and I should've just closed the playroom door, gone upstairs with the kids, and forgotten it.  But I didn't.  I stood up, gave a primal scream at the top of my lungs, threw the basket on the tile floor, and kicked the wall with my bare foot.  I guess Jack wasn't the only one who needed to get the poison out.  At this point, both kids started crying, and I immediately felt awful.  Great example there, Mom.  Way to show the kids how to control their tempers.  Now you've scared them.  Jack was sobbing, Gage was crying, "Mama, Mama, Mama!" I sat down on the floor with my head in my hands, and that's when Jason walked in.  " Welcome home to the asylum, honey!!"

Both kids came over and sat in my lap, and we hugged for a while until everyone felt a little better.  I said I was sorry for losing my temper and that I would do better next time.  Then, Gage got up, picked up one of the Hot Wheels and went over and dropped it in the basket.  Then, he looked at me with a questioning expression and said, "eh?" Interpretation:  Is this what you got so worked up about?

Jason gave the kids their bath that night, while I laid on our bed and cried.  It was something I needed to do.  It was cathartic, and afterwards, I felt much better.  I could hear Jason laughing with the kids in the tub, and I was so very grateful to have him, to know that he could be patient with them when I couldn't.  Jack and Gage and I cuddled, read books, and reconnected before Jason put them to bed, and that made me feel better, too.  After that, I had a bath, drank some wine, watched some tv, and went to bed,  And this morning, I felt renewed - ready to take on the day, and the kids.  I even had a few new ideas about how to get Gage to do things like clean up and get dressed that would help it be less frustrating for all of us.  This story doesn't really have a moral or a point, except to say, some days are hard and sometimes I'm not going to handle the hard things well, because I am imperfect, but that's all right, because I am lucky.  I have forgiving children and a husband to share the burdens of life and child rearing with.  Plus, he intuitively knows when to bring home wine.  Thanks, guys.