I Will Dare

When you endure a day, week, month (insert tortured period of time here) during which you feel like everything is going all wrong, you may fail to notice that other things are going more right than you’re attending to. I pay attention to moments, and try to celebrate little things.  I do this for many reasons I guess, but I think primarily because it’s my belief that little things matter.  Little things can evolve into big things or a way of life or a philosophy.  I’m no philosopher, but this weekend has given me cause to look around and acknowledge the good stuff too.

Exhibit A:  I was up at 3 AM Saturday (yes, I KNOW it’s the weekend; it’s my subconscious that didn’t read its email).  I got up for an hour or so, read some, fell back asleep for about an hour, and dragged my can out of bed for good around 6.  Around 7, I was bleary-eyed and kinda punch-drunk, so I pleaded with anyone within earshot to get me some coffee.  I didn’t expect magical coffee bearing fairies to appear, but putting voice to it I had hoped anyway, would propel said can off the couch and into the kitchen.  No need.  My big kid went in the kitchen, returned after about a minute saying, “If you want it, mom, then you should have it.  You showed me how to work the Keurig, so I’m making you coffee.  I know you want one thing of Splenda too, so I’ll stir it in with a spoon.”  I swear to the heavens, I wept.

Exhibit B:  Little kid hit a home run Friday night.  For reals, a home run–had there been a fence at the diamond, he’d have cleared it.  I MISSED IT!  I missed it because there is one girl on his baseball team, and she was in the throes of the 4th grade girl version of the potty dance.  I approached her, said, “I know you don’t know me, but I’m E’s mom.  Do you need to go to the bathroom?  Do you want me to run over there with you?” Her relief was palpable–she needed another girl, and I was happy to help.  The bathrooms are a serious haul from the diamond, and unlike all her teammates, she couldn’t just run behind the equipment barn.  Anyway, on our way back, I hear kids yelling and screaming, and I see my kid rounding first.  In the next frame of my vision, I catch another kid chasing down a ball that went and went and went and went.  I made it to the kids’ dugout about the time my little guy was shaking the dust off his batting helmet, and he almost barreled me over.  He was so excited, and so was I!  The first person he looked for after crossing the plate wasn’t his coach or any of his teammates or even his dad.  It was his mom.  And I swear to the heavens, I wept.

Exhibit C:  We went to see The Replacements last night.  My husband is to Paul Westerberg as I am to Ed Robertson in terms of fandom.  The sold-out crush was mostly drunk (I was not), mostly rude in their respect of personal space, and mostly jacked up.  It was a lot of fun, even for a casual fan, minus the beer breath everyone pushing through had and the floor.  Eeeww.  There are no words.  The slam-dancing drunks next to us were no fun either, but I somehow managed to allow them room and not completely lose my shit because the concert was not about me.  I was not going to ruin this night for my husband.  Plus, I totally get how it is to be this close to your favorite band.  Turned out that my husband was 100% more annoyed than I was.  The Replacements played my favorite Replacements song too, I Will Dare.  It was a pretty kick-ass night.  I didn’t weep, but I might now. . .  Man, do I need a nap!

Advertisements

One thought on “I Will Dare

  1. Isn’t it awesome to know how it feels to be THAT CLOSE to your favorite band? As far as being a mom goes….You are doing a F@CKING GREAT JOB! Just thought I’d tell you that 🙂

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s