My husband and I live for music. We met at the infamous Electric Lounge and spent years attending every music show we could. We even worked in bars to get our fix cheaper. Even now, decades later, our ideal date night is to head out in a cab–sucking down five-hour energy drinks–to see one of our local faves from years gone by like The Pocketfishermen or The Hickoids. Or you might find us enjoying a bottle of wine while happily dissecting an old album from our youth–ZZ Top, Adam Ant, The Clash or The James Gang.
So when my son, in his 10th year, expressed a desire to play drums, I was ecstatic. Drummers are my personal weakness. I dreamed of playing the drums; instead I married a drummer–close enough.
I could already see it: my son, a hard-rockin’, tattoed, bad-ass drummer, going on tour with some mid-grade band, barely scrapping by, living at home when he wasn’t touring, eating our groceries, bumming money. Some moms wish for suits and ties, a home in the burbs, a good wife and a couple of kids. Here I am, gunning for sex, drugs and rock-and-roll.
Potty training can be extremely frustrating—beyond frustrating even. Sometimes, when you least expect it, you are able to capture such an innocent moment in a child’s life, and it makes everything you went through so totally worth it.
Far and away the most emotional and potentially meltdown-inducing component of my three-and-a-half-year-old daughter’s existence is her wardrobe. She is in a near-constant state of pondering outfits, trying on clothes, and fretting, weeping and screaming if they are not “just right.” In this case I know the apple fell far from the tree because I …