Traveling with children is like being on tour with rock stars
Gols, I sure do have a lot of creative and amazing friends. And some of them are lucky enough to make their living being creative and amazing. Last week, one of ‘em was in town promoting his new album (he’s on a world tour) and called me up to see if I could come to the show. I LOVE going to his shows for a few reasons; one, I rarely get all prettied up and out of the house anymore (staying up past bedtime? naughty!) and two, I have known this guy since grade school and the sight of all his adoring fans chanting his name is almost too good to pass up.
Alas, pass it up I did. Beth and I were leaving the following morning at 6 am for a road trip with the children. We were attending an event two hours south of here and had to be there early. Too early. And as much as I miss those late nights, listening to great music, maybe getting a little sassified, I realized that our life now…well, it’s different from our friend’s, but just not that different. Traveling with the children is actually kind of like being on tour…minus the free drinks, cigarettes and sound checks. They definitely chant our name though, about every two minutes: “mom! mom! mooooooooommmmm!”
(Disclaimer: the rock stars I personally know are all consummate professionals and the following is based on stories of other rock stars. If you know what I mean.)
By the time we got to our destination, the (mini)van was disgusting. It was covered in food and smelled like poop and B.O. When we checked into our hotel, Q & B immediately started jumping on the beds. I went to the grocery across the street, and by the time I got back the room was trashed. Utterly trashed. Cheerios were everywhere. In places I didn’t even know people, or hotels, had places. I was actually surprised they hadn’t thrown the TV out the window, but we were on the first floor.
Certain people who shall remain nameless peed their pants. Someone kept trying to get me to take off my shirt to get at my breasts. Somebody passed out on the floor. One of them kept getting naked and running amok around the room. One of them kept singing the same song, over and over. The little one threw up. The people next door to us changed rooms. I was tempted, myself.
the calm, and now the storm
At night, though, once they ran themselves out, and collapsed in tiny little heaps, Beth and I had our beers and our Daily Show. We were the most exhausted tour managers on the planet. But we also felt like the real rock stars, and these ragamuffins–at least for now–our adoring fans. We are (sometimes) the Best. Moms. Ever.
Pretty good gift for Mother’s Day. All three of them.