Several years ago, I sat next to my son in a huge stadium under a midnight blue sky. The Rolling Stones rolled over me. I tapped, I sang, I swayed, I stood, I sat. I might have cried. It was a form of church, and I was delighted with this amazing birthday gift from a friend. Me, my son, and my husband, together for one night in one place with pretty much my favorite band. It was near perfection.
When it was all over, I turned to Dakota, my son, and asked, “Did you just love it?” I was riding a true high, having never seen them live before but knowing every word of every song on every album. The knee-jerk desire, when a song ended, to sing the next song in the order they were originally listed on the album covers might have marked me a zealot. This I kept to myself … I hope.
It was Dakota’s first outdoor rock concert – a possible parenting fail, as he was 18 – but we managed to get it in before he left for college. I count it on the list with the other “Must Knows”: cooking an egg, knowing the correct cleaning products for every surface, avoiding laundry mishaps. We raced to the finish line and dropped him off that fall in New Jersey.
“Mom. It was amazing. But watching you was the best.”
I absorbed that while we stood in a horrendous line for his T-shirt. The humanity was too much for my husband, who had spent the night in the least of happy moods. He was standing away from us and waiting impatiently. Crowds are not his vibe. Heck, when all the carts are gone at door of the grocery store, he thinks we should leave and come back when it is less busy.
My son was raised with The Stones. When the Disney CDs in the car became too much for me to bear and changing the sort order ceased to soothe me, I decided it was time to introduce the toddler to real music. Rock and Roll.
I can still see his little blonde head full of carefree curls bobbing and his legs pumping up and down in the car seat as I placed “Some Girls” in the slot that first time. The passing of time heard all The Stones I owned in the car, along with Aerosmith, Creedence, and Bonnie Raitt. The country music I like was sprinkled in, but rock was his head-banging favorite. The day I popped in ZZ Top, I thought he would have a heart attack.
“What is this?” he crooned at me. “So good, Mom. More please.”
I returned to The Stones quite a bit, as they are a true love and I was the adult driver. Never turned up too loud for little ears, I sang along and resorted to humming when he finally dozed off during the longer errand runs.
I can still see him in the back seat – both through the lens of the rearview and also directly with my head craning backwards at stop lights. He is so small, and he is rocking out. As he aged, we kept mixing it up. Dire Straits. Lyle Lovett. Willie Nelson. Mary Chapin Carpenter. Prince. The Black Eyed Peas. James Taylor. Cat Stevens. All of it. Well, and public radio.
In the days that followed, when he said, “Mom. Mom, can we listen to Goofy?” I didn’t fight him too much. I will admit to singing the songs I liked right along with him. In a concerted effort to not show dislike – as is lectured to young parents when introducing new vegetables and fruits that you personally abhor to your offspring – I forced smiles. I never lied to my son professing love I did not have, but I can only hope that not singing along with Scrooge McDuck and Daffy went unnoticed.
Music is best shared. In stadiums and together. In cars and alone.
p.s. Here is the new shirt in action a month later. It was still making us happy.
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i wish i could post the pictures from the stones concert that casey and i went to ……grinning goof balls.