The guys won the battle of bands last night (woo, rock on)! After a very long night at the bar and an early morning at The Son’s basketball game, I am on a couch date with the family. After the spin cycle of this weekend I finally have time to reflect on the question I left off with on the last blog. Is this all worth it? You see, my daily life is filled to the brim, I get up (most) Sunday mornings and go to church and I take The Children to catechism, and I leave feeling inspired and fulfilled. I am an early childhood educator, a provider to babies and toddlers. I love it, I get all dressed up in my Jessica Day flats and my smart embroidered polo and I get to give out free hugs and sing fantastic songs all day. I come home at the end of the day and sit with my children and help them with their homework (with little as possible screaming and pulling my hair out), drive them around to their basketball and ballet practices. Come home to make dinner, and kiss my husband when he comes in the door all while keeping up on laundry and dishes. It’s heavenly. Underneath my smart embroidered polo I wear nine to five, you wouldn’t know my back is covered in tattoos. When I am getting kids to early weekend games or going to church Sunday mornings you wouldn’t know I was running on no sleep after a show the night before. I feel like I am living a double life.
I grew up in a very small rural town, I still live there to this day, love it, my little comforting, safe, bubble. Surrounded by green pastures and smelly cows. In true farm girl fashion my usual days are spent walking bare foot through those lush green pastures of rural Mid-Michigan. “Earthing” I think they call it, the cool wet grass between every toe. My feet are permanently green by the end of summer (a nice thought on these bitter cold February days). I love being barefoot, I really do, but when my rock boots hit the pavement, my heart skips a beat. I love hearing all the fray in the bars as I walk by, it’s thrilling when I am stalking through the city on a mission to rock. Something about the rush of a big city and a loud show gets my blood pumping. I love the electric surge when standing in a crowd of hundreds listening to the fusion of hard, loud instruments. Loosing myself in the music. I feel important yet obsolete in a sea of so many. I am no longer sweet, small town Mallory, but I become something different entirely. I will drink plenty, listen to music too loud, and forget about my life for a while, it is sensational. I will head home late, and when I finally hit my bed, I will crash hard, sleep not long enough, and dream of far off loud chaotic places.
Then I will wake up remembering that I do have kids, and a job, and tons of responsibilities… and now guilt. Are you there, God? It’s me, Mallory. As much control as I appear to have, I do not. It is hard getting it all done in a day, but in my exhausted state Saturday morning while watching The Son play I can still smile remembering the release of last night, and I cheer for The Son just as loudly as I had for The Husband. I do embrace every loop of this crazy ass ride. I would like to put the blame on The Husband (he has never asked nor expected any of this from me), or complain about all I do for The Children (of course as a mother I will always provide); but honestly, these are all done in selfishness, because in doing it all for everyone else, I am doing it for me. As I was rushing around last night before running out the door to go support the Husband, I asked myself a question. The answer is, yes, it is always worth it, because in the moments when the music is most loud, I can find myself within losing it all.