Growing up with only sisters, I often heard and accepted as funny, Oh your poor dad. To which we’d quickly respond, because we thought we were being funny too, Yes, even the dog is a girl. Hardy har har. This did not usually come from my dad, but from the whole world around us, women and men, friends, relatives, people. My dad would laugh along with the joke, but he would stay quiet otherwise (as far as I remember). More recently in my life, in my 30s and 40s (a decade I am about to leave, people) remembering that “joke” stirs up my indignation more than my hilarity: yes, yes, poor Daddy, he had all these girls to deal with, poor him. For my own self, I’ve needed to acknowledge the joke for what it was, an insult to us girls, my sisters and my mom. All women, really. My sisters and I grew up hearing and thinking and even saying, Girls are the worst.
When I was pregnant, once in my late 20s and once in my early 30s, I did not want to give birth to girls. What the hell would I do with a girl? I would ruin a girl, I told myself at the time. My mom and I had spent a lot of time not getting along, not understanding one another, fighting. For me it was supposedly because of adolescence, and for her, THE CHANGE. Gah! Hormones! Girl stuff! Instead of the girl stuff bringing us together, it divided us. God heard my prayer both times I was pregnant, No girls please, and answered it, and I rejoiced to have two boys. I love being the mom of boys.
But, surrounded by boys in our house– yes, even the cats are boys– I often feel lonely being the only girl. Sometimes I wish I had a daughter, just one, in the mix of these boys. Perhaps in the mix of boys it would be okay to raise a girl. I understand a little bit how my dad may have felt: lonely to be the only boy in the house, with all the girl stuff going on around him all the time that maybe he couldn’t relate to. He retreated to the garage or his study, but not all the time. He was around a lot, and we weren’t neglected. Now I’m the only girl and don’t have anyone to talk about girl stuff with, like hormones and periods and cramps– no, not just that. I have to retreat to find those conversations now with my sisters, with my friends and their daughters. My boys are as curious about that stuff as I was about working on the car in the garage with my dad. Not at all.
Even though being the only girl is lonely, I like being all of a jumble with these stinky hairy men, and I like that I’m different. This past year, my sons started up a band called The Corduroys. It is something they are doing together, which I am thankful for. I have always wished and prayed that the two of them would be close friends. They have been, off and on, and right now is a time when their friendship is on. I hope the band-thing contributes, that it won’t become a hindrance. The band practices here at our house, upstairs where there is the chaos of the drum kit and guitars and amps and pedals and all sorts of cables to connect all the things, all crammed into what I consider the Desolation of Oren. His room is not clean or neat. I like that they practice here, that we get to be the parents who allow this, the very foundations of our home be shaken in this way. And I mean literally shaken. The whole house shakes, from the rafters in the attic to the concrete floor of the basement.
I love hearing them perform (outside of the home), and I have since they were young. Because of the family I grew up in, where we all took piano lessons for a while, and sometimes another instrument too, sang in choir, played in school concerts, both of my boys started taking piano lessons at a young age. Both eventually switched to a different instrument(s), and now, they are playing live gigs. In that, they are following in their dad’s footsteps. It’s a little known fact that Brian played in a couple of different bands in high school and college– one of them a ska band. (Brian is so dreamy, y’all!) The Corduroys (IG: corduroypgh_) play both covers and originals. It’s weird to find myself singing along to the songs they have written. When we are watching them up on stage, in the spotlight, with a whole slew of other people (teenagers), it’s a strange feeling to want to dance along to their music. I don’t want to draw too much attention to myself by dancing around and singing along. I don’t want to be the mom who acts like a groupie. I let myself hum, bop my shoulders and my head, tap my toe along to the beat, but that’s it. I think just showing up is important and letting them have their own time in the spotlight is even more important. When they nail a song, and it sounds perfect, I woop and clap with everyone else. When there are mistakes that I know they will pick apart when their set is over, I stay quiet. At their lastest gig, last song, the drum kit Seb was pummeling actually started coming apart and the singer had to stop singing and hold the kick drum in place. Seb was pissed and there was nothing I could say to make it better. I certainly don’t try to say in that moment, Oh it wasn’t a big deal, it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. A mom wants to though. My hope is that the boys will arrive there on their own.
This past year, Brian and I went to see The National in concert at Heinz Hall. I really like their music, but gone are the days when I learn everything there is to know about a band that I like. I didn’t know much about them when we went to the show, but while we were there I learned that there are two sets of brothers in the group– Brian told me because he still learns everything there is to know about the bands that he likes. One of the guitar players who is one of the bros (and a twin!) introduced a song, “Wasp Nest,” which is a beautiful sounding song about a woman being called a wasp nest. He said, “We joke that this is our mom’s favorite song, and it’s true. She says, like, ‘Are you going to play that pretty song, Wasp Nest?'” It was just about the coolest thing, that this guy would share such a quick, sweet, funny thing about his mom up on stage at a live concert, a small token of appreciation. Maybe she let them have band practice at her house. Maybe she was standing somewhere in the audience, quietly. Maybe someday it will happen to me too, that one of my boys will say something funny about me up on stage when they are all rich and famous. Ha ha ha. A girl can hope…
