A half-century ago, before people could download music on computers, a mother in New Jersey bought her seven-year-old son his first guitar.
Writer Lois Shea offers this ode to mommies......and to rock and roll.
We had tickets to see Bruce Springsteen in Hartford.
Lauren called the day before the show.
?We?ll bring sandwiches and drinks,? she said.
?We?ll pick you up.
All you have to do is pack your Springsteen discs.?
I love going places with mommies.
It occurs to them to pack sandwiches.
They delegate only what they know you can handle.
And they pick you up.
We were prepared for this road trip.
We had sandwiches and seltzer and pretzels and apples and chocolate-chip cookies.
We had Tylenol and tissues and tampons.
We had tickets.
We double-checked that we had tickets.
We had directions.
Had I looked hard enough in that car, I?m sure I would have found a juice box, some wet wipes, and a pair of dry socks.
(We did forget the bottle opener, but, being a resourceful mommy, I pried open the Bass Ale on my belt buckle.)
We were ultra-prepared.
Mommies are always ultra-prepared.
It?s our only defense.
Because at some point disaster will strike.
It could come in the form of vomit, a missing blankie, or crusts not properly cut off a peanut butter sandwich
And it will strike at the extreme last minute.
If you?re not already packed, you?re screwed.
In this case, disaster struck in the form of a hermit crab.
Sweet Claws went missing.
Lauren had let her daughter?s pet hermit crab out of its cage to exercise.
Sweet Claws is allowed a brief furlough each day, to skitter on the wall-to-wall carpet -- convinced, apparently, that it?s low tide in Contoocook.
Sweet Claws was supposed to be out exercising for ten minutes.
Lauren remembered that two hours later -- just as she was about to leave.
Sweet Claws was gone. He could be halfway to Henniker by now. Or crushed between the jaws of Max the dog.
Lauren panicked.
She hurled toys aside and scrambled beneath beds, frantic that the stupid crab wouldn?t be found, sure we?d all miss Springsteen and Emily would suffer life-altering trauma over the gruesome death of her pet crab.
Sweet Claws, as it turns out, was hiding in the closet under the electric guitar.
It was a sign from the Rock and Roll gods.
Finally we?re on the road.
But not in Lauren?s car.
Lauren?s car reeks.
We?d taken her car on the last mommy road trip.
We also took three kids.
It was February.
We brought an unopened bottle of red wine, which we cleverly left in the car overnight. Where it froze and exploded. And the next day, Jack ? Jack?s the baby ? had an explosion of his own.
Seven months later and Lauren?s car still smells like a dorm room after a keg party.
We ditched it at the bus station, got in Lynn?s Honda and blasted down Route 91.
We made it.
The stadium lights went down, Springsteen started to sing?and we laughed and let that beautiful, rough voice wash over us?. Leap of Faith, Living Proof, Thunder Road, The Promised Land?and we danced with the wind of an oncoming hurricane in our faces.
That is something like pure joy.
We stumbled back out of the car in New Hampshire at four the next morning -- and got up two hours later to drive children to school.
(Blasting ?No Surrender? as loud as we could stand it, just to stay awake.)
Lauren, hero to mommies everywhere, even made it to aerobics at 8.
All of which proves that my mother, an original hippie, road-trip diva and registered nurse, was right:
It is possible to seize the day ? and remember the wet wipes.
