anyway its just a fucking ballad don't worry about it guys
I've had a packed week, so here's a frakenstien post of a recent journal entry from when I was babysitting my favourite kids and the Broken Social Scene concert that made me pivot.
I am trying to pack for my flight tonight, but I can't help it; all I can do is think about the live music and what could be motherhood.
June 20th, I babysit for the first time in a year.
Tonight, I catch glimpses of the simple life I could have one day. One foot per concrete sidewalk slab, the wind blowing a large umbrella off the roof of a truck, floral porch curtains tied to the rails, a library post that is a pristine tiny house, my sister's 2005 green iPod nano.
A kind son, fresh out of grade 4, who already seems to understand the line between a joke and an overstep, who freely tells the timeline and life cycles of all of the stuffed animals that border his bed, who shares his hope that the MRI will show what is wrong with his foot so he can proceed with his summer in PEI care free.
A wild daughter, four and learning to count to 100, who jumps and flips fearlessly on the monkey bars- like I never could when I was her age. Who stubbornly sports a tiara that needs to be pushed out of her eyes every two seconds when she runs. She calls me Missy. We practice counting while she refuses to sleep "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 13, 16, 19." I nod after each number, and don't dare to correct her because she smiles so widely when she thinks she is right. She covers her face with her bunny to keep the hall light's shine from her eyes, and she asks me to lie next to her until she is asleep.
Both kids are asleep now, and I sit on the couch with their pittie named Dottie (who turned 1 today). And I think to myself that if someone came home to me after the night I've had and kissed me, I could be happy forever. It's a scary thought, because I thought I had more ambition than that. I know I do, but it's hard to remember that when I feel so at home putting someone else's children to bed.
In this moment of my life, I think I crave the monotony and forced slow motions that come with a child's pace and sense of wonder. My past three summer's I have spent most of my days with children, and I miss the refresh of blueberry-stained fingers and being asked "why," over and over. I don't know if I will have kids, I don't know if I am physically capable, but I know that they are on my mind tonight. These non-existent, chubby-cheeked, warm-bellied babies of mine. They matter, wherever or whatever they are now.
June 21st, I go to a concert by myself for the first time.
I get a corona as the openers switch. I buy merch (a hoodie and a 20th anniversary vinyl for their album "you forgot it in people") and have nestled myself into the crowd when they announce the next opener is Lesley Feist.
I think of playing this vinyl for my children and telling them about how I was once a person. Like my father did to me recently when he coughed up his old short story from when he was my age.
And I almost cry. Because of Feist (who I love and have missed opportunities to see live before), because of my father, because of my imagined children. But mostly because I feel like a person. It's funny how you can physically experience personhood through music. I feel the bassline in my chest. I'm so close to the speakers that it physically rattles my ribs. I am 17 again, meeting my 20-year-old self in a crowd full of drunk and screaming 50-year-olds. The men beside me are particularly drunk and scream-y. The music is so loud my ears ache, and I've had to pee for an hour, but I can't leave. I can't move myself from this birth and funeral-like experience. I can feel my body let go of it. The anxiety that change brings. We are all just here to experience something, yes, the concert, but life too.
Kevin Drew says to enjoy our lives, but more importantly, to take care of each other. The world is a strange and lonely place. So take care of strangers, of yourself, of the ones you love who fuck it up sometimes, of your children that don't exist yet. We are all just people trying.