Idealism and Parenting

 Maybe it was inadvisable to go to a Bob Dylan concert the night before leaving for our three week road trip. Maybe it was not such a good idea to subsequently stay up until 1:30am working on that Radiohead song until I could execute the anticipatory kick before the four count and hit the snare at the exact right moment. Maybe I should have considered that taking three kids to brew pubs all across America would be - well - a bit of a challenge.
But you only live once. And Dylan was amazing...and I knew that I would be a happier person in the morning if I drummed just a little bit before crawling into bed.
I also knew that no matter what, Jeff and I would enjoy the hunt for good beer, even if it meant there would be a real possibility that our first grader would be able to identify a Porter or a Hefeweizen from a mile away.

There are ways that your parents look at you in which you know they are not saying the thing they are thinking. In this case: Why are you being so irresponsible? You need to go to bed early, to tie up loose ends, to lovingly make cut out sandwiches and cubed fruit on sticks in tiny plastic containers for the road so you don't have to eat fast food.

These are the things the good me would like to do, if I was that kind of a mom. Instead, Jeff and I disobeyed the rules.

So, rolling out of the driveway shortly before seven the next morning, with three bedhead girls in floral pajamas, and a residual happy feeling from the Dylan concert, the famously intrepid Jeff and I banded together in solidarity.
Late nights of good music are just fuel for the soul, we assured one another. Sleep is overrated, we said. Pressing on toward Utah, through 100 degree heat and a less than idyllic rest stop luncheon outside of Baker, where the bread from our sandwiches toasted itself right on our plates, we persevered. Through diapers and traffic we persevered. All the way to Cedar City and the pool that was about 30 degrees too cold and hyper bed jumping we persevered.
 We continued in our dogged mutual enthusiasm regarding our self imposed sleep deprivation until late that night when we acknowledged our success at beating the system. It had been a pretty good day after all.

This announcement was premature, unfortunately.

 At about 5 the next morning, the lovely Vera came racing to our bed yelling loudly that dawn was breaking over the horizon and didn't we want to get up and see it?
No, no we really didn't, although I did struggle over to the window, with Vera's hot little hand pulling me along, to see the faintest sliver of grey above the horizon. Jeff and I assured her that there were still a few more hours of sleep, but - no - she wouldn't have it, and continued to announce the progress of the sun at exactly the wrong intervals until everyone else had joined us on the bed, wide awake and ready for the day. Groaning, thinking of the ten hours of driving ahead of us, I cursed our cavalier attitudes of yesterday.

So this is where the fantasy breaks down, where the reality of parenting crashes audibly with the euphoric plans of the idealist (me). Dylan is no match for a trio of energetic girls, and maybe I'm too old to start drumming. Could we really get away with shoving our girls into booths at brew pubs while we consider the merits of one Pilsner versus another?

But then, as I sat with little Vera, watching her breathlessly await the cusp of dawn, I saw myself. I was right there, all idealistic and starry-eyed, fully convinced that everyone else in the room was as enthralled with the moment as I was. God made her an idealist, he made her passionate, he made her a bit obsessive about things, but he made her joyful.
And it occurred to me that going to see Dylan was just about right. What is more important than that which feeds the soul?
And the brewpubs? Well, what better way to feed our marriage than to have fun together, kids or no kids.
And the drums? well, you have to practice to get good at something. Everyone knows that.