I had plans. Big plans. Huge. I was going to be a famous musician. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of Jenny Lewis. I played coffee shop gigs, wrote songs, and was the biggest choir nerd. I even started out as a Vocal Performance major my freshman year of college. Singing was my everything.
My guitar has been collecting a bit of dust since I got pregnant and had baby Frank. I no longer perform for audiences. This all being said, I now know the purpose of my love for music. My most sacred of times with my sweet little boy are the moments I am rocking him, and singing him, to sleep. I can hardly get through a song without tears welling up in my eyes, because I stumble upon lyrics that touch my heart. Lyrics that I loved even before baby Frank, but did not fully understand until now. En route to the rocking chair, I am thinking about the tens of thousands of things I need to take care of during Frank's nap. When I watch those baby blues start to droop, I find myself wishing he would take longer to fall asleep. The laundry can wait. I'll shower later. I could sit there all day (although, Frank probably wouldn't be too happy about it).
My voice can get shaky and crack with emotion. I can go out of key, and make up words when I forget them. It doesn't have to be pretty. That's the thing. I am a perfectionist at heart, but I can fully let go when lulling him off to sleep. It is tender and vulnerable, and my absolute favorite part of my mommy duties. And of course, my sweet little Monty follows us, and snores on the corner of the bed.
There is so much cute in my house, I can hardly stand it.
I don't need to be famous, or selling records. All I need are those two little ears to whisper my favorite songs into (and you know, maybe Mountain Man and the fur babies too).
great now I'm crying. thanks.
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