Sometimes I wish I could just magically transport my thoughts from my head to this blog in real time. No wordpress app and iPhone required. I always have funny stories I want to share with you all in a moment that’s completely inappropriate to blog through, like on an anniversary date with my husband. It would probably be frowned upon to blog then. Just a guess.
While we completely forgot our real anniversary until 12:30pm that day, we did have plans to get fancy and head out to see Joshua Radin and Matt Nathanson at the House Of Blues in Dallas later in the week.
See? So fancy in my $5 shirt from Ross and maternity jeans. #ElasticWaist4Lyfe
The evening started out with drinks… for me. All the drinks were for me. 2 at a time.
I have been dreaming of that drink since the cystical.
Shortly after diving into this, I discovered I made it out of the house without breastpads. Yeahhhhh… that was going to be a problem. So I scooted off to the bathroom and stuffed my bra with toilet paper like any
12 year old resourceful, lactating mother would do.
On your first anniversary, you get a case of beer and a box of condoms during a pit stop at the local drug store. On your seventh anniversary, you get a box of breast pads and a bottle of Coke for the 1/2 who is not participating in the drink fest that evening.
The show was amazing. That word is overused, I know, but I mean it. We were really there to see Joshua Radin. He is the soundtrack of our married (and a good part of our dating) lives. Like, when our kids grow up, and they hear one of his songs, I want them to think, “Yeah… that was home. That was mom and dad. That was love.” I want them to remember the sunlit days in our house, “I’d Rather Be With You” playing through the rooms as we cleaned, built towers out of blocks, hit baseballs in the backyard.
His songs are woven into our everyday.
Matt Nathanson was a great surprise. We were familiar with a few of his songs, but enjoyed every single one he performed. He is a fantastic entertainer.
As the show wrapped up, we headed down to see if we could catch a glimpse of Joshua Radin, and maybe get him to sign a CD. (How sad will it be when CDs go the way of tapes and everyone only buys digital downloads? People can’t autograph downloads.)
We wound up with wristbands to a meet and greet with him. Squeee! We were both super excited. Scott didn’t “squee!” though. That was just me. He was more like, “That’s cool.” You know, manly.
I was starting to get uncomfortable. This line tacked another 40 minutes onto our already long night. Another 40 minutes of my milk-makers slowly filling with the goods. Miles away from my baby, and OF COURSE my pump. (I forgot my breast pads, people, do you think I had a pump?). It was getting a little ouchy.
Did I think to hand-express in the bathroom? No. Not really. I mean, there was a line of 30 women every time I was in there. I didn’t want to hold up the line (and miss part of the show) while I milked myself.
While in line for the meet and greet, Scott and I chatted, people watched, and triple-checked our phones were ready to go for the picture.
You would never know we were so freaking excited to meet him, though, when it was our turn. We simply didn’t know what to say. I think Scott was relying on me to break the ice, be the outgoing one, per the unwritten contract between us. He takes out the trash, I handle introductions in social settings.
But all I could think was how bad my boobs were starting to hurt as I played out all the possible ice-breakers in my head:
“We love your songs!” Everyone says that
“We’ve been listening to you forever.” Unlike all these 19 year olds in line in front of us who surely weren’t listening to you in elementary school.
“I listened to your Pandora station while I labored with my last baby, and we used your song in his birth photography slideshow.” Right… no.
“We had such a great time tonight. We finally got away for the first night since we had our last baby, and MAN are my boobs taking a beating for it right now.” PARENTS ARE SO UNCOOL.
It was about that time that we reached the front of the line. We handed our phone over, had the official phone-picture-taker-guy snap the pic for us, then we awkwardly gave hugs and handshakes, introduced ourselves, nervously stammered that we enjoyed his music and something about Scott being furloughed blah blah government shutdown yadda yadda. Then an awkward pause with big smiles on our faces before we left.
“What happened? I thought you were going to say… something to him!” Scott teased me.
“I know! I’m sorry! All I could think, babe, was that, seriously, my boobs could explode at any moment. I’m just happy we got out of there before I sprayed milk on him. Somebody get me a baby!” I joked back. “Oh, hey! Let’s look at the picture!”
At least we had the picture, right? So cool. So freaking cool. Scott handed me the phone, purposely avoiding eye contact.
Instagram is the closest I get to real-time blogging/embarrassing myself. If you want to follow me there for more boob hijinks, I’m @BabyRabies.