I am listening the slow, chirping death song of a mouse caught in a glue trap somewhere behind my stove.
I say somewhere because there is NO WAY I’m about to pull out the oven and actually FIND OUT.
I am outwardly chastising it’s poor planning skills. I’m posturing indignant.
You openly mocked me by pooping ON TOP OF all of my snap traps. What did you think was going to happen?
I am clenching my coffee cup in false anger and justification because no matter how much I hate the little pisser for using my kitchen counter as an outhouse the fact that it is slowly suffering and dying is involuntarily causing my eyes to water. And sniffle. And long to hear, “Let it Go” for 12,102,130 time just to drown out the fact that I am mourning the swan song of a RODENT.
Lord, parenting made me soft.
So I’m going to think instead on the amazing night of music my husband and I spent last night.
As a birthday gift, my husband’s folks gave him tickets to see Ani DiFranco. Yes. You heard me. As a birthday gift for MY HUSBAND, HE wanted Ani DiFranco tickets. Every patchouli-scented, righteously-angered feminist just breathed a shaggy, jealous breath. He is that cool, people. We’ve pretty much both been in love with her for the last fifteen years. It’s hard not to love a woman who’s got such a good handle on rhythm, who dances like she’s free, who wields words like they’re weapons and makes you feel like you EXPERIENCED something. She’s sick. She’s older now clearly, and less angry by far but she’s still charged with insightful lyrics full of politics and social commentary, love and loss, and now, some tunes peppered with a few nods to the two little people she gave birth to since last I listened to her. I guess, parenthood tames us all. There is no other music that connects people like folk music. One person, one microphone, one guitar telling their story. You can quote me on that because it’s true.
But what struck me about her last night was not necessarily how talented she is, but how happy she was. She loves what she does, and she does it well. Not a lot of folks showed up last night, because let’s face it, she’s not Beyonce. But she couldn’t have been happier, couldn’t have played any better, couldn’t have been more content with her lot in life and her place in it and it left me feeling, “I want to live that way.” I want to do the same something every day because it’s what makes my heart move with joy and purpose, do it as best as I can, and share it, unashamedly with others. Wow. Watching her gave me the Gospel last night. I know for a fact that that would never have been her intention, but God gets to use whoever he pleases in any way He wishes, and He used her for me.
I suppose being tamed by parenthood doesn’t make our vision narrower, but in fact, makes everything too accessible. You see things you never had before. You FEEL things all together differently.
I am now officially crying with my dying mouse. Oh God, somebody come over and put it out of it’s misery. If I see it, I’ll throw up.
But part of me is glad that if I can’t share her talent, at least we have the divine shaping of parenthood in common. Even if hers leads to better music, and mine to sob alone in the dining room with a mouse trap.