How Soon Is Now?

But Don't Forget the Songs that Made You Cry/And the Songs that Saved Your Life.
--The Smiths

After an excellent playtime at the park this morning, the kiddies settled in for some napping. I wasn't so interested in sleeping today, so I decided to use my recharge time to tackle some bedside table reading before I took a few minutes to shut my eyes for some much-needed meditation.

The first book I cracked open was The Out-of-Sync Child. After a couple of dizzying chapters I shut it and opened the next piece of literature in the stack, Meetings with Morrissey. Certainly a lighter read than the previous selection, but actually the one that provided more interesting thoughts to float through my head when I finally closed my eyes and attempted to slow down the speeding bullets of worry and fret that have been dragging me down as of late.

I keep thinking about what my job is as a parent. Where my responsibilty begins and ends. I had a recent conversation with someone and we decided that I mainly want to keep Heath out of juvie and Stella off the pole. It was, of course, a laughable moment, and all centered around an attempt to help me gain a little perspective, as I have found myself getting incredibly wound tight about their existence (again). I want them to be successful, but what does that mean? A healthy self-esteem. A passion for what they do with their life. A core group of family and friends that they can trust. Today while I was out running with the kids, we passed the fire station, the same fire station we've passed who knows how many times, the same hook-and-ladder, the same pumper, and with the same excitement, Heath pointed and said (for the millionth time), I want to drive that pumper truck when I get older.

If he still wants to do that when he is older, because he still has that kind of pure passion for it, I hope I get to see it. And the passion he has for fire trucks, I know it's most little boys' craving, but nevertheless, it's sweet and inspiring, because it is so completely unfettered. He really wants to drive the truck. He really wants to sleep and eat in the fire station. He really wants to hang out with other fire fighters. He really wants to save the day. Because he's that kind of boy.

And I thought about The Smiths and the first time I heard them. I was visiting my brother, who was a freshman in college in Durham. He and his roommate were listening to The Queen is Dead, Bigmouth Strikes Again to be exact, and it was one of those moments. One of those, you'll never forget this moment, kind of moments. I knew I was listening to something good, something different. And my entire world changed. They taught me how to constructively despair. Just like REM taught me how to pine. Jane's Addiction taught me how to indulge. The Beastie Boys (and Dr. Seuss) taught me how to rhyme. Steely Dan and The Roots (and Judy Blume) taught me how to write. And Radiohead taught me that life goes on after The Smiths.

And the last couple of days have been better, as it seems I am emerging (again) from having slid down the bad mommy luge (again) and have climbed out of the valley (again). And it's not because my children are acting any different. In between moments of calm and relative ease, Heath worked very hard on antagonizing Stella. Stella worked very hard on pulling as much hair on other children's heads as she possibly could. And no one wanted to come inside and take a bath tonight, and in protest, felt it necessary to fall down on the ground and scream a good blood-curdling scream.

Because that's what they do. Works in progress. Aren't we all.