It's no secret that I no longer listen to any radio whilst driving. With my good-friend, Google, I don't even need to check for traffic problems. It's just all Bruce, all the time. Thankfully, I've got that 10-CD changer in the back of my Jeep, so no distracted driving on my watch. Well, unless you consider dancing in the car and singing at the top of your lungs to be distracting. To other drivers, perhaps, but not to me.
I've rediscovered gems, and I've given another listening to a bunch of songs that never became hits. Oh, and the live stuff. Shit, Richie! Talk about pulling me back to past outings, each and every one of them the top events of my life. [Don't pity me, man, I am who I am because of him.]
Two of my three kids are away at college. One will be home for summer. The other is moving into an apartment near campus, and she'll be working at the Happiest Place on Earth. I am jealous, even more so as her roommate's parents and I discuss matching beds, dressers and night stands. And sad, of course, because when I dropped her off in August, I really didn't think she'd never come home to live again.
I made it home after my freshman year of college. I never lived at home again. In fairly rapid succession, I graduated and moved out to California, visiting my parents in places that were never my home. My mom stressed about my failing to stay in one place long: San Diego, Cambridge, Escondido, Berkeley, all racked up over the course of two years.
I've been stressing about my kids leaving me since Eldest's senior year of high school. (Okay, maybe since he was born. Bugger off.) I had the most knock-down, dragged-out pity party going for quite awhile. I started off 2017 promising myself I'd do what Eldest had asked me to do a year prior. I made a few resolutions, but everything I set out to do came down to one thing: enjoy my life.
It's a damn fucking good thing I made that promise, because this year has held the worst for me that I ever anticipated. Just start with Voldemort Of The United States. Fuck! I #resist until my hands cramp from sending postcards, and creating databases, and emailing legislators, and rallying people, and making name tags for Swing Left, and attending rallies, and attending town halls, and on and on and on.
And, then, of course, my Mom.
As I replay "From Small Things (Big Things One Day Come)," as the days pass and turn into weeks, the song's meaning changes for me, too. I became jubilant, this morning, as I recognized that, yeah, we grow up, we leave, and our moms fret, but we go out, and we live glorious lives, and maybe someday, we will have kids of our own, and we will see that, yeah, from small things, mama, big things one day come.