Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Mosh Pit Mom

When my youngest son was born and turned colicky three weeks later, I cried to my dad about not having any time because all my baby did was CRY. My dad said, “When they’re little you don’t have a lot of time for yourself, but your problems are small. When they’re older, you have more time for yourself, but you’re worries are a lot bigger.” His words echo in my head so much now that my boys are teens. And last night, when my oldest, who is 19, came home from a concert, his tank soaking wet, those words spoken fourteen years ago reverberated ever so loudly in my mind.

“Dalan, why is your shirt all wet?”

 “I was moshing,” he answered as calm as could be, although he could’ve been speaking gibberish because I had no idea what moshing even meant!

“What the hell is moshing?”

 “I was in the mosh pit,” he calmly stated, as if that explained everything. Why is it that male’s answers are always so vague, causing females to ask even more questions in order to get definitive information consequently making them look like bitches and nags?

 “What the hell is a mosh pit?” Question number two. Would I get a definitive answer this time? And if I did, would I like it? Chances were pretty good that I would NOT.

“It’s a mosh pit. You know.”

“Actually, no, I dont know. That’s why I’m asking.” Okay, two strikes. Should I go for three? And I actually wished for boys.

“It’s when you dance around and bump into people. I can show you a YouTube video.”

“I don’t want to see a YouTube video. I want YOU to tell me about it. Where were you doing this moshing?”

“At the concert.” He tossed his wet shirt into the hamper exposing his back.

“You’re all scratched.” I didn’t shriek because he hated when my tone got loud, even out of concern, so I kept it inside where it bounced around my stomach, ultimately making my heart pound faster. He had three big red scratches on his back and he was rubbing his left elbow. “Whats wrong with your elbow?”

“I’m fine.” Of course he was, because if he told me he was injured, I’d have a stroke. By this time my younger son came into the room. “Austin tell her what a mosh pit is.” Oh great, I thought, my fourteen year old knew what a mosh pit was! Where the hell have I been! ME, who prided myself on knowing what my children were doing! I needed to slap myself up side my head!

 “It’s when people wrestle at a concert,” Austin explained as calmly as his brother had, although he gave a little more information.

 “WRESTLE!” I kind of shrieked this time. Oh, yes, definitely a stroke, well a mini one.

“Not wrestle, just bounce around. I’ll take you one day,” Dalan corrected his brother’s explanation.

“Oh yeah, that would be really great. A forty six year old mother in a mosh pit.” I rolled my eyes and tried to calm my nerves. My kid was bouncing around at a concert with other young adults who could possibly lose control and hurt someonelike MY son!

“Yeah Dalan, she’s right. She’d be yelling at everyone to stop pushing,” Austin told his brother rather seriously.

“There’s PUSHING!” I swear these two were out to get me. Maybe they saw the will.

“See? I wouldn’t take her,” Austin said shaking his head.

“This is very bad. You could really get hurt.” My motherly instincts automatically kicked in; I couldnt stop it. He was nineteen but I still felt the overwhelming urge to put him into a bubble to protect him from all the evils of the world! Did that EVER stop?

“Mom, it’ll be okay,” Dalan’s famous line as he left to go to the kitchen. The boy was always eating…I guess bouncing around pushing people works up an appetite!

 I proceeded to the internet where I investigated moshing in mosh pits. Who the hell makes up these words? And these dance moves? Or would you call it asinine actions? Or just asinineness? I think the latter. So my kid is part of an asinine groupGreat. Well, I guess all I can say in my defense is, we can raise them, love them, guide them, beat nurture them, but ultimately we have to let them go their own way…or do we? Can’t we just lock them in their rooms until they’re say... twenty-six or even thirty? It’s that or I’m going to be completely gray, wrinkled and have a coronary before I’m fifty! That’s not fair. Yes, I’m pulling out the It’s Not Fair Card. I deserve at least one. I carried and birthed the little bastards darlings.

In all seriousness though, I talk to my kids about drugs, alcohol, bullying, sex, birth control, sexting, driving, speeding, texting while driving and numerous other threats and safety issues. But it seems there is a new threat every day facing our children. How can we talk to them if we parents arent even aware of it? All it takes is one kid to try something stupid and tape himself and his friends and pop it on YouTube. Then it goes viral and a bunch of kids try it and then a couple end up injured or even dead before any parent even knows it exists! How the hell do we parents keep on top of it?

Parenting is a glorious job. But its tough, really tough.

But hey, Ill bet dollars to donuts if I did end up in a mosh pit, I could take all those kids! Id also give them a tongue lashing theyd never forget! But then again, you might not want to take that bet as there are more of them than me and they could use me as a human battering ram.


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