Brutal. Just telling you how it was.
Last February, the day after they appeared on The Grammys and won best album of the year, Jim and I had tickets to the Mumford and Sons show at the Patriot Center. I was about three months pregnant, low energy and nauseaous all the time (hmmm). It required a rush hour drive from downtown to Fairfax in a snowy, icy crush of traffic. We talked about bailing the whole drive out.
It turned out to be this incredible not to be missed show. Their energy was hugely high, and coming off the Grammys, it seemed as if the band was too hot, too big for the venue. It felt like we lucked into an intimate 930 club showing of a big venue band and we also knew all the lyrics.
So, yesterday was the day. Too much hair left on the pillow. Too worried about the wind whisking it away and leaving me with patches (seriously). Too easy to pull tufts of hair out. All bleak and, indulgently, self-pitying, but true.
The day itself didn't really register. I think it was a nice day. Ian was charming. Mom helped some with the boys in the afternoon so Jim and I could slip out for a long, chilly walk. After we returned, she stayed and watched the boys so Jim could get a real work-out in and I could hibernate a bit. We got out of the house afterword and had dinner with friends.
And after a day I don't really remember, we had a night I'll never forget.
The shave wasn't so bad. That was really just the technical part.
It is just that with two people working so hard to keep it together and do something so unpleasant, I guess it is impossible to be strong enough to also support each other through it. I think the boys in the band got it about right with the following:
And it was your heart on the line
I really fucked it up this time
Didn't I, my dear?
Last night and this morning I thought these lines perfectly captured my sense of disappointment in Jim. Probably, with a little more time, it will describe our mutual inability to comfort each other in a moment in our lives during which there was very little comfort to be had.
Anyway, we were at least smart enough to put ourselves to bed and not muck around in our disappointment too much.
And what was brutal last night is only slightly rotten today.
Miles had zero remarks on the change from a pixie to a 3 blade. He approved one of the wigs this morning. How do you like? Looks good. Perfect, or good? Good, I don't like how you pulled that one part (of the wig) back. This would be Jim's three year old.
And winner, winner, chicken dinner, we found Ian's sweet spot. Mom and Food. A bowl of rice cereal served by his mom in a wig. He couldn't stop giggling, cooing and shrieking. Happy baby.
And like good yogis, Jim and I are exhaling and shedding the past.
