The Concert

Dearest reader, if you have been following "Lovin' the Alien" for a while, you already know that I am a heavyweight contender for the Mother of the Year Award. 

Let's see ... there was the pilgrimage to New York, through a blizzard and with three tweens in tow, to worship at the altar of Glee's Darren Criss. (Audible sigh.) There were early morning horse shows and late nights of homework. Countless trips to the mall. Perpetual backbends to provide my daughter with the latest technology and gigantic, costly, time-consuming pets. 

All while trying to maintain my sense of humor — and my sanity.

Well, this week I added another selfless act of martyred mommy to my list. Let me set the stage so you can fully appreciate my generous — dare I say, saintly — parental spirit.

We spent February break down in New Orleans. A fantastic vacation, but not exactly a restful one. Too much food (too much wonderful food!), miles of walking through the French Quarter, Garden District and along the mighty Mississippi, lots of excitement. Thanks to a couple of delayed flights, we got home after one a.m. on Friday night (or, Saturday morning, I guess). Less than twelve hours later, I headed down to New York to see my actress sister in a play. The next night, I had to stay up through the bitter end of The Oscars, then a bus back to Boston, laptop in hand, multitasking all the way.

I was pooped. (We've already established that I'm no spring chicken.)

What would I have liked to do that evening? A warm bath, a cozy chair and a book in front of the fire. A chance to regroup, recoup, get ready for the truncated week ahead.

Hell to the no. Instead, I was stuck in Boston for another six hours while my teenage daughter went to her first ... wait for it ... CONCERT!

"Imagine Dragons" at the House of Blues on Lansdowne Street. OMG!

Here's what my daughter did: took the T into town with her BFF, had a burrito at Q'doba, stood online with hundreds of other excited teens until the doors opened at the House of Blues, rushed for some real estate close to the stage, screamed and danced and took iPhone pictures and videos of two opening acts and then did the same again for the stars of the night: Imagine Dragons. When it was all over, she bought a tee shirt and got a ride home.

Here's what her father and I did: chauffered said daughter and friend from T stop to Kenmore Square, killed an hour in the B.U. bookstore, met sympathetic friends for dinner at an Irish pub (thank you thank you thank you!), hung out in a by now deserted sports bar, watched the exodus of tired, near-deaf yet strangely elated teenagers, finally spotted our own and took them home.

As so often happens, I was reminded of my own concert days. I think my first was Elton John at Madison Square Garden. And, I was probably about my daughter's age. That initial show was followed by others: Fleetwood Mac, John Denver, Chicago, KISS (really). Because it was New York though, I could travel to the shows via public transportation and take a taxi home. Also, tickets were something like $16. And we weren't allowed to use cameras or "recording devices." Of course, we didn't care because there was no Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter.

Times have changed.

The next morning, my daughter was still flying high. She had been duly warned that any attitude would result in a "No concerts ever again!" edict. So, despite an almost total lack of sleep on a school night, things were very pleasant. 

Two days later was another story. But I'll save that for ... another story.