Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Mumford & Sons Tavern Performance

There I was, standing on top of a dusty piano in an old timey tavern. To the best of my ability--which was surprisingly very good--I was singing along to some salty tunes with the handsome members of Mumford & Sons. I rattled a rusted tambourine, shook my untamed hair and moved my liquid hips.

It was blissfully wild.

Then, as the chorus was about to get rousing with the banjo beating out an intricate segue, the lead singer turned to look up at me from his spot on the piano. I returned my vision towards him in anticipation of a show of vocal prowess. With his gaze shooting up at me, his forehead crumbled into a jumble of wiry wrinkles and out of his mouth came a terrible wail. It  was a painful bellow, a sobbing of sadness. He wasn't singing, he was crying . . . like a baby.

I woke up.

Down the hall Ever was in her crib screaming. Something was wrong, she sounded desperate. This is my baby who sleeps for hours at night never moving, never waking, just a rock of slumber. I jumped out of bed and moved down the hall. When I got to her she had curled herself up into a fetal ball and while trying to keep her soothing finger in her mouth she huffed and cried and huffed some more. I rubbed her back and sang to her a little until her breathing was deep and peaceful.

Then, I shuffled back into bed hoping desperately I could pick up the dream where I left off. I closed my eyes and tried to recall the happy scene my mind fashioned for me before. My dress? What color was it? The music? How did it sound? But the more details I tried to recreate the more they vanished into the recesses of my subconsciousness.

But I was having so much fun, I complained into the portals of the dream world.

Then, down the hall came more screaming. Angry wailing from my upset baby. Again I got up and headed down to the nursery to soothe her. This time I picked her up out of the crib, wrapped her tired body in her favorite silky blanket and rocked her in the old rocking chair. Her wet face adhered to my chest and after a couple outbursts of discomfort, she finally relaxed and fell back to sleep in my arms. The room was dark and silent, except for the creaking beat of the wicker rocking chair rolling back and forth, back and forth.

A sleeping baby and one-half of a dream; these are the luxuries of motherhood.

Just in case you are the last person in the world to hear about Mumford & Sons (which is cool with  me):