Parenthood is not amnesia. One doesn’t wake up and forget where she has come from or who she is. Once upon a time, none of us were parents, and that matters for something. All the things we used to do matter -- going to rock concerts and traveling the world, one-night stands, falling in and out of love, pursuing ideas and projects and a life. Bringing a child into the world shouldn’t mean locking ourselves out of our own. Nothing will be lost on those who explore their passions limitlessly.
Archer puts down his book and scampers to my bedside. I empty a box of finger puppets on the bed beside me and remove my headphones.
I explain to him that I’m writing a book about us and that I need just a few more minutes and then I promise I’ll play him a song on the guitar about monsters and poop and poop-monsters. He has become a fan of my freestyle guitar jams, delighting in my lyrical turns featuring the Diaper Genie and its hovering stench. Poop, there it is! Archer recently took up keyboard, pounding the rainbow keys fervently, laughing at my nonsense and throwing a few wails in there for good measure. A proper bandmate he has become.
“Twenty minutes and we’ll rock out, okay?”
Archer babbles something in response, shrugs, and slides down off the bed with two handfuls of finger puppets.
“Rarrrrr!” he growls, running back to his room, spilling his puppets on Max and the wild things.
And I maximize my page on the computer screen, turn up my iTunes and write on until it’s time for band practice. A laptop in exchange for a Fender Stratocaster – slightly out of tune to suit our squeaking voices, and so loud the neighbors will have to close their windows.
“A one, a two... a one, two, three four!”
From the book Rockabye by Rebecca Woolf. Reprinted by arrangement with Seal Press, a member of the Perseus Books Group. Copyright © 2008.