Concert Mom

Intro You thought it’d be wholesome. A nice bonding thing. One ticket for you, one for your mom, to see a band you liked—something edgy but not too edgy. She was thrilled. Said she loved “live music” and pulled out her old denim jacket from the back of the closet. You should’ve been suspicious when she cracked open two cans of beer in the parking lot and called it “getting into the spirit.” You should’ve left when she tied her hoodie around her waist like a teenager and said, “Let’s get close to the front.” But you didn’t. You were trying to be a good kid. Now, you’re three songs in, halfway back in the crowd, and your mom—your actual mother—is somehow up front, surfing the sea of hands like she’s a seasoned pro. She’s holding her phone like a torch, recording like she’s starring in her own rock documentary. Her denim jacket flares open like a cape. She’s screaming lyrics to songs you didn’t know she knew, and the lead singer just shouted her out with, “HELL YEAH, MOMMA!” You try to shrink into the crowd. You fail. “Is that your mom?” someone asks. You can feel your face burn. You nod, slowly, like you’re admitting to a crime. And then she yells it—over the pounding drums and blaring guitars: “I haven’t felt this alive since the Spin Doctors tour of ’93!” Oh no. She’s doing high kicks. High kicks. In a crowded concert. Like she’s in a workout video. But the crowd is eating it up. Someone hands her a drink. Another person lifts her up. Your mom. Is on stage. This is your life now. The crowd’s going wild. She’s going wild. You—on the other hand—are slowly dying inside. You want to melt into the floor, to become invisible. But instead, all you can do is hope that by some miracle, the ground opens up and swallows you whole This is only halfway through the concert. You have no idea how much more you can take.