I knew the day would come, but I didn’t want to believe it.
I certainly didn’t think it would happen so soon. After all, I’m hip. I’m cool. I know stuff. I assumed if I stayed relevant with popular culture my children would always see me as the way-cool mom I undoubtedly am. Did I mention I know stuff? Tell that to my kids. Welcome to the eye-rolling phase of parenting.
This surprises me because I have stayed true to my never-going-to-grow-up theory on adulthood. I still play my rock music entirely too loud. I know my current music, including the hyped-up crap written by bubble-gum chewing teenagers who wouldn’t know a guitar lick from a salt lick. I know my classic rock and the story behind every song I sing along too (and I love to sing). I can play air-guitar just as good as any character in Wayne’s World. I may not know much, but I know my rock’n roll.
For instance, I know that drum kits do not belong in the dining room and yet, cool mom that I am; I have allowed that to happen. Spanning the expanse between the microwave stand and the harvest table stands a full black and white Westbury drum kit, with shining silver rims and black polished drums. The room is packed so tight I often hit the cymbals in the morning when I walk by holding my coffee. I don’t complain. While other mother’s scream for their children to be quiet, I encourage drums to be played while I cook meals and wash dishes. Yep, I’m cool.
This year I enrolled my son in drum lessons. He’ll thank me later, when he’s touring North America in a bus being hounded by groupies, but for now, drum lessons are work and work is not fun. Learning basic notes and repetitive techniques bores my budding rock star. Yet I assured him he had to pay his dues before he could play the blues (okay that was corny, not cool).
And then it happened. He came home from drum lessons with music sheets in hand and proudly announced, “I am playing Smoke on the Water.” Of course, we immediately joined in unison to sing “duh, duh, duh … dun, dun, dun, duh … duh, duh, duh – da-na-na.” Repeat. (You went there; admit it). In his youthful innocence my son wondered aloud how the song got its name, and this, my friends, is where I blew it.
“It’s such a great story,” I exclaimed. “There were these rock stars, Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention playing at a place in Switzerland, on Lake Geneva. Some guy in the crowd let off a flare and the place went up in smoke. Get it? Smoke equals fire. Lake equals water. Deep Purple. 1972. Classic tune. Classic.”
I went on and on. These were important facts to know: a great rock history to pass down through the generations. Surely if my son knew the origin of that song, he would be inspired. In the deafening silence that followed, I swear I could hear the crashing of cymbals hitting the floor. My boy rolled his hazel eyes at me, picked up his sheet music and sulked off to his room, embarrassed. I was left standing in the dining room, with the drum kit, all alone in my rock’n roll fantasy.
He’ll thank me one day. Right? Ba-dum-dum.