This Mom's Quest to 'Roo the Day

On a midnight drive home after a September concert, I was completely sure about one thing. "We're going."

"Where?" my husband Ryan asked.

"To Bonnaroo. We're going to Bonnaroo."

And from that moment, we were in. It wasn't hard to convince my friend Gemi to go along, plans were made, and eventually, bags were packed -- a lot of 'em.


As mentioned in an earlier post, my brother Brack is the reason we went. He came back last year talking of nothing else. Seriously, nothing else. We met him on the road leaving my parents -- each of us in our respective cars, windows rolled down to say hello -- and he talked for 30 minutes. Sitting on the road. He was that excited.

Ryan and I talked about how great it'd be to go next year, in one of those, "we should do it… blah, blah, blah…" ways when we know we won't. But a few months later we saw The Black Crowes in concert. Chris Robinson in Nashville's historic Ryman Auditorium. The atmosphere inside the place was humming with good music and good vibes. There's something about live music that infects me. It gets in my blood. "We're going."

Now what seemed like an endless amount of waiting -- waiting for tickets to go on sale, waiting for the lineup to be announced, waiting for our wristbands to arrive, waiting to drive through the hallowed gates -- is suddenly over. So what was the point of Bonnaroo? What did I need to prove? Most people think I'm crazy, family and friends included. They can't fathom why I'd spend four days in the sweltering heat, guzzling water to prevent heat stroke, not showering -- on a farm in the middle of nowhere, Tennessee. Why make lists of lists, paint the back of my car, and get overly excited about a few concerts? What kind of crazy, outlandish vacation is that?

Simple. A vacation that's crazy, outlandish… and cool.

You see, sometimes the weird, the unexpected, the impractical is what I need, I crave. Especially now that I have a kid. Before I became a mom, I swore I wouldn't be a lame parent. I made a pact with all my friends; of course we'd still hang out. Nothing would change. Yet that was before softball practice, swimming lessons, and ballet recitals. Before I was buried in an ocean of bills and began debating public vs. private schools. Now I plan Pinkalicious birthday parties and obsess about organizing the laundry room. I schedule and keep appointments with doctors, dentists, and yes, psychiatrists.

But it's okay. I take comfort in the fact that I'm a good parent. Because I am a good parent. Before long I'll be sporting a t-shirt with "Shannon's Mom" across the back to prove it.

But somewhere in the midst of it all, I lost a part of myself. The part that hung out on the Starbucks patio for hours or played pool and darts with friends after shift. The girl who got a tattoo and later, pierced her nose. The me who smoked, who drank beer, who had a great time almost all the time. That girl who lived in the moment. Now I can forget about rushing off on a whim to the beach -- I'd forget to pack the allergy medicine or Mr. Bear or something equally catastrophic. My everyday is dictated by my date book and somewhere along the way I became (gasp!) responsible. It's inevitable, isn't it? And a good thing. But every now and then, I miss the impulsive me. I yearn to be outlandish. I need to find that part of myself and let her loose. Give her permission to let loose. That, my friends, was the point of Bonnaroo.

Sure, it's not most people's idea of letting loose. In fact, it's downright weird. Insane. And that's okay. My Bonnaroo experience was epic, a word highly overused these days. The definition of epic is "impressively great," though, and sorry -- I can't think of a better way to sum it up. Bonnaroo was about living in the moment, not by a date book. It was about being a free spirit. It made me feel like a 29-year-old badass rather than a soccer mom. For one weekend, I wasn't a lame parent. I was cool. Truly cool.

And guess what? I have the t-shirt to prove it.


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Be sure check out my other Bonnaroo posts:

• 'Tis Better to Show Your Tush (Lessons Learned from a First Time 'Rooer) 
• My Brother Was Right. Who Would've Thought.

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