Two weekends ago, a few girlfriends and I headed out to Deuce's Wild for a much needed Girls' Night Out. If you told me ten years ago I would excitedly and willingly go to a "country music" night club, sing along to the music, and enjoy myself, I would've responded with a sarcastic, "Not gonna happen."
Growing up I loathed country music with every fiber of my being. My father, who was and still is a farmer at heart, loved to torture my brother and I by waking us up on Sunday mornings to the twangy tunes of Froggy 101, the local country music station in good old Scranton, PA. I would roll over in my bed, pull my pillow tightly over my head, and groan in pain as my ears began to bleed. Country music was like nails on a chalkboard, and in spite of my father's best efforts to teach his daughter to appreciate country music, my anti-country stance would remain firmly entrenched for years.
When I first met my husband, I counted among his few flaws his love of country music. He, fortunately, had an eclectic music palate, so it wasn't a true deal breaker. We negotiated a contract where no country music was played while I was riding in the car with him. My husband did manage to negotiate a country music detente at one point, and I agreed to attend a Toby Keith concert with him and his brother. Before the show began, the sprinkler system at the then Tweeter Center accidentally came on. Luckily, I was almost sitting directly on top of a sprinkler and spent the entire show shivering due to my soaking shirt and jeans. It was awesome. As we left the venue that evening, I cursed country music and renewed my vow of hating the genre with a new vigor.
In April 2007, about seven weeks after his birth, my beautiful, blue eyed-baby boy Nate began to cry with abandon, pulling his legs up tightly to his core. Colic. Anyone who has had a colicky baby knows you will do ANYTHING to stop the crying. I have never felt so helpless and frustrated in my entire life. Almost every night from 7:00 to 9:30 for two and a half months, he cried and cried and cried. We tried different bottles, different formulas, Mylicon, Gripe Water, and any and every suggestion anyone gave us. Anything to stop the crying. I vividly recall one epic-ally horrible evening when my husband had an Awards Banquet to attend. Feeling frustrated, angry and helpless, I loaded my screaming baby into the car and began to drive up and down 422 in hopes the drive would lull him to sleep, one of the tactics which had worked in the past. After twenty-five minutes of screaming, I pulled in to the Target parking lot and went in to the store to buy a different brand of formula. As my son continued to wail in the store, the clerk looked at me sympathetically and said, "Someone's hungry." I shook my head as tears pooled in my eyes, and thought, "If only it were that simple."
Most evenings during this two and a half month trial, we discovered the best method to soothe him. Holding him vertically in our arms, placing the precise amount of pressure on his tummy and swaying him back and forth in our living room, we would pass Nate back and forth. One evening as I was switching laundry upstairs, a momentary reprieve from the crying and fussing, my husband turned on CMT and continued to sway back and forth to the music. When I returned downstairs, my husband jested, "I think he likes country music. He's not crying." I rolled my eyes. But I was a defeated woman, and if country music stopped the crying, I was okay with it. An hour later, Nate finally drifted off to sleep, and so began our evening colicky ritual. I, of course, would gripe to my husband how ridiculous Taylor Swift was whining about her stupid, histrionic "teardrops on [her] guitar," but then again her whining was slightly better than crying.
Over the next two months though I inevitably began to sing along to some of the songs. They were catchy. And the next thing I knew, I started to enjoy country music.
Growing up I loathed country music with every fiber of my being. My father, who was and still is a farmer at heart, loved to torture my brother and I by waking us up on Sunday mornings to the twangy tunes of Froggy 101, the local country music station in good old Scranton, PA. I would roll over in my bed, pull my pillow tightly over my head, and groan in pain as my ears began to bleed. Country music was like nails on a chalkboard, and in spite of my father's best efforts to teach his daughter to appreciate country music, my anti-country stance would remain firmly entrenched for years.
When I first met my husband, I counted among his few flaws his love of country music. He, fortunately, had an eclectic music palate, so it wasn't a true deal breaker. We negotiated a contract where no country music was played while I was riding in the car with him. My husband did manage to negotiate a country music detente at one point, and I agreed to attend a Toby Keith concert with him and his brother. Before the show began, the sprinkler system at the then Tweeter Center accidentally came on. Luckily, I was almost sitting directly on top of a sprinkler and spent the entire show shivering due to my soaking shirt and jeans. It was awesome. As we left the venue that evening, I cursed country music and renewed my vow of hating the genre with a new vigor.
In April 2007, about seven weeks after his birth, my beautiful, blue eyed-baby boy Nate began to cry with abandon, pulling his legs up tightly to his core. Colic. Anyone who has had a colicky baby knows you will do ANYTHING to stop the crying. I have never felt so helpless and frustrated in my entire life. Almost every night from 7:00 to 9:30 for two and a half months, he cried and cried and cried. We tried different bottles, different formulas, Mylicon, Gripe Water, and any and every suggestion anyone gave us. Anything to stop the crying. I vividly recall one epic-ally horrible evening when my husband had an Awards Banquet to attend. Feeling frustrated, angry and helpless, I loaded my screaming baby into the car and began to drive up and down 422 in hopes the drive would lull him to sleep, one of the tactics which had worked in the past. After twenty-five minutes of screaming, I pulled in to the Target parking lot and went in to the store to buy a different brand of formula. As my son continued to wail in the store, the clerk looked at me sympathetically and said, "Someone's hungry." I shook my head as tears pooled in my eyes, and thought, "If only it were that simple."
Most evenings during this two and a half month trial, we discovered the best method to soothe him. Holding him vertically in our arms, placing the precise amount of pressure on his tummy and swaying him back and forth in our living room, we would pass Nate back and forth. One evening as I was switching laundry upstairs, a momentary reprieve from the crying and fussing, my husband turned on CMT and continued to sway back and forth to the music. When I returned downstairs, my husband jested, "I think he likes country music. He's not crying." I rolled my eyes. But I was a defeated woman, and if country music stopped the crying, I was okay with it. An hour later, Nate finally drifted off to sleep, and so began our evening colicky ritual. I, of course, would gripe to my husband how ridiculous Taylor Swift was whining about her stupid, histrionic "teardrops on [her] guitar," but then again her whining was slightly better than crying.
Over the next two months though I inevitably began to sing along to some of the songs. They were catchy. And the next thing I knew, I started to enjoy country music.
At the time, I think I began to enjoy country music because the genre in many ways reflected my life at that time. Country music is simple, and so was my life then. Now when I use the word simple, I do not by any means mean easy. I have been a teacher for nine years and have become frustrated or upset to the point of crying probably five times. During my six years as a full-time stay at home mom, it was a good week if I made it through with only breaking down in tears five times. When I say simple to describe my life then, I mean uncomplicated. My simple, uncomplicated goal every day was the same--do everything in my power to make this small human being happy.
Similarly, country music tends to focus on the basic, simple common emotions of the human experience--the sheer bliss of falling in love, the pain of losing a love, or the complete satisfaction of keying that cheating ass hole's brand new truck who you thought was your true love. During many of those long days, country music filled the void of silence in between my one-sided conversations with my son. I heeded the lyrics of Trace Adkins and Darius Rucker who reminded me, "you're gonna miss this" and "it won't be like this for long." Nate will turn seven this month and while I certainly don't miss those colicky days, I did make sure to enjoy all those moments in between the crying--the toothless smiles, the belly laughs that shook his whole body, and the afternoons spent on the couch with his warm body pressed to mine as he peacefully napped. Those moments carried me through the long days. And on the exceptionally rough days when those moments weren't enough, well, I could always follow the sage advice available in country music regarding the healing powers of a cold beer, a couple glasses of wine, or a margarita. Some days I could have used the trifecta.
This past Sunday morning, I came downstairs to find my husband reading the newspaper with CMT on the TV. I paused to think how so many years ago, the sound of country music on a Sunday morning made me bristle. Now country music makes me feel a little nostalgic for those "simple" days and still reminds me to enjoy those simple wonderful moments--whether they be with my beautiful family, my wonderful friends, or an ice cold beer.
Similarly, country music tends to focus on the basic, simple common emotions of the human experience--the sheer bliss of falling in love, the pain of losing a love, or the complete satisfaction of keying that cheating ass hole's brand new truck who you thought was your true love. During many of those long days, country music filled the void of silence in between my one-sided conversations with my son. I heeded the lyrics of Trace Adkins and Darius Rucker who reminded me, "you're gonna miss this" and "it won't be like this for long." Nate will turn seven this month and while I certainly don't miss those colicky days, I did make sure to enjoy all those moments in between the crying--the toothless smiles, the belly laughs that shook his whole body, and the afternoons spent on the couch with his warm body pressed to mine as he peacefully napped. Those moments carried me through the long days. And on the exceptionally rough days when those moments weren't enough, well, I could always follow the sage advice available in country music regarding the healing powers of a cold beer, a couple glasses of wine, or a margarita. Some days I could have used the trifecta.
This past Sunday morning, I came downstairs to find my husband reading the newspaper with CMT on the TV. I paused to think how so many years ago, the sound of country music on a Sunday morning made me bristle. Now country music makes me feel a little nostalgic for those "simple" days and still reminds me to enjoy those simple wonderful moments--whether they be with my beautiful family, my wonderful friends, or an ice cold beer.
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