when i grow up.

When I was a teenager, all I dreamed of was getting out of my ho-bunk hometown and becoming myself. Finding an identity which I had no idea existed. I dreamed of becoming famous - whether it be as a writer, a broadcaster, an actress, or maybe one day accidentally discovering I could sing - it didn't matter. Big city lights, exciting new friends, a college education and a sure fire path on to stardom - or at the very least, success, however that was defined, was what I had my mind set on. To make sure I accomplished these feats, I excelled through school, worked my little ass off at every after school job imaginable and participated in every extracurricular activity my farm town community offered. Forensics, theater, Spanish club, yearbook, track and field, National Honor Society, mentoring younger students, leading the community haunted house, class secretary, participating in the mock accidents used to train EMTs, hell, I was even the president of the non-drinking club. You name it, I did it.

I went to college. Continued to get good grades and work part-time jobs, never taking any summers or other time off. I eventually saved enough cash to move to the city, and here I am, 8 years and counting in Chicago. It's my home. I've built a pretty impressive roster of solid friendships, nabbed a husband, added some decent professional experience to my resume, and even dabbled in the 'show business' I dreamed of volunteering for the Chicago Independent Radio Project. It's been real. 

Have I attained the dream I so often pined over in my youthful years? Have I finally achieved the 'be' in the infamous 'What do you want to 'be' when you grow up' mission? Well, if you told 15 year old Jodi where 31 year old Jodi is, I'm not sure if she'd agree or disagree. I like to think she'd be pretty pleased, however. Very few individuals ever get to nail down their dream - whether it's stardom and fame, owning your own business and becoming your own boss, or becoming an astronaut, whatever. And I don't think the issue particularly lies with individuals not possessing the drive, or even resources, because I am a bit of a dreamer in that regard, but of knowing precisely what your dream is. I guess I never really knew what mine is/was. As far as possessing/not possessing the resources, I call it bluff - I myself, have a bit of a 'rags to riches' tale. I don't want to exaggerate, because I know many that experienced more poverty and less than ideal living situations growing up, but anyone who knows me can attest that I've been financially responsible and accountable for myself since I began bussing tables at age 14. My mom wasn't around very much in my high school years (she worked the night shift), and the home life was a far fetch from Leave it to Beaver. I'll spare the details, because they don't really matter. 

What I'm getting at is that I worked hard, and now I'm working a career type job with a respectable salary, holding my own in one of the largest city's in the country, surrounded with a solid network of loved ones, and am comfortable with my life. But back to the point at hand, am I famous? No. Am I even still writing? Not really - although I guess when I get hit by a thought and it doesn't immediately fall away, (like what I hope this rambling blog post manages to accomplish), I give it my best effort to document as cohesively as I can. But am I that 'be'? Am I even 'grown up'? I'm not sure. Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm here. And my day to day is like every other day. There's no major exciting points to peer ahead to in the regard of next career steps, or education, although the idea of getting my MBA is still out there. Some day.

But I have to step back and not take my accomplishments, as menial and 'boring' as they may sound to me, for granted. I am educated. I am skilled. I am able to provide a comfortable living for my family. Hell - this year alone, I managed to pay off the remainder of my student loans (which was a good chunk of $$), fund my husband's college tuition for his final three semesters (he graduates in 12 days), AND give birth to a baby boy. I think 2014 was a pretty accomplished year, if I may say so. The fact that I grew up dirt broke, and now am able to afford tuition for two college educations, medical expenses for a new human being, while still being comfortable enough to buy decent gifts for the upcoming holiday makes me feel like I 'made it' in my book. At least in the consolatory, I'm not famous but I'm still not doing half bad way.

But anyway. That's me, now. So all of those dreams I harbored. What became of those? How many years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds - time was spent madly scribbling angsty poetry or stories only to be stashed away in forgotten shoe boxes under my bed? Acting like a dramatic nut job in hopes of finding my place in the center of the world's attention? Singing deliriously loud and off-key, daydreaming of one day being 'discovered'? A lot. I was a pretty dramatic kid. And I guess I still can be. 

But it wasn't until the other night, when it hit me. That all of those dreams, efforts. The hard work. The sacrifices. The broken hearts. The hours logged, memorizing the angstiest of angsty songs, only to be sung to my shower head. The life I've spent the last 31 years leading. It's all led up to now. And on Sunday, November 30th, 2014, I for the first time, fully appreciated and understood the meaning of it all up until this point.

In May I had a son. Most of you reading this have either met him, seen (way too many - sorry, guys) photos on social media, or at least read about how terribly miserable he made me on my third month of maternity leave on this blog. It goes without saying, he's kind of my everything - I almost ended that sentence saying 'these days', but then realized, no, he's pretty much my everything for always. And that's a gift. He's my little dude and I love the bejeezus out of him, even when he's a jerk and screams at me for no apparent reason. But this particular post isn't about me reinstating my obvious maternal affections for my son. Or even about my son. But about me. And where I'm at. So now that I've put the disclaimer out that my little dude is my bb boy for lyfe, I can continue. 

Two nights ago was just a normal night, like any other. It was the last evening coming off of a four day holiday weekend, my fifth consecutive day with my son in a row. I was returning to work the next morning, and while I wasn't looking forward to it at all (because let's be honest, who is eager to get back to work after a mini-break?), I wasn't really dreading it, either - because it meant a real lunch break, and 8 consecutive hours meltdown-free. It was just another night. I lounged lazily on our lint balled maroonish brown over sized couch cover, Absent mindedly swiping my iPhone screen, crushing the candies, or sodas, or whatever the hell zombie puzzle app was 'engaging' me for the moment. I let my husband take a turn to soothe the baby, as he was a particular firecracker on this day. I'm proud to say (but maybe I shouldn't be?) that I've gotten pretty good at toning out the 'I hate this,' 'I'm bored,' and 'I'm angry' cries, so the fact that Holden was howling furiously in the kitchen, a mere 30 feet away, wasn't phasing me in the slightest. Won't he go to bed, I signed to myself. Candy swipe, sugar ball, crush! Shit the owl tipped over, swipe, swipe, retry. I'm out of lives. Holden continues crying. I glance at the time, it's only 6:12. Bed time is at 7:00. Tylenol for the  mystery teeth that will seemingly never appear, yet successfully manage to murder my son's mouth has already been administered. Frozen washcloth devoured. What does this leave now? Well, I'm out of virtual lives on all brainless iPhone games. Social media is only telling me that Nicole's still selling more jewelry, there's (still) a never ending supply of cat photo memes, some awkward selfies of friend's little sisters, and there are only so many mommy Huffington Post links I can continue to read. My outfit's already laid out for the morning, my work bag packed, and there aren't any more chores I can last resort attend to. He's still crying. It's 6:14.

I deep sigh and shuffle to the unlit kitchen, where my exhausted husband is pacing and rocking, screaming demon laid out in his arms, and gives me the defensive look of "I've got this, but goddamn it I'm exasperated,". I give a half 'hang in there' smile and trudge to the baby station and pick up the multi-colored Maya Wrap sling. I grudgingly slip it over my left shoulder and adjust the ring. I walk back into the kitchen, and give Vincent the 'gimme the baby, I guess' look of defeat. He appreciatively forks the kiddo over, inching him into the cocoon I've nested in the sling for the little hellion. Holden immediately quiets. Vincent rolls his eyes in defeat, and I'm both secretly disappointed and pleased. Disappointed that it looks like my night is shot until the little devil conks out, but half satisfied that he reacted to his mother's touch.

Alright kiddo, we're in this together, now. Vincent leaves the kitchen. The lights are still out. It's 6:17. Holden is snugly curled up on the right side of my upper torso, with his legs dangling on each side of my hip. I know that I need to start talking, and fast, to keep the baby appeased from having another melt-down. He's on the 'I'm going to fight sleep like a mother fucker, you can't trick me out of this, I'm pissed off but exhausted, but no, sleep, no--never ever, uh uh' bring of freaking out. 'Hey baby boy,' I quietly hum into his ear, softly bouncing around like a mama kangaroo. "Let's find some songs, you and me. Mommy thinks it's time for a dance party, whaddya say,'. He says nothing, but continues quickening his breath, letting me know my time is limited, so I better pick something good. In a frenzy, I make a half assed 'calm' iTunes playlist on our ancient original iPod that only works in our kitchen docking station, due to  faulty worn out wiring in the headphone jack. I don't even recall at this point what I've selected, but I hit Play.

First up, is Adele, "Rolling in the Deep." I never really got into Adele, a couple of her songs were more less guilty pleasures, but I figure her voice and the instrumentation has to be a decent start to getting the kiddo to unwind. It's not working. I decide to whip out my secret weapon, my off key vocal chords, and pretend to sing along to the every other word I managed to pick up. He responds. His head quits twitching from side to side, looking for anything to stimulate him in the kitchen. He rests his head on my right breast, sighs, and looks up at me, with wide, but heavy eyelids. Adele ends. Next up, Ani DiFranco's "Little Plastic Castles." Here's where it hit me, folks. 

Ani DiFranco was never as huge of an influence to me as say, Tori Amos or Fiona Apple. She was more of the cousin to my favorite female soloists, but I always had a sort of soft spot for a couple handful of songs from her 90's catalog, this particular track topping that list. I haven't listened to this song in years. Years and years. And my first instinct was to head to the iPod and hit Next, to see if there was anything better on the playlist. But instead, I notice he seems to be calmed by the soft acoustic opening intro of the guitar strums. So I bounce with him and sway a little softer and slowly than with Adele. And I sing to him. And miraculously, I know every. single. word. And I'm not even sure at what point it happened, but I lost myself. In the song. In the moment. In the music. In the intimacy, the special moment, I was sharing with my son. His eyes continued to get heavy, but as I sang - no longer in my self conscious screeching, but full-hearted, lung emptying song, I realized this was it. What I'm here for. What I've been working towards. I finally was living my life to the fullest. This was my moment. Having this beautiful, healthy, satisfied baby boy, snuggled onto my chest. Feeling loved and comforted by me, reliving my teenage/early 20s songs. Never did I expect in a million years  that I would ever have an audience, let alone, such a special one, to belting out the lyrics, 'I wish they could see us now, in leather bras and rubber shorts - like some ridiculous team uniform, for some ridiculous new sport - quick, someone call the girl police and file - a - re-port.' It was a moment. We were transfixed and it was magic. 

The dance and sing-a-long didn't end there. I think we finished up with some Final Fantasy, Okkervil River, Grizzly Bear, Beach House, Bon Iver - and of course Hozier because it's one of 3 songs Holden LOVES. (Seriously, between the theme song to Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, Taylor Swift's 'Shake it Off,' and Hozier's "Take Me to Church," this kiddo would be content never hearing anything else ever again. But that would drive mommy mad, it almost has.) I continued to croon and sway, and eventually the little man's eyes fell shut. We drifted to the bedroom, where I laid him out on the bed for his rocket-ship sleep sack and I wish I could say he dreamily remained asleep and gave us no problems and slept through the night for the first time -but of course that didn't happen. He woke up the minute his blonde messy head hit the mattress, alert, betrayed and pissed off, only to keep battling me for the next 25 minutes for a feeding and cuddle session, fighting like hell against the crib. And I'm beginning to be convinced that I'll never sleep through 8 consecutive hours of sleep. That there will always be a monster demanding my teet. But that's not the point.

The point is, all those years of my life. The earlier life. The life leading up to now. The different experiences - efforts, trials and tribulations - they were training. Even the angsty sing-alongs and angry poetry. The shitty ex boyfriends breaking my heart, ultimately teaching me what I do deserve. The crappy after school jobs, which only raised the bar in my expectations for a better life. All of it. It helped me get to where I am today, and taught me all that I know. So I could experience that one pure, untainted, real moment. Pure love. Bonding with another human being who knew me as his sole source of comfort, in that moment. Lost in song and dance and love.

It was something. And while 14 year old Jodi may not have realized it, and even 31 year old Jodi didn't know it until two nights ago, I finally had a taste of what it was I've unknowingly aspired to be, my whole life.

It was better than I could have ever dreamed.