I sing out loud most of my waking hours. I hum, I sing, and I reply to conversations and questions with lyrics. Sometimes I am aware, most of the time it is second nature. Today I was reminded twice that I am a songbird. Once, in a simple and quirky way, with a man leaving the office space and returning within the half hour to say he could not remember why he was suddenly stuck singing the B-52’s, and then it dawned on him, “Britt!” To which I replied in lyrical form, “Roam if you want to!” The other by a man stating he could not believe I was singing the song I was, as I shopped at the store, to which I replied: “Oh man, I did not even know I was singing”. He followed it up with “I used to love that song” and I said “Not anymore, huh?” He said “No, not after hearing you sing it.” So without skipping a beat, without a grin, and with my eyebrow fully powered up and charged pretending to be nonchalant and unaware he was playing the old third grade flirting card (the card I owned, mastered, and still play since third grade), I said “Yeah, I have that affect on men.” The man reached across towards me and pulled my left hand out of my pocket. As he held my hand, he flipped it over as if my finger was not a full 360 degrees, and said, “You really do. What are your plans tonight?” I informed him I planned to finish the song, have a couple of margaritas, and be lights out by 9 PM. He told me something told him that I was not telling him the truth, that it was written on my face. I told him I wasn’t really planning on finishing the song, and I winked. As I walked away, he shouted, “Lights out!” I never looked back. I love my third-grade playing card; it still leaves the boys on the playground. 

It is currently 9:02 PM, and the lights are, in fact, not out. I did, however, finish the song. I played it so loud that Bossy was banging through the stop signs, past the park where humans were sweaty and miserable, and up to a stop sign where a dad was pushing a stroller, had two incredibly tiny boys on strider bikes, and two large dogs on a leash. Get it, daddy. The littlest one made eye contact with his dad when he was telling him to stay next to him, and took his feet, too small to even be wearing shoes, and strided his ass on over in front of Bossy and started going in a constant S-line. That is my kinda kid. I was loving it. I put Bossy in park, turned down the music, and just watched as the dad was mortified, and the other little one stood up on his strider next to me and walked it up over the curb and into the grass. He knew his brother was in shit, he knew he was safe as my Subaru was screaming momma wagon and safety comes first, most importantly, he knew what he was supposed to do. Dad never looked at me, never looked at the bigger little one, and grabbed Tiny Tim by his arm and pulled him straight to the curb, tucked his strider under the stroller (yes, it was that small), and did not come up for air or eye contact with anyone until little bambino comprendo-ed. I smiled, waved, and gave that knowing look and laugh. I have been and continue to be both mom and dad to my sons. I have never been able to be just the nurturer or just the disciplinarian. Not even in just one single event. I always have to try to balance both. I also have the heart and the mind of the littlest little one I witnessed being a rebel. It was a moment I loved to be a part of and was happy to wait through. I loved them all.

As I put Bossy back in drive, I cranked the volume back up, and my Spotify swapped genres on me with the whiplash I crave. I was no longer rolling down the streets, appearing to be a safe momma wagon. I was throwing gang signs and rapping lyric by lyric with a top bun and gold hoop earrings flopping around all sides of my head, wearing blue jeans three sizes too big for me. “Hide your kids, hide your wife, and hide your husband!” Yes, I am also fluent in old ass memes from news clips and lines from movies no one remembers. A few blocks later, I rolled into my garage with the most violent rock song, closed the garage door, and imagined Bossy starring in some movie all about her life as a badass wagon that ends with the dimpled garage door still vibrating after it closes and the music still being recognizable but muffled. My daydream quickly ended as my normal everyday panic set in about dying from carbon monoxide poisoning, and caused me to immediately turn the ignition off. I got out, used my key to open the door to the utility room that is sticking from the house shifting and the humidity rising, walked to the kitchen, tossed my bags down on the kitchen island, and made a margarita. So it looks like the only thing I lied about was the time I was going to bed. And if you know me at all, no one tells me when to go to sleep. I took a late-night shower, where I recognized I had been singing “XO” by John Mayer since I walked into the house 5 hours earlier. Why, you ask? I also asked myself why. Turns out “lights out” stuck with me, and my brain instantly went to “XO” as he sings “Before they turn the lights out, before time has run out, baby, love me lights out.” And now it actually is my bedtime. Lights out.