When I was expecting my son at the age of 39, since I was pretty sure his conception was concurrent to the Falcon Ridge festival (which I dragged his father to - just to see John Gorka) - I knew I'd have to give him a name commemorating his origins. Thankfully, the name "Dylan" was one of the few things his father and I agreed upon - we both loved Bob Dylan - and Neil Young (who he was named after accidentally). And, of course, my immediate thought was "maybe someday he'll be a rock star" - which I started talking about and thinking about and dreaming about.
"That's terrible," one particularly negative person said, "Don't you want him to grow up to have a stable life? You want him to do drugs and go on tours with groupies?"
(And they think I'm a drama queen). But I thought it was definitely possible that unless DNA has nothing to do with destiny - that he would do something creative with his life; his father and I are both writers - and not only do I sing - but my father taught himself opera when he lived in Brooklyn with his Swedish-from-Finland parents dragged him to Society of Runeberg meetings. In fact, he could sing in Italian and while his dreams of pursuing it as a career were dashed due to practicality (he and my mother moved to Long Island even before Levittown existed) - he often sat in the basement, drinking Rheingold beer and singing arias.
I would sometimes sneak down the stairs to listen, and even though I had no idea what he was singing, I was impressed. Once in awhile, when he sang in the shower, I would gather some of the kids in the neighborhood to stand outside the bathroom window, in our yard with the weeping willow tree, just to listen.
Of course, I never really sang much while he was alive because he was very critical of himself and others. When he heard me, he'd make a snide remark and it was somewhat discouraging. Then, one Friday night, I was at a gathering at a friend's house where I had just made chilli for everyone (and we had all consumed at least three or four bottles of Yago Sangria) - and someone asked me to sing - and I did - without fear - and better than I ever had before; with near-perfect pitch. I thought I was dreaming. The next morning, we found that my father had died in his sleep - so I later thought that maybe his spirit was part of me...either that or it was the Sangria.
Fast forwarding to 20 years later, when Dylan woke up crying in the middle of the night, if it was my turn to put him back to sleep, I never sang anything lame like "Rockabye Baby" - it was always "Stop Your Sobbing" (by the Kinks, as covered by the Pretenders) or sometimes "Heart Like a Wheel." His dad always sang "We Will Rock You."
So now, as his first year of high school is quickly coming to an end (only a few months left) - and as he adds more and more piercings and tries to convince me that tattoos are perfectly acceptable - and spends more time playing his guitar than he does studying...I wonder...did I speak this into being or was it kismet? Is it true that one chooses one's parents before birth? Did he pick slightly off-center (or at least eccentric) lyrical (dramatic) people to bring him into the world because he is actually meant to be a rock star? Or at least a paid performer - or someone who makes a living "in the biz?"
I have no clue; I'm waiting to watch the drama unfold...and I suppose if it doesn't work out, he can always become an accountant. Of course I can do his marketing for him if that happens since I have experience in that area. If he's a rock star, I can only be a mom who tries to look cool at the grammys and who hopefully he thanks when he gets an award...
Dreaming is free...
