The Boss Continues To Be The Boss.

Back before our view was obstructed by The Giant and Giantess.

On Friday night, I fulfilled the childhood dream [of every single ex-boyfriend of mine, ever] of seeing Bruce Springsteen in concert. (Some have- ahem- seen him at least 20 times. So I'm catching up. Slowly.)

And I went with my current boyfriend- who also, conveniently, is the father of my children and the husband of, well, me...so there was very little awkward explaining to be done. But it wouldn't be one of my stories without some sort of horrific grossness leading up to the event, SO: Here it is.

A few hours before the show, I was out running errands with the girls. On the way home, Susannah began coughing and gagging in the backseat. I pulled the car over just in time to see her puke. Three times. A LOT. Nora, horrified, kept screaming that something was coming out of Zuzu's mouth again and again and again...and why was she doing that? And is she going to do it again? And can I get out of the car? Susannah, for her part, finished yuking and immediately began to clap and laugh. (And put every book and toy within reach directly into her mouth.) I attempted to bathe her with the packet of baby wipes I keep in the car, resulting in one Not Very Clean But Very Wet child strapped in her seat...and one very bored preschooler who had already moved onto her next book. (And for those of you worried about the gagging baby- i.e., my Mom- it's totally fine. It was a large piece of freeze-dried apple which had apparently been hanging out somewhere in her mouth/throat for the previous twenty minutes. No big. Note to my Mom: I am watching her!)

Once we got home, I had to choose how to best carry/help the children indoors. Nora was on her own, and Zuzu was held in a football hold as far from my shirt as possible. Because, in honor of the concert, I had already showered/put on a cute tank top during the girls' naptimes. This raises the questions of- why did I get dressed for the evening with so much messiness still left in the day? Why do I only have one good Goin' Out tank top? And why do I still consider a cute tank top the height of Goin' Out clothing? Ponder.

Anyhow, once I held my child as far away from me as humanly possible, bathed her in the same manner, and declared my kids to be as cleaned/fed/ready for bed as I could manage- we went to the concert. Did I mention it was at Wrigley Field? And it was very Wrigley Field that evening. Crushes upon crushes of people (which P.J. informed me was just, you know, a concert), all geared up for what was to be A Big Storm. (Which never came. So guess who rocked the show in rain boots and a hoodie? This fear-monger.)

The dude sitting to the left of me was a fan. A super fan. A mammoth super fan of crazyawesome proportions. He began chatting me up when it was clear the show wasn't going to start on time. (45 minutes late. I was told that this happened in Louisville, once. In '84.) And I was shown some sweet cell phone footage of a show a few years back in Florida. Finally Springsteen came out- and began playing the '78 live version of Prove It All Night, OHMYGOD I CAN'T BELIEVE HE'S DOING THIS, CAN YOU?! (Direct quote. I fear that my response and lack of frenzy was wholly inappropriate for the situation. I mean, it was great, but I was a little unprepared.) I texted SuperFan Dave- of the Seeing Him 20 Times variety- and was texted back with roughly the same level of enthusiasm. So clearly I was seeing something awesomesauce.

And the crowd was something else. The level of enthusiasm The Boss inspires can only be compared to Christian rock concerts. (Lots of shrieking, arms in the air, swaying, and emotional tears. I am not joking around, here.) Of course, I could be wrong. My view was frequently blocked by what must've been the tallest couple in existence. He was at least 6'4. She was pushing 6'. I am 5'4 and, even with my placement in the stands behind them, could barely see a darned thing. So I buddied up to SuperFan John and swayed into his sightline a few times. I feel no shame.

We screamed along to I'm Goin' Down and Badlands and Thunder Road and a bunch of stuff from his latest album, too. I waited oh-so-patiently for Rosalita...and it never came, but that's okay because he did a positively electrifying version of Trapped. So I forgave him for the lack of my song. (And She's The One never came either, but we really can't have everything.)

So, I love Bruce. Always have. And was enjoying the heck out of each song and the atmosphere of the whole thing (I mean, dude is getting on in age but he DOES NOT LET UP) when suddenly, my world was rocked. Because I saw a familiar silhouette come onstage and heard an unmistakable gravelly kinda voice...and before I knew it, Eddie Vedder was playing guitar and singing with Bruce Springsteen and I was totally there and got to see it and 14 year-old Keely was SO HAPPY she almost puked into her hoodie. And Tom Morello showed up, too. And then they all played together and it was like a magical unicorn land of gingerbread divinity.

An even bigger highlight? In the middle of Bruce's Waitin' On A Sunny Day, the camera scanned the crowd, focused in on a little girl holding a sign with just those lyrics- and so Springsteen invited her onstage to sing by herself. And then he picked her up, spun her around, and danced with her for a bit. Eventually he returned the grinning [and shell-shocked] kid to her [equally grinning and shell-shocked] parents. And Peej and I felt our hearts swole. We're suckers for awesome things like that.

By the end of the seventh song in the encore (during which time I deemed Morello and Vedder to be the awesomest Pips to Springsteen's Gladys), we were completely astounded by the level of Bring-It-tude that Bruce brought. Dude's shirt was completely drenched in sweat, save for his collar and cuffs. I guess that's what makes him The Boss.

Or maybe it's his ability to do it again the very next night, while I'm still reeling from dancing/having three Bud Light Limes.

We all have our strengths.