We sang and hollered ourselves hoarse, and when the show ended, we dutifully visited one of the kiosks to buy our souvenir merchandise. A crisp, hot pink T-shirt featuring Lady Gaga brandishing a whip would promptly be thrown-up on by Sasha’s daughter just three days later. Callie would wear hers to go running, as would Johanna. Deb sensibly bought a tote bag. Anne’s sweatshirt would be used by her sons to wrap up the family hamster during a playdate with a particularly spirited classmate, and would never be seen again. The hamster would be safely recovered, cowering behind the piano.
Outside the Garden, the crowd’s spirits were high, but people were worn out from all the excitement. Wigs were askew, costumes droopy. A bleary-eyed girl fought loudly with her boyfriend in the street. Our limo was waiting, the driver looking bored as he leaned against the door and smoked. We’d originally had big post-concert plans to go dancing and bar hopping into the morning hours. But at 11:00 on a Friday night, the mommies were spent.
We ended up at an unremarkable pizzeria on a small side street, munching on slices and talking about the show. And wouldn’t you know it, before too long we were discussing our young-uns, despite having impatiently dashed away from them and our noisy, sticky homes just hours earlier. The conversation ricocheted, as it often does when a discussion of 10 small children is involved, from one topic to the next.
There were tales of sibling rivalry and sibling sweetness, and a story about a hilarious first trip to the dentist. Toilet training troubles were touched on. A description of aborted swim lessons yielded some helpful information for all. It wasn’t glamorous or urbane, but it’s what occupies our thoughts every day. What can we say? Of course we loved Lady Gaga. Her elaborate choreography, awe-inspiring hats, and thumping beats transported us far, far away. But by the end of the night, everyone was ready to return home to the