Springtime Blues & Sharing Music
Send me a curated Spotify Playlist just for me and I'll love you forever
I’m at 19 weeks pregnant, which, to me, has been the hardest point emotionally. The first trimester was purely about survival. I let myself do whatever I needed to do just to make it through the day. And now, being at the halfway point, I can’t help but think, how the hell am I supposed to survive getting bigger and bigger every day for another 20 weeks?
I have a feeling that for some pregnant women, this is the moment it kicks in that things are moving quickly and we need to get our shit together. Jesus, you’re pregnant forever.
I’m also crying A LOT. I’m feeling extremely fragile right now, to the point that when I ask Paul what he wants for dinner and he says, “Let’s just cut out the middleman and you tell me what you want,” what I hear is, “You don’t love me and you’re selfish.” It’s been a real lose-lose situation for Paul recently.
I also cried pretty much the entirety of the movie Project Hail Mary. Sorry to the man sitting to the right of me trying to enjoy his cocktail at Alamo Drafthouse while I slurped my milkshake to disguise my sobs. Great movie, by the way.
On top of the general being pregnant thing, for whatever reason, the spring season always has me feeling down. The back and forth between too cold, then too hot, then too cold again is draining. My allergies are terrible. And in the nonprofit world, with so many events, spring has always been the busiest time of year for me at work.
This spring is probably the worst yet, with having to lead an event hosting over 700 people at Commanders Stadium. It’s a fundraising event we’re worried won’t hit its goal, so we’ve added a bunch of smaller events leading up to it. It’s never-ending.
At this point, you’re probably wondering if I just started my Substack to complain. I don’t blame you, but I promise I’m going somewhere with this. Anyway, I look forward to becoming a more fun version of myself after May 9th, when this big event is in my rearview mirror.
What I’ve learned about myself when I get to this place of stress, anxiety, and what really is just the springtime blues, but this time with a dabble of pregnancy hormones, is that I need to be reminded of my first love in life, music.
I won’t claim to know a lot about music. At one point, I really wanted to learn the title of every single Beatles album in order and what songs were on each album so I could sound cool at parties. That proved to be too challenging.
I credit three people in my childhood for providing me with the tools I needed to discover how music seemed to cure any blues.
My dad was probably my first introduction and biggest supporter. Driving around, listening to his music, but also stuff he thought I’d like. He’s the reason I know every word to every song on Queen’s Greatest Hits album. I have core memories of belting out “Tempted” by Squeeze in the back of his car. We formed a sort of secret handshake where “What’s happening, brother?” was a line we said to each other because of the song “What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye.
All my most cherished Christmas presents as a child were music-related. Starting with a Walkman, then an adorable little bright red CD player boombox, which I’d use to blast my favorite tunes. At six years old, those were, for whatever reason, oldies. I had 60s and 70s greatest hits CDs, my mom yelling at me to turn down “My Sharona.” In high school, I upgraded to a bigger CD player that came with speakers I could put throughout my room and just jam out. Not sure why my parents would do that to themselves. My mom would always try to yell up to me that it was dinnertime, and I’d never be able to hear her through The Beach Boys blasting on my surround sound.
My other major influence was my brother, who introduced me to more modern music. Again, this education usually started in the car. At nine years older, my brother Peter was driving me to school when I was only seven to nine years old. I have a distinct memory of having the Cake song “I want a girl with a short skirt and a loooonnng jacket” stuck in my head and singing it on the playground, and another girl teased, “Lucy likes girls!” (2003 was a different time.)
My brother is also the reason I’d sing “Pass the Dutchie” and other inappropriate songs I had no idea I was singing. But he nonetheless helped me move past the 60s and 70s and enter the 80s, 90s, and early 2000s.
This was also something that bonded us. He’d keep in touch while he was in college, writing on my Facebook wall: “I’m mailing you a CD from an Australian band I like, Cut Copy, let me know what you think. What did you think of the new Phoenix album?” I loved that he shared his favorite albums with me.
This was also the peak of sharing music via mix CDs. Peter was in a fraternity at his college and one year had his pledges each make him a mix CD with their current favorite music. Honestly, genius and very wholesome hazing. Once he made his way through the CDs, he mailed them to me. Just a 12-year-old getting educated on what college students were listening to. I remember that almost every single one of the mix CDs had the song “Such Great Heights” by The Postal Service on it.
I credit Peter with giving me good taste in indie rock and alternative music. He introduced me to Two Door Cinema Club, Vampire Weekend, Guster, Belle & Sebastian, and much more. He also gave me one of my favorite Christmas presents, tickets to see Vampire Weekend. He got enough tickets that I could bring a friend, and of course I brought my best friend and fellow music lover, Helene.
Which brings me to my third major childhood influence, my friend, Helene. Helene and I started bouncing our love of music off each other as early as five years old, jumping on and eventually breaking her bed while listening to our first celebrity crush, Aaron Carter. We loved choreographing dances to songs on the Shrek album. I remember my mom saying we couldn’t pick “I Don’t Give a Damn About My Bad Reputation” since it had a “bad word in it.” I still know some dance moves to our favorite dance, “Electric Avenue” by Eddy Grant.
We loved sitting in Helene’s playroom listening to The Black Eyed Peas albums all the way through, discussing which songs were our favorites. When the Now CDs were big, we’d take turns asking our parents to purchase them and then sharing them. I think Now 16 was probably my most listened to.
We continued sharing music together through high school and beyond, jamming out to “The Purple Bottle” by Animal Collective in her car, always on full blast. I made Helene a playlist for when she was in the hospital giving birth to her first baby called “Nostalgia,” with songs that reminded me of us jamming out together. I wasn’t thinking about how “Sail” by AWOLNATION wasn’t exactly soothing.
There are plenty of other people in my life I’ve appreciated sharing music with, and in high school, one of the nicest gifts you could give me was a mix CD. In my old Volkswagen Golf that I drove throughout college and up until a few years ago, I had dozens of mix CDs piled up, and honestly, one of the saddest parts of giving up that car was losing them.
Once CDs were out, Spotify playlists replaced them. I remember finally getting a Spotify account in college and sharing music with friends through curated playlists, essentially the new mixtape.
All this to say, to bring things full circle, that in the midst of my springtime blues, I’ve started creating a playlist for my future son.
I know this seems ridiculous because he won’t appreciate it for a while, but it’s my way of getting excited to share my love of music with him. There’s so much I can’t wait to show him, and I hope that one day he will share his favorite music with me.
I always tell Paul that I will work hard not to care or overly influence him when it comes to his interests. I mean, I’d rather he play baseball over lacrosse, but I won’t tell him no if he decides to become a dreaded “lax bro.” I’ll support him in whatever weird things he might want to collect or hobbies that I don’t fully connect with.
But my God, if he doesn’t like music, we have a big problem on our hands.