Outside the Stadium
By Joy Nicholas
@joynicholaswrites
It’s 90 degrees in Zurich, the hottest day of summer so far, but a gentle breeze starts blowing as golden sunlight slants over the stadium. Standing alone outside the concert, I hear the music change, and Taylor Swift’s voice swirls out into the city. A roar rises like a cloud, and I know that somewhere inside, my five kids’ voices are adding to that sound as I listen, leaning against the metal barrier.
I smile as I take in the scene and wonder, How did I get here? Months ago, I leaned toward my laptop, holding my breath as I entered the virtual queue for four tickets, then cheered when I scored them for Zurich. European Eras Tour tickets cost much less than in America, and the Swiss city is just a four-hour drive from our home in Germany. I wanted all of my kids to experience the concert, so when I learned that both of my adult daughters would be home from the States then, I handed off my ticket and bought a fifth. Five times anything adds up quickly even with good deals, though, and I couldn’t justify buying a ticket for myself. So instead I dropped them off at the gate, calling after them, “I love you! Be safe! Have the best time!” After waves of good-bye and huge smiles, they slipped into the crowd and disappeared.
Now, a tall, bearded policeman wearing a high-visibility vest stands on the other side of the barrier, between me and the stadium, glaring suspiciously at everyone, his hand resting on a machine gun. But he won’t need it for the group of ragtag revelers assembled here. A young girl with one foot on her scooter waits for her mother who pushes a stroller and chats with a friend. I recognize a man from the Bangladeshi food truck I stopped at earlier. His cheap plastic sandals are falling apart around his callused feet that dance to the rhythm, and he has the widest smile on his face.
There’s another mother in a white linen skirt and tank top, dancing with her daughter who looks like she’s the same age as my oldest. Both of them have jewels glued around their eyes. The daughter has golden curls and wears a pink romper, singing passionately to the words of every song. Her mother gazes up at her face smiling, eyes shining with adoration and delight as she basks in her daughter’s happiness.
I know this feeling so well.
One afternoon twenty-four years ago, we were stuck in San Francisco traffic. My husband was behind the wheel of our car as our firstborn, Jayna, fussed in her car seat. Her cries were getting louder and more desperate, and we weren’t moving, so I climbed into the backseat next to her.
“Hey! What’s wrong?” I asked, checking her over. Everything seemed fine, but her eyes pooled with tears and her bottom lip stuck out. “Just feeling lonely? It’s okay, I’m here.” She started crying loudly, bored and tired of being trapped in the car. A few rounds of peek-a-boo provided enough mild entertainment for a brief intermission, but soon she was wailing again. Desperate, I tried a toy, a board book, another toy, but her cries crescendoed. Surrendering to momentary defeat, I took a sip from the water bottle I’d bought earlier at a gas station. The plastic crinkled in my hand, and just like that, Jayna stopped crying, staring at me with surprise in her giant blue eyes.
“What?” I asked, wondering if I was onto something. My fingers pushed on the plastic again, and a laugh bubbled out of her.
“That’s funny?” Grinning, I squeezed the bottle, and Jayna’s whole body shook, her face split apart with a giant, gummy smile. Every time her laughter faded a little, I’d squeeze the bottle again. When that got old, I tapped my head lightly with the now-empty bottle, attaining a whole new level of hilarity. Jayna almost couldn’t take it. She screamed with laughter and kicked her legs as her face turned red. We kept going like this until the cars started moving again and the wheels rolling under us lulled her to sleep.
Jayna’s smile felt like an addiction, a song I didn’t want to end, and I would, in a heartbeat, make a fool of myself for it.
I try not to stare awkwardly at the mother and daughter now on this Zurich street even though they feel like another version of myself with my kids. After about an hour, I move to the nearby curb and sit down. It’s still warm from the sun, and I lean back, stretching my sandaled feet out in front of me, singing the words I know so well. I hear Taylor shout to the crowd, as she does at every concert, “After this, when you hear these songs out in the world, I hope you’re going to think about the memories we made here tonight!”
“I don’t know, sounds like a one-hit wonder,” I told my husband Matt the first time I heard “Tim McGraw” on the car radio. But our two daughters sitting in the back seat were immediately enthralled with Taylor Swift. They put on living room performances for us, the bricks around our fireplace making a stage for them as they sang “Picture to Burn” and “Teardrops on My Guitar.” The girls grew and our family grew and the playlists grew, each new song weaving into the soundtrack of our story. Her music made my kids feel less alone with our many moves, like they had a friend who understood what they were going through.
At Taylor’s prompting, my memories with her songs flicker through my mind like a grainy home movie. Here we are, the kids and I, belting out the words on a winding road through the coastal range of California, or a long straight freeway in west Texas, or the flax fields of Normandy, or Tuscan hills on a chilly December evening. There is golden hour sunlight and magical winter snowscapes, moments of belly laughter and tearful recollections of heartbreak resonating with the lyrics.
My nightly ritual from September to June, when my two oldest girls are at their universities in the States, goes like this: I tap the Find My app on my phone, the little green circle like a radar screen with a blue dot inside, and then I scroll down to my daughters’ names. It’s 4:30 p.m. on the East Coast where Jayna lives now, and 3:30 for my second daughter, Skyler. Where are they? The addresses have become familiar even if I’ve never actually been to them, and I know where both girls are supposed to be at those times. I use my fingers to zoom in on the circle that represents them, imagining what they’re doing just then. It would be creepy stalker behavior for anyone else, but as their mother it feels like the only way to check on their well-being from so far away, like when I’d hover my hand above their faces when they were sleeping infants, just to feel their breath. I never moved them into their dorms or apartments. I’ve missed all the parent weekends and celebrations at their universities as well as car accidents, sicknesses, and breakups, because I’m raising three other kids an ocean away. Every night, this thought gives me a pang of grief and guilt.
But then again, aren’t I supposed to cheer for the fact that they’re moving into the world, into their own spaces, and thriving? Isn’t this what it means to watch your children grow up?
“You know, motherhood is kind of a bad deal,” I complained to my mother recently. “You get these babies you adore, but they’re kind of handfuls for a while. And somehow they grow into really wonderful humans you would choose to spend time with even if they weren’t yours, and then they leave.” She laughed and nodded without saying anything because there were also tears in her eyes.
“Going to sleep, hope the rest of your day is good,” I text my daughters night after night after night. “I love you!” As I hit “send,” I wonder, always, if this is enough. But I also know that by the time I check my phone again, they’ll have responded with hearts and, “Love you too!”’s, and this gives me the peace I need to fall asleep.
There’s a quote I came across once that says, “Motherhood is the exquisite inconvenience of being another person’s everything.” Does this remain true though? Am I my kids’ everything? Or am I watching from the outside, slipping into the periphery of their lives? Because they’re still at the center of mine, and they always will be.
The sun sinks behind me, and I can see lights dance above the stadium walls. As “Karma,” the last song of the concert setlist, ends, fireworks thunder into the sky. But even these explosions are drowned out by the cheers of the audience. I imagine my kids’ faces, their enormous smiles, illuminated by the flashes. Tonight, that’s more than enough.
I’m waiting by the car half an hour later when the kids finally find me. Everyone looks exhausted but radiant. As soon as she spots me, my youngest daughter runs up and gives me a tight squeeze around the waist. She holds something in her closed fist.
“Look, Mom!” she says breathlessly, holding out her hand to me and opening it. Two sweaty squares of colored tissue paper rest in her palm like jewels. “There were fireworks and then confetti, and I saved these for you.”
Guest essay written by Joy Nicholas. Joy is a mother of five and currently living in Germany. You can read more at her Substack, Joy in the World or on Instagram.