We all know the feeling. It’s been a long, stressful week. Saturday night has finally arrived. Netflix and comfy clothes beckon. But then an opportunity comes along too good to pass. You decide to go out. And later, you realize you did the right thing. This happened to me recently when my son Patrick gave me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

His band, “Pat Stone and the Dirty Boots,” was playing Rascal Flatts, a good-sized restaurant and stage in Stamford, CT.

“You have to come to this one,” Patrick said. “This is a special gig.”

I had heard over the months how this was an important night. You never knew who could be in the audience — Stamford’s close to New York City. Still, I told myself there’d be lots of chances to see Patrick’s rockabilly group. They were always booked. If I didn’t make this Saturday, there’d be lots more.

But his words haunted me. This was a special gig. Patrick was lead singer.

My husband Randy wasn’t able to go, so for kicks, I asked my 80-something year old mom. She had also had a busy week. If she wanted to stay put (which I assumed she would), it would be wonderfully easy to slip into my pajamas and call it a night.

Instead, her eyes lit up. “I’d love to go!”

Damn. It’s tough having a youthful parent.

Rascal Flatts is about 40 minutes away so we called Uber. Between my bad vision and Mom not wanting to drive I-95 at night, it was a no-brainer.

We arrived and grabbed seats. Soon, my sister Jane joined us. Patrick and his band took the stage.

I’ve been a band Mom fifteen years and still get a thrill seeing my boy up there. I watch Patrick play songs he wrote and see people in the audience singing along. I feel pride. My son.

The crowd was enthusiastic with lots of cheers and whoops. A man and woman in western garb took the dance floor. He wore a red cowboy shirt and big hat. She was slim with long brown hair and faded jeans. As the band played, they did the two-step. He twirled her around, their faces serious with concentration. I felt like I was in Houston.

Halfway into the set, an older, portly man ambled to the stage. He looked to be in his early 70’s and whispered something to Patrick between songs. Patrick nodded and the man joined them, carrying an electric harmonica.

“He’s one of the best players in the country,” a guy standing next to our table whispered. His voice sounded excited.

Patrick and his friends launched into “The Weight” by the Band, one of my favorites. “I pulled into Nazareth, was feeling ’bout half past dead. I just need some place where I can lay my head.”

The harmonica player did a great job, adding enough harmony to embellish their songs, without taking over. I always see it as a compliment when older, more seasoned musicians want to join the young guys.

The band played. The crowd loved them. The man on the harmonica added an unexpected, fun twist. The “two-step” couple circled the room, twirling round and round, like planets rotating the sun. My mom, sister, and I had our drinks and sang along. Sometimes I found myself “chair-dancing.”

At the end, I walked to the stage, giving Patrick a hug goodbye. He looked happy. I thought of that boy in seventh grade that needed something in his life. One day, I heard him noodling around on a practice bass of Randy’s in the basement. That was the beginning.

I knew the work that went into these gigs — the writing, the learning, and late-night practices. I knew the determination it took to get through tough times with indifferent and sometimes nonexistent audiences. I was proud and told him.

Later, mom and I took an Uber home. “I could listen to them all night,” she said, beaming. “So glad I came.”

I saw how these days are fleeting. I won’t always be able to sit with my mother and sister and watch my son play on stage. Someday these moments will end, as everything does in life.

But for now, I had this. And I was so glad my son had given me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

If interested, here’s their Facebook page.

Have you ever had to fight the “lazy’s?” Are you glad you did? Comments are always welcome. If you like, please share. Thank you.

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