This is my sweet husband and sweet Gracie, our friends' kid. We watched the poor sickly baby while her parents had a much-deserved night out on Sunday. As difficult as it is to take care of a child sometimes, there was never a moment when my spirits fell. That child is genuinely happy, humorous, and loving. It's unbelievable and contagious. Also, she's drawn to guitars, and that gets an A+ in my book.
Also pictured: My First Guitar. When I had just graduated high school, my boyfriend Nick and his punkrockstar little brother took me to My First Guitar Center to fork over ~$150 for the cheap, shoddy, ridiculously high-actioned guitar. That same boyfriend projected neon orange vomit onto that same guitar from the top of his dorm room bunk-bed a few months before we broke up. After walking me through My First Joni Mitchell Song, My First Open Mic Night, My First Broken String, My First The Guitar Is A Tool To Meet People In Airports Experience, My First Yay, I Get To Write Sad Break Up Songs Now, and My First Witnessed Collegiate Bunk-Bed Barf, the sweetly awful guitar is now proudly possessed by Grace's parents for lots more My Firsts with her.
I've since cleaned up the orange barf and acquired a shiny new My First Taylor from my sweet husband. (It took a lot of appropriateness-will-power to not write "from My First Husband" there. Oh, oops).
It was hard to part with it for a while, but I realized that, shortly after rechristening it The Thrasher, I wasn't ever going to play it again. Yes, it sounds that bad and hurts that much. I have visitation rights and better callouses, Grace gets guitar-accompanied lullabies in the comfort of her own home, The Thrasher gets some regular action, and Erik and I gained some closet space.
Everybody wins.
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