Picture this: Four little girls, ages eight, seven, six and almost five walking down a lighted sidewalk. The seven-year-old is in a long tulle baby blue gown and a plastic princess crown. The eight-year-old has chosen wide-leg teenager jeans and a cute top. The two youngest are in sequins and black leather jackets, except one jacket is fancier than the other because it has rainbow sparkle fringe and that makes the other one jealous, of course. But her birthday is coming up, so she puts in a request. The seven and eight-year-old are in sparkly boots, the almost-five-year-old is in sparkly Mary-Jane shoes that are two sizes too big. The seven-year-old princess is in pink combat boots…

“Ohh, myyy, gawwwd,” the women standing outside the door gush. “I love your boots! You girls are adorable!” 

All four girls smile shy-like and fluff up a little as their moms and gramma tell them to gather up now, let’s all get a picture. Smile! This is a big moment, your first concert!

This was our little parade, a spectacle I didn’t realize we’d create until I saw the fruits of our plan to attend the Carly Pearce concert at the 4-Bears Event Center last weekend with my daughters, two nieces, my sister and mom. We had been singing along to Carly’s music on the rides to and from school for at least a month solid and given the venue was only forty miles from the ranch I thought this was a perfect opportunity for a girl’s night! We could be there and home in bed by ten, especially since the concert started at 6 pm! 

Going to concerts with my family has given me some of my favorite memories, and so I pulled out all the stops for these girls to make it a true concert-going-experience. I transformed my living room and kitchen into a spa, complete with a charcuterie board and orange pop in fancy glasses. With my little sister on the curling iron, me at the nail station and my oldest charged with making sure the outfits were on point, we got to work on our looks. And because my husband knows the consequences of low blood sugar in the women of my family, he got to work rolling out pizza dough and making sure everyone ate at least one piece. Add a little pink sparkly lipstick and a swoop of mascara on each of us and we were off, all seven of us in my SUV, radio up, chattering and singing along. 

Now, a girl can learn a lot of life lessons from her first concert. Turns out, she can also learn some from her thirty-third. Like, read the ticket carefully so you’re not an hour and forty-five minutes early with four kids under the age of ten at a casino in the middle of rural western North Dakota. Turns out the doors opened at six and Carly Pearce wasn’t the first headliner in the history of the world to start her concert early. No wonder we got a good parking spot, albeit with one of my tires on the curb. After I shook off the panic, I figured everyone probably had to go potty and that would probably take four to five business days, which it did, and so did the concessions and finding our seats and waiting the half hour for our star to take the stage.

But when she did, oh my gosh, was it loud. Because in my attempt to make this the most magical experience as possible, I failed to remember how big and booming the speakers are when you’re sitting thirty feet from them and you’re a small human.

No worries! My sister brought earplugs for those who wanted them. It was time to sing along. Which I did enthusiastically while simultaneously staring at my daughters trying to take in all their excitement and cuteness, which embarrassed my oldest, of course, because she was sure everyone could hear me. I brushed off her shushing and reluctantly toned it down.

Three to five songs in and the almost-five-year-old realized sequins were itchy and that her mom didn’t pack her an alternate outfit in the tiny purse she was allowed to bring. To avoid a meltdown, it seemed like a good time for another potty break, quick, before they played our favorite song. Cue another sparkly parade to the bathroom and more “oh fer cutes,” along the way. And then cue the only track my youngest cared about muffling through the bathroom stalls. “Never take a pee break!” Rosie shouted as we all ran down the hallway to get back to the floor before she wrapped up the last chorus. But lucky for Rosie, I knew the next step, and it was staying down on that floor for a dance party. It was only during the last three songs that the almost-five-year-old learned her lesson about choosing the proper concert-going footwear, which, in her defense, I don’t think any woman has ever really abided by. Those two-sizes-too-big-Mary-Janes were over. Except she didn’t want to take them off. And she didn’t want to be held. And she didn’t want to be put down. But lucky for her, she had an older cousin who learned girlfriend-concert-code quickly and offered to trade shoes so they could keep dancing. 

My mom, who’s no dummy, went to the concessions for hot dogs.

Crisis averted. 

And, turns out, good things come to those who shake it and shake it off when a tour manager handed the girls four autographed photos. Elated, Edie held it to her chest, “We’re so lucky.” 

The last song played, and the girls learned about an encore as we clapped and shouted. The lights came up and we sang and skipped all the way to the car, our feet suddenly painless, our dresses less itchy.

We buckled up and gramma handed out hot dogs. I turned up the music and we learned the other best part about concert-going is the concert recap. My headlights bounced off the buttes of the badlands and one by one each little girl dropped off to sleep, leaning on one another in little heaps of glitter and tulle and lipstick. 

I pulled into the driveway and shut off the car and under the shine of the moon four little stars were carried inside dreaming, our little parade coming to an end back where it started…