This Mom's Quest to 'Roo the Day

On a midnight drive home after a September concert, I was completely sure about one thing. "We're going."

"Where?" my husband Ryan asked.

"To Bonnaroo. We're going to Bonnaroo."

And from that moment, we were in. It wasn't hard to convince my friend Gemi to go along, plans were made, and eventually, bags were packed -- a lot of 'em.

'Tis Better to Show Your Tush (Lessons Learned from a First Time 'Rooer)

Hindsight is 20/20, right? But as I stood on the shoulder of the interstate, unable to see where my friends had driven at least 10 miles ahead of me, there was no hindsight. There was no end in sight.

Let me back up a little… (which is what I wished they could've done).

We finally arrive in the famous line that begins about 17 miles outside the Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival gate. If you've ever driven by it on I-24, you know what I'm talking about. Cars line up on the shoulder for an incredibly slow-moving experience. People get out and wander between cars. If a bathroom break is required, you just head off into the woods. Or so I thought.

My Brother Was Right. Who Would've Thought?

I spent last weekend (June 9-12) at Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival in Manchester, Tennessee. Those who follow me on Facebook, you already know this. I've posted of nothing else for the past several weeks. Actually, since we bought our tickets on Black Friday (yes, in November) I've been mentioning it for the past six months. You're sick of hearing about it, and I'm okay with that. But the next few posts will be about my experience, and I hope my odd twist on things will hold your interest.

My younger brother Brack is the reason this all started. He went to Bonnaroo last year. And Lollapalooza, Voodoo Fest, Nocturnal Fest, and a host of other festivals I can't remember. Bonnaroo was his favorite, though, and he talked about it nonstop. Sound familiar? It took three months for my husband and me to decide to go (you'll read about that later this week) but once we were "in," Brack became the expert. Annoyingly so. I'll be the first to admit that some of his advice was a little out there, but once we made it to the farm, I realized he was right. About (almost) everything. Which was even more annoying.

Laughter through Tears and a Little White Dog

This isn't a story about a dog. Not really.

It's Tuesday, a warm June afternoon and I'm sitting alone in my living room. Criss-cross-applesauce in the recliner, dreading the phone call I know is coming. Finally it rings, and reading my aunt's name on the screen, I answer. "You have bad news."

"Depends on how you look at it," she says, crying.

And then I'm sobbing, large shaking cries that actually make noise. Cries that give the "boo hoo's" their creed. I hold myself and rock, in a fashion done only by those who are truly devastated.