When I was a little girl, I had it all planned out. I dreamed of being famous. I was going to be a singer/dancer/model/actress/photojournalist. Never mind trying to tell me that wasn’t an ACTUAL career path. (I’m almost 30, so those were ye olde dark ages before people like the Kardashians became famous for…well…What are they famous for?).
I danced. I studied voice. In a tiny town where cows outnumbered people, I was taking some expensive steps toward a goal very few understood. “I’m going to be the one who gets out of here. I’m going to be famous. I will literally never come back to this place ever again.” I told anyone who would listen. I once told an Algebra teacher I didn’t need to know math. TO HER FACE. IN THE MIDDLE OF CLASS. (I’ve always been a gutsy little thing).
I graduated, moved to Nashville, and studied Musical Theatre at Belmont University. Professors asked me where such a big voice came from in such a tiny little lady. The president hugged me at graduation when he handed me my diploma and called me “The Voice” any time our paths crossed on campus. (What up Dr. Fisher!!!!!)
I was going to be SO STINKING FAMOUS IT WAS GOING TO BE UNREAL. LIKE, MOVE OVER DOLLY P, ASHLEY HAS ARRIVED. I AM HERE AND I AM GOING TO MARRY ADAM LEVINE AND TOGETHER WE WILL OWN AN ISLAND AND MY BEAUTIFUL CELEB BABIES WILL BE ON US WEEKLY AND Y’ALL ARE GOING TO GET SUPER PUMPED UP THAT YOU HAD A CHANCE TO KNOW ME, OKAY?
I was cute, huh?
Until, I moved to New York…and I wasn’t any more famous than I was a sea creature. No one cared that I studied under Tony winners and local celebrities; they cared more about why I was late to their table with the extra mayo and if I could switch the TV behind the bar to the UFC fight.
The nerve of them. Didn’t they know who I thought I was? I mean. Hello. Future Mrs. Levine over here.
Disgruntled, I moved back home to “regroup” (live at my Mamaw’s house and have her tell me how awesome I was and feed me all the food) with plans to eventually move back to the Big Apple.
You wanna know what other class I should have paid attention to in high school? Sex Ed.
Because two months and 12 pregnancy tests later, I was in for a whole other adventure. Being a mom. A 22-year-old mom with a performance degree, bartending part time, and living with Mamaw. Stuff got really real. Like epically real. And I would lay awake in bed and think about what a big pile of crap my life had turned into. My dreams were done. They had vanished out the window.
Until one morning my water broke. And I thought I was so HUGE (I gained 80 pounds…that’s really the only fitting descriptive here), I had lost bladder control and was peeing on my dog, in my bed. 21 hours, a contraband grilled cheese, and a really nice man with an epidural later, I met my Spicy Chicken Biscuit With Sauce, aka Mad Dog, aka Maddox G. 20 months after that (please someone go back in time and tell early 20s me where babies come from, okay?), I welcomed my Sweet Llama Lovin’ Kissin’ Huggin’ Walkie Talkie Bear, aka Walker A. After that, I didn’t really dream about stage lights and quick changes anymore.
Here’s the funny thing about dreams: dreams coincide with the seasons of our lives. Dreams form and dovetail off of our reality; dreams change. They can be small or big. They can be based in facts or they can take you to different places and times. Dreams are funny little shape-shifting weirdos that way.
I decided my new dream was running a district or a region of retail stores shortly after returning to work. But, with two babies, retail hours, and the possibility of relocation, the sacrifices I would make to reach that dream weren’t worth it. I walked away from corporate retail sales just inches away from becoming a store manager after 2 years as an assistant. Last week, I turned down an industrial sales management position boasting a salary of $90,000 annually. “I told you Rob,” on a conference call with a recruiter and a VP of operations who hand picked me from a large pool of other candidates, “I cannot commit to weekly overnight travel. I cannot train in Chicago for 4-6 weeks. Fall ball is starting. They’re too little. I just won’t commit to that right now.”
I have given up so many childhood dreams. I have canceled so many plans. I have said no with my head when my heart was screaming yes. I have let men, who most women would swoon for, walk away.
The little girl on the RCA camcorder, shaking her tutu and singing Patsy Cline for anyone who would listen is a far cry from this grown up girl, coordinating visitation schedules, reaching out to coaches to make sure Maddox’s soccer schedule won’t interfere with fall baseball, and talking to specialists about Walker’s worsening eye condition.
AND I WOULDN’T TRADE ONE HOT GLITTERY MINUTE OF IT.
For every dream that I have given up, I have gotten new ones back in spades. For every career that passed me by or for every man who couldn’t take on two little men, I have gotten big snuggles and tiny hand holds. I have a fan club telling me I look like a princess when I put on a skirt. I am covered in a warm velvety love that smells like feet and strawberries (don’t knock it till you’ve been there) and runs to meet me at the door when I come in from work. I have two sets of brown eyes that sparkle when they experience the beach or fireworks or a water slide, and tiny shopping buddies who tell me the new booties I found on sale for $12 are “just so bootiful for you, mommy.” My dreams are less and less about me and more and more about them. Yes, every now and then I see something on Facebook where a college friend is in a movie or TV show. I listen to former flames climb up the Top 40 charts. I see ex-coworkers taking extravagant vacations with their significant others. And in those small moments I think “what if?”
Then I am quickly jolted back to reality because someone is touching someone else’s peenie in the bathtub and the dog is drinking out of Frog Potty.
I traded character shoes for cleats. A loft in a big city for a level backyard to accommodate a behemoth play set. A powerful executive career path for nighttime kisses and morning bed buddies. My dreams are realized in two little humans who make sand potatoes and insist on keeping Christmas trees up in their rooms year round. I’m not a singer/dancer/model/actress/photojournalist. I didn’t escape my hometown. At no point have I been or will I ever be famous. However, my dreams came true in the unlikely form of Biscuit and Llama. They are literally the oxygen in my lungs. They light up holes and spaces I never even knew were dark. They are the sweet dreams I never knew I would have, and every other syrupy sweet clichéd love term.
Also okay, FINE Behati Prinsloo, you can keep Adam Levine…for now…
