Let me set the scene for you.
It’s the early 2000s. Nickelback and Puddle of Mudd are absolutely everywhere. They’re on the radio, they’re on TRL, they’re the soundtrack to every teenager’s angsty afternoon. Jenny and I are obsessed — genuinely, deeply, play-it-so-loud-you-can’t-hear-your-own-thoughts obsessed. We are also, at this particular moment in time, both nineteen years old and nine months pregnant.
Now. Before you say anything — yes, we were aware. Of the babies. And of what nine months means in terms of baby proximity to the outside world. We knew. We just had priorities.
We had decided, in the way that only nineteen-year-olds can decide things — with zero risk assessment and maximum enthusiasm — that we needed a Last Hoorah. A send-off. One final night of being young and free before we crossed the threshold into actual motherhood and presumably never had fun again.
And then we heard that Nickelback and Puddle of Mudd were both coming to town. Together. Right before our due dates. Like the universe was personally offering us a parting gift and we would have been rude not to accept it.
Jenny asked her dad. He said yes and gave her the money for the tickets. That man has always been a good sport.
My parents did not know. My parents were not going to know. My parents would have had opinions — the kind of opinions that involved the words “absolutely not” and possibly some scripture — so we handled this the way nineteen-year-olds handle everything they know is going to get a no: we simply did not ask.
We bought concert t-shirts. Obviously. You show up to a Nickelback and Puddle of Mudd concert without a shirt and you’re just a tourist. We were going to fit in if it was the last thing we did — which, given our combined gestational age, was a real possibility.
We got inside, and they handed us wristbands for the floor. Jenny looked at hers and looked at me and asked why we were wearing wristbands. I told her it was because we had floor tickets. She looked down at the little paper band — rainbow smiley faces, the kind you’d see on a birthday cake — and kind of marveled at it. It was her first concert wristband. She didn’t know that was a thing. She does now.
And then security saw us.
In. Your. Condition.
They were so careful. So diplomatically careful. Not “pregnant.” Not “about to go into labor at a rock concert.” Just — your condition. I respected it. They made it very clear they had no interest in delivering two babies on the floor of a Nickelback show, which, honestly, fair.
But we assured them we were fine, we were adults (nineteen!), and we knew what we were doing (we did not). So they gave us a deal: they’d be by the fence at the back with water bottles and a place to sit if we needed it. They would be checking on us. We said thank you, and they looked at us with the eyes of people who were quietly questioning every life choice that had led them to this moment.
Puddle of Mudd played first and honestly? We were having the time of our lives. Singing every word. Moving around. Living. Security kept rotating through — one of them would appear every few songs with a water bottle, do a quick visual confirmation that we were still upright and not actively in labor, and disappear again. They were low-key angels in black shirts.
And then the lead singer asked who was ready for Beer O’Clock.
A tray appeared. A full, overflowing tray of clear plastic cups of beer. And before we could process what was happening, he started dumping them. Over the crowd. Just — raining beer. Into the air. Onto the people. Onto us.
We were soaked. Two very pregnant nineteen-year-olds, covered head to toe in nausea-inducing beer, standing in the middle of a rock concert.
We went straight to the fence. We needed air, we needed distance, we needed to no longer be within smelling range of a crowd of beer-soaked rock fans. This plan was partially successful given that we ourselves were beer-soaked rock fans at this particular moment.
Jenny puked.
I don’t say that to throw her under the bus. I say that because it is a completely reasonable response to being doused in beer while nine months pregnant at a concert. If anything, I respect her body for having standards. We sat at the fence for a few songs, got some water, let the worst of it pass, and then — because we had not come this far to stand by a fence — we went back in.
When Nickelback took the stage, we lost our minds. Completely. Every word, every chorus, bouncing, screaming — it was everything we had hoped it would be. Peak Last Hoorah energy. Chef’s kiss.
At some point a mosh pit started, which even we recognized as a hard no, so we moved back toward the middle of the crowd. This is where we discovered the stoners.
A group of them had claimed that particular stretch of floor, and they were passing something around, and one of them — bless his heart — offered it to us. Two very visibly, undeniably, cartoonishly pregnant girls. He offered.
We declined.
To his credit, the guy immediately apologized and the whole group shuffled themselves more toward the center specifically so they wouldn’t blow smoke in our direction. Which was genuinely thoughtful. It didn’t entirely matter because the smell had already found us — it was everywhere, it was in the air, it was part of the fabric of that evening — but the gesture was sweet. Chaotic crowd, kind people. Rock concerts contain multitudes.
Was it the most adult and responsible decision we’ve ever made? Obviously not. Was it the most alive I felt during that entire pregnancy? Absolutely yes. There’s something about being nineteen and reckless and completely unwilling to let your circumstances make you small — even when your circumstances are, quite literally, enormous — that I still feel proud of when I think about it.
We were not going to be the girls who sat at home waiting. We were going to be the girls who showed up, beer-soaked, wristbanded, nine months round, singing every word.
And we were.
Jenny, thank you for being the kind of person who says yes to things like this. Also for not puking on me. That was very considerate of you.
To the security team at that show: you were the real heroes that night. We know you thought we were insane. You were correct. You brought us water anyway. You’re the reason we talk about this story with joy instead of a police report, and we appreciate you.
Joshua was born shortly after. Healthy, happy, and apparently completely unbothered by the whole Nickelback incident. He’s twenty-one now. I’ll tell him about this when he’s ready.
Or maybe I’ll just let him find this post.
