Read an Excerpt
If home is where the heart is, then we’ve been making home all over these forty-eight contiguous states and beyond since 2005. Highway by highway, state by state, stage by stage, we’ve nurtured our love and our family. Then we set out the welcome mat. Everyone’s invited. Each venue is our living room, and each show is a party we’re throwing for our closest friends. It just so happens most of them are strangers.
And now, fifteen or so years in, we’ve been tasked with giving you a glimpse into our little whirlwind of a life, walking you through the sights, sounds, laughter, joy, and tastes of a life built—and growing—on the road. To be honest, it’s an intimidating task. We’ve never done anything like this before, but Hemingway said (At least I think he said it. Let’s just say he did.) writing is easy: “All you have to do is sit at the typewriter and bleed.” So here we go. Only, bleeding is a little too messy and we already have three kids to clean up after, so instead, we hope to invite you into our veins, into the currents of what drives us and the life force it carries.
A family member once described our life and schedule as her “absolute nightmare.” How sweet. We are self-employed, married to our business/creative partner, working on the road, and raising a family on highways and in dressing rooms. We get it. It sounds a little wild. And, thankfully, it is. The chaos is as cozy to us as a blanket at this point.
Constantly being on your toes teaches you a few things along the way. Like how much community matters and the importance of probiotics while traveling. One thing we do know for absolute certain is that chasing down something you feel called to do will cost you. We have certainly felt those costs. Sometimes it requires more energy than you have. Other times it requires more patience or tenacity, but most of all, it requires you to be a constant professional at silencing the voice that says, You’re an idiot for thinking you are qualified for any of this in the first place! In many ways, that’s the hardest part, silencing the voice. But it’s important work, allowing us to continue to live out this calling we are so grateful for. Our journey, much like yours, is bespoke to us, tailor-made. It’s all we’ve ever wanted. But even if, like our previously mentioned family member, you think it sounds horrible, we still hope you’ll take a little of our passion with you.
The thing is, we don’t have to sell out another show to feel like we’ve “made it.” We’ve got no trophy case or extraordinary accolades, we’ve never even been nominated for anything, and we still have dozens of dreams ahead of us yet to be realized. But for us, we have made it. We get to pour out our hearts and show our babies: “You can have your cake and eat it, too. You can do what you love with the people you love.”
Sometimes we wrestle with feeling like we might not be capable of living the life we’ve always wanted. It can be very hard to take your home on the road. “I believe; help my unbelief” should be the life mantra of two traveling troubadours with three babies. Like a high-wire act performed with nothing to catch us if we fall, we often talk about what it means to live life “without a net.” That’s us!
In the middle of this beautiful circus, we have made a home. Raising babies and chasing dreams with no net to catch us is the only life we’ve ever wanted. These are the good old days. You’re invited. Come on in. The water is fine . . . ish . . . sometimes. It’s all good. We’re gonna have a blast. That we know for sure. Here goes nothing!
Amanda
It doesn’t matter where we are
Stuck in the rain in Central Park
Driving down Sunset Boulevard
If you’re there in my arms.
Waking up is hard for me. I’m a natural sleeper. I’m neither a morning person nor a night owl. I’m one of those people who thrives only between 10:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. Outside of that, I’m just okay. I can’t promise I’m going to be my best self. This morning is no different, except there’s a slightly red hue to the morning rays sneaking through the curtain, so I’m more confused than normal. We live in Burbank, California, where I know the light so well, I can tell the time based on the shadows cast across our bedroom. This morning is different, though.
I hear our sweet new baby, Paloma, chirping in her crib, making the sweetest little sounds on earth. I pick her up and give her breakfast, also known in our family as a “booby snack,” while enjoying some delicious baby cuddles in my half-comatose state. Abner must have snuck out while I was still snoozing, which is good news for me, because that means there’s probably coffee ready. I whine, “Oh my gooooodness” into the baby monitor (our little cue since our first year of marriage that I’m awake and, for that reason, slightly unhappy), and within two minutes he’s at the door with some wake-up juice.
Thank you, Jesus, for such a thoughtful husband.
When we first got married, Abner noticed that whole not-being-a-morning-person thing about me. And ever since, he won’t let me get out of bed unless he brings me coffee first. If you want to know how to make a happy marriage, that’s how, my friends.
I hand Paloma over to Abner and start my daily search for clean clothes. Laundry is hard to do sometimes, and even when it’s done, it rarely gets put away. We just sort of dig out what we need until it’s all back to being dirty. What is a dresser again? I can’t remember. Oh well. I’ll just wear the same sweats I’ve been wearing for two days, the same hoodie, the same shoes. It’s all right there, shoved into a little closet behind our bed. Clean underwear is really all you need. And, lucky me, though I’m down to my last pair, at least I’m good for the day. Who cares about fashion or style? Just don’t ask the twenty-year-old me that question. What does she know? She was inexperienced at life and over-rested.
I’m dressed and walking up the dark hallway. It seems everyone is awake and up front or already gone. Sure enough, when I get through the door to the open kitchen/living area, my bigger babies are jumping around, spilling cereal, and squealing at the sight of me. Luna, our second, is in full toddler mode, trying to climb out of her highchair, which is screwed to the table. She is screaming, per usual. Is it a happy scream, a sad scream, an angry scream, a scared scream? Who can know? Toddlers are a mystery Heaven has given us to stretch our capacities and the limits of our sanity, all wrapped up in the cutest possible package so we don’t throw ourselves directly in the garbage. Luna is no different. She is simultaneously all the work and all the delight.
I pick her up, wipe her off, and snack on her cheeks for a minute. Joaquin, her big brother and our oldest, immediately begs to come with us to work today. Of course, the answer is yes. But Amy, our nanny, has now walked in. She tells him about a cool museum nearby, and he no longer cares about old Mom and Dad. He’s got plans now. He runs back to find some clothes out of said clean-clothes pile. He is joy in human form. Unfortunately, getting him dressed looks like a Cirque du Soleil show and takes about as long. It requires stretching and two minutes of meditation before beginning. Finally, he’s ready. He heads down the stairs with Luna and Amy, and hops on the kickstand of our enormous minivan of a stroller. I miss them already, but I’ve got to go.
I fumble around, looking for the shoes I took off last night. Finally, I find them and throw them into my bag along with my security badge, which I’m shocked I haven’t already lost. I swing the door open and step out. I’m in a parking garage. No wonder it’s so dark this morning. I look down for a green arrow, and sure enough, it’s right next to the door mat, thanks to our tour manager, Greg. It’s pointing me to the right. I step out. And as I turn, I remember . . . I’m in Colorado. This is the legendary Red Rocks Amphitheater. We’re playing here for the first time, tonight.
I lock the tour bus behind me. This is going to be a great day.
It doesn’t matter where we go
East Tennessee or Tokyo
I’m not a foreigner, I’m home
When you’re there in my arms.
Abner
