Fans scramble to the “grand” attraction

For years now, experts have been saying that career-minded people should plan on having more than one career in a lifetime. Good thing I listened to the experts, otherwise I might have been caught off guard to find myself suddenly married to a rock star.

The husband didn’t start out as a rock star. Oh sure, he played drums for a band in high school, but they mostly played in a friend’s garage. He has been a journalist all his working years and did not become a rock star until about seven years ago.

These days, fans yell and scream and jump out from behind doorways, bushes and even furniture whenever they spot him. They run at him, charge him and nearly knock him down. If ever a man needed a security detail, it is this one.

To be clear, the husband doesn’t have millions of fans (more like nine), but they are loyal fans. They don’t follow his every move on Facebook or Twitter, but they do follow him through the house, the backyard and a nearby park. His fans also tend to be short—and young (ages 7, 6, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 18 months and 15 months).

Like the other celebrities and stars that get so big they go by one name, he does, too – Grandpa (scream it like his fans do!). What his fans lack in number, they more than make up for in volume.

How does one shoot to rock star sensation level overnight? You become a human jungle gym. You let one kid ride on your back and carry one in each arm. You give horsey rides to two and three fans at a time. You let fans play with your reading glasses. Sure, you may have to buy them in packs of three, but such is the price of fame. You let your fans sit in your lap when they eat dinner (to their parents’ chagrin). You let them play with the comb in your back pocket (and lose it). You let them take pictures on your smart phone (hundreds at a time).

You become an overnight rock star by sheer charm and personality. You hold mini-pretzels in front of your eyes like they are glasses. You achieve hero status with a foray into the thicket to retrieve the ball. You courageously declare that anytime is a good time for ice cream.

You become a rock star by drawing funny pictures and reading books. Book after book, sometimes the same book after book—books about crocodiles, birds, bears, mice, machinery and talking vegetables.

Being married to a rock star has its challenges. Somedays the fans pass me right by as they sprint to the main attraction. But it’s OK, because somebody has to stay grounded. Somebody has to be responsible, pay attention to safety, nutrition and assess what bones might break if a small fan were to fall from a particular height.

The fans are gone now. The rock star is recovering on the couch in a deep sleep. He’ll probably want dinner when he regains consciousness.

Mine may not be a glamorous job, but somebody has to manage the talent.