This Job Will Never Come Again

7:05am

Another morning. The alarm clock has done its thankless job again, but the girls have beat it to the punch. They've run into the room, run me over, and pulled the warm and snugly fitted sheets off of me and onto themselves with a giggle and a contented sigh. They squabble over who gets mom's long abandoned feather pillow. The loser yanks on mine, places her feet on my back, pushing hard, and demands a light breakfast of whatever sugary cereal we have in the cupboard that morning. She always seems to ask for the one that ran out the morning before.

Coffee in the Keurig. The iPod comes off the charger on the kitchen stereo and I check the schedule. If it isn't on there, it probably won't get done. The youngest has dance. Pick up the girls from school. Deposit a check. The watch should be done at the jewelers. Nothing special today. The schedule and my wife kept me moving (and passing) during nursing school. It became a habit of necessity along with checking my email as I rolled out of bed to see the clinical assignments sent out at 4AM. My days are a bit easier in the morning; I check email at seven-thirty now.

7:30am

The filters are getting better, only two or three advertizements and none demeaning the size of my m3mber or touting the newest weight loss miracle cure discovered in some protein rich African berry boosted with B-vitamins and crack disguised as caffeine. The paper version rots in my mailbox and only gets checked a few times a week.

Let's see: Church sent a shotgunned prayer request. The Daily Forward is reviewing life in Brooklyn, again. Dad has sent me another 15MB attachment full of pictures. He says that Facebook is too inhuman and, if he wanted strangers to look at his life, he'd post it on the town square telephone pole. He might have a point, but even his considerate zipping of the pictures does little to curb my irritation at the momentary inconvenience as I set the iPod down to let it download his fishing pictures.

Multitask. The coffee's done. The children are out of bed: cereal, spoons, last minute homework for the oldest,  twenty minutes of Word Girl for the youngest while she eats.


8:00am

Her hair is a tangled fluffy golden puff. Her eyes are playfully blue and her lips are pursed in defiance. She know this dance. We've tangoed before. It's more than that, it's a dare and she knows who wins. Her latest version of "I don't want socks," or "I hate those pants" has evolved to include kicking me in the jaw. It hurts, but I know it's just the independence talking. She has no idea what her real strength is. It took myself, a large orderly, and the doctor to hold her still long enough to get a bean out of her nose a few years ago. She's stronger now.

The oldest has always dressed herself and knows the school handbook by heart. The school challenged her once and she beat 'em down. Not bad for a ten year old. I only heard about it on the way home when I asked why she was smiling so broadly. She is beginning to realize the power of a confident girl, but she feels others pain acutely. I won't be surprised when she joins the peace core after medical school.  

Out the door, still hoping all their shoes are on and the book bags are in the car because I don't see them inside.

8:35am

I sweet-talk the car, half praying to God that the transmission shifts past second gear this time when backing out onto the highway. Truckers don't slow down when you stall and I'm not sure the air bags work, but who does.

I must have upset the tiki-gods last night. The power steering spit up all the fluid last night and my elbows pop in and out as I crank the column around and hit the gas. The youngest is singing to herself about the cereal she spilled. The oldest stares at the clock, knowing we'll be late and trying not to vomit with the realization that she may be the last kid dropped off at the corner of the school and have to walk her sister in alone to the sound of morning announcements.

8:55am 

The lights are all green and we slide in just in time. "Love you girls. Have a good day." Out the doors they go, down the side-walk, and into the school. I miss them already, but I can wait. I know they're growing up and I can't see it all.

Seven-thirty to nine o'clock every day. This is an hour an a half I wouldn't miss for the world. I don't know how I ever did or why. Well, I do. The money was nice, but this is better. I know I won't be able to do this for ever, but I know them better than I ever have. I feel like a Dad. I feel reconnected in a way I haven't felt since they fell asleep as babies on my chest while I was watching football in a chair propped back. It counter-balances my current joblessness/ underemployment and it salves the wounds for now. The job that pays cash will come, but this job will never come again.