Tired but restless, unable to sleep, I wait. And wait. And wait for the weekend.
On Friday, right here in Cleveland, Ohio, home to the hottest team in baseball, sometime after 4PM, Max Parker Bogart makes his local debut. I’ve pointed to this day for some time now—many have—and Michael’s email detailing the flight info was a welcome valentine. So…I’m preoccupied, and have been. This was destined to be a long week.
“Monday morning feels so bad,”
Four days to go, it was still too soon to leave for the airport. Mondays are flat to begin with, but at least Wieder was in town. We met Snyder at Champps for dinner and Bobby was so happy to see Alan he actually sat back to the door the entire time. Dinner with 3/4 of The Big Four, the highlight of my pre-grandson week included a phone call to Stuart. We change and we grow, but we love.
“Comin’ Tuesday I’ll feel better.”
Spoke twice with Meredith as Friday eased into long field goal range. Excitedly that night Michael blew through a chorus of chop-busting inquiries he typically escrows for face-to-face meetings. Relentlessly, (amid laughter), he prefaced each question alike: “Let me ask you a question, Dad…”
Fact: When the first words out of my son’s mouth are “Let me ask you a question…” it’s a set up, a platform. Bank on it: his thrill’s in the asking and not in the answer.
“…Who do you think is cooler dad, Brad Pitt or George Clooney…Matt Damon or John Hamm… Matt Damon or George Clooney…Who’s your favorite singer dad?….”
I enjoyed his nonsense Tuesday, and loved to hear him laugh. We were still three days out, but…it followed by moments a conference call with Harriet and Hal. The entire family, it seemed, was rallying this weekend around the flag of our male heir to the throne. The surname will continue, (albeit with a New York accent). Yes, Tuesday was a good day.
“Wednesday just won’t go—“
Yesterday, again, I was flat. Still a bit early to get them, but plans were in final descent. Tammy and Meredith, kindred spirits that they are, both told me no one uses the word “buggy” anymore. Who knew? Moreover, my brainstorm for what to do next Monday (I’m taking the day off) was rejected. Max, I’m advised, is too young for the zoo.
Oh well, at least I got to take Alan to Hopkins. (Like Stacy says: I’m good at airport runs).
“…Thursday goes too slow.”
Thursdays usually fly by. Afternoons spent at the hospital offer respite from travails. Without a cellphone I get four hours away from the clowns and acrobats that populate my day. Still, if I can’t sleep now, how slowly will my day drip by? I picture sitting at the information desk, body present but mind elsewhere…and watching the tick, tick, tick of a clock that won’t be moving.
If I’d been smarter, I’d have plans for the night—a game plan to run out the clock.
Nights Before are elastic. They mentally stretch, starting earlier than usual and lasting long past Letterman’s monologue. I didn’t think. Where’s the clock management?
Oh well, it’s a chip shot now. Friday, that is.
My meeting first thing: 7:30, Suburban Temple…a jumpstart to the day. And guess what? It’s a bye week: No Helen.
So the countdown begins, even in the wee hours of this Thursday morning. Like it did when I waited to drive, and when I waited for college, and when I waited for marriage…and even as we waited for kids…
Except now I’m waiting for Max…tick, tick, tick…and I’ve got Friday on my mind.
(with help from The Easybeats)
What do you mean “bye week”? What about my chicken?
Worth the wait, wasn’t it?