The hardest thing about work is leaving the house. I am not just talking about cold mornings and warm covers or the bleary eyed sun rise that follows a late night. Circumstances generally govern the hours prior to my commute with a cold iron fist. But as with every new beginning there is always a warm ray of hope. In our home it is a toasty little hug that pads it's way up to the bed and gleefully interrupts my prolonged conversation with the alarm clock. Wrapped up in fuzzy warm fleece a slightly tilted smile greets me through the gloom with that cherished word "Daddy". Bed head never seems to bother my little ray of hope nor does what some politely call "kitten breath". He just scrambles up in to the bed with Janice and I all laughter and question and cold feet. Tremors of movement toss the covers as we try to avoid swinging arms and legs and more importantly the ice cubes attached to them. A moment of rest before the big question comes up "Juice?" or ever more pressing "Ovaltine!?". With that the morning begins and razor, soap and a plastic blue comb make short work of my night's repose followed by lumbering limbs filling up the work clothes which continue to get smaller as the years pass. Down the stairs I go greeted by padded feet that thump around the kitchen making requests and statements all the while "Dump truck!!!", "Daddy - Mommy!, "Ben?" and "Juice!!". My lunch comes together under Janice's faithful hands. A little plastic container of last nights spaghetti and meat balls, an apple sliced small, some coffee cake from Sunday and a blue frozen ice pack all zipped up in my lunch box. As my breakfast slips away the news tugs at the morning blues but my little ray of hope pushes it back with a grin. Time to leave. The coming day rushes over me as I head for the door but so does a fleece filled hug. I stood at the door today and the hug started at the other end of the hall - arms out stretched ready for take off. A big hug, then another and another and the last one saved for coming home.
Work, as defined by Webster, should really start it's description with waking up but currently does not even mention the morning hours much less the energy expended when turning off the alarm clock. But the hard part about work is not really what you do rather it is what you leave to get it done. My beautiful bride and the fuzzy pajama-ed little boy waving at me as I back away from the house make those allotted sick days look a lot like potential vacation days. Fortunately hope is not restricted to the morning but rather it pads it's way through the day finally separating the window blinds shouting "DADDY!". Then there's that hug for coming home.
