I sat there sweating in the sun, trying to match a diagram of a little kid’s jungle gym to the pieces of fiberglass, aluminum and plastic that claimed to be a real life little kid’s jungle gym. It wasn’t going quickly, I was dehydrated, and becoming increasingly frustrated. The frustration was mounting due to the beautiful little boy who just wanted to help dad–largely by picking up pieces that I’d painstakingly laid out–and moving them to another part of the patio.
I swore under my breath, shooing my son away, took two steps, nearly tripped over my Great Grandmother’s beagle, took another two steps and nearly tripped over my soon to be two year old son; he had stopped in mid toddle-run to dance.
I stopped, smiled, and then looked at my mom, who was grinning ear to ear watching him go.
“What radio station is this?”
“I’m not streaming radio, Mom…not exactly. This is Pandora…”
“Oh! Cool! He likes it!” she pointed at the baby, who stopped wiggling his hips to toddle off to where his Great Grandma and my wife stood chatting. “What song is this? I know this…”
“Across 110th St.” I offered.
I looked back at the giant erector set. “I guess I should play Soul more often, huh?”
I sat down and went back at it.
I’m starting work on a pilot tomorrow. It should be a fun time, a relatively easy time, as these things go–at least for me. I have a humane start time for a change, and though I need to leave a little early to get there on time, I shouldn’t have to get up any earlier than I usually do.
I should be asleep already.
I’m anxious. I’m anxious about the job, and about what comes after it; I’m anxious about how my wife is going to handle life for the two weeks (and crowded weekends) to come. After three weeks of it being pretty much me and the little kid during the days, I’m anxious about missing him.
It does not help that he’s got a little cough cough.
He’s just this little guy. Just a loving little man. And with every cough, I jump up to make sure he’s not going to wake up, wake his brother up, or explode.
I want to lay down, but I’m worried that I’ll wake up my wife (who really, desperately needs her sleep), oversleep myself (with these kids? Really? REALLY?), or that I’ll just lay there listening to cough cough cough.
So I’m going to lay on the couch, close my eyes, and say my prayers, on this the day after Easter:
Now I lay me down to sleep;
I pray The Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake,
I pray The Lord my soul to take.
Now to lay down and get to it.
I envy the poets. The *Great* poets. The great singers, the great writers, the great artists. The prolific ones. The ones where it appears to come easily; I envy the people who can put so much of their soul on the page, on the canvas, on the stage, and then just let it go with complete and utter abandon.
I’m mostly jealous because in my brain, they sleep all day. They sleep all day, wake up and stare at the computer–maybe as long as I do–and then they just exhale. They correct OODLES, but they exhale and it’s mostly there.
They say to themselves:
“Yes, you, kid!
“Time to write something, put it on the page and let it all hang out before you crash and burn.”
“OK! Now…let’s get to it.”