There's Only 24 Hours in a Day

When I started my freshman year of college, I was forced to take a one unit orientation class. It had some new-agey name like "Connections". I was fresh out of the Navy, a Gulf War veteran, and, frankly, a know-it-all ass.

But there I was, with all the other incoming freshman.

One of the areas covered was time management. We needed to learn how to spend our time wisely so we wouldn't flunk out of school and be forced to join the military. I scoffed.

What did I need time management for? I was taking twelve units. My first class started at noon. I didn't have a job, a girlfriend, or a social life. I stayed up past midnight just so I wouldn't wake up too early.

In the Navy, there were only two rules for time management:

1. Show up on time.
2. Do what you're told.

Easy.

That first semester in college I earned straight "A's". It was the first time I'd ever managed a four point oh.

The next semester I had a few more friends and a job. I earned two "A's" and two "B's". Uh-oh. Now I had a three point five.

I won't bore you with the details but the downward trend continued. Just between you and me, I'm lucky to have a college degree.

As a nearly forty-year-old adult with two small children, a time-consuming job, and a lovely wife, I need to manage my time wisely. I muddle through. I even keep a calendar now. But there are so many things that I should get done that don't.

There's activities and sports my children should be participating in. There are weekends I should be spending alone with Tabitha. There are projects around the house that need to be finished, not to mention the ones that need to be started.

I should have paid attention to the time management seminar.

Bedtime

It's about eight o'clock as I sit down at the computer to write this. Tabitha is lying in bed reading one of the Harry Potter books. She's been in bed for about 15 minutes already. This is her usual routine (at least on my days off). She's an early to bed, early to rise kind of girl (only because of her alarm).

Abigail is downstairs watching the movie "Over the Hedge." She will come upstairs in about twenty minutes and tell me she is ready for bed. If she is really tired she'll say, "No story tonight" and she'll crawl into bed and fall instantly asleep. She usually wakes up with the sunrise.

Aidan is vacuuming downstairs. He's been vacuuming for the last hour. Pretty soon, I'll go downstairs and tell him it's time for his shower (he likes to shower now). He won't be happy. He'll want to watch his shows on TV. I'll insist he takes his shower and then I'll let him watch "Wow, Wow, Wubzy." He'll sit on the couch transfixed by the television. At about ten, I'll go downstairs, turn off the TV, and put him in his bed. He won't be happy about this either. He'll cry and complain and insist I read "two" stories for him. I'll agree to one. He'll insist he's not tired. He is. Eventually he will lie down and ask me to put his blankets on him.

And then the house will be quiet.

There was a time when I went to bed relatively early. My days of choosing to stay up late and getting up early are long in the past. Now, I have no choice.

I've been working the graveyard shift at the salt mine for over a year now. It has started to screw up my sleep cycle. I can't get to bed much before midnight. I'll lay in bed reading until about one o'clock. And then I'll shut off the light and try to get to sleep.

Try.

Sometimes I go to sleep quickly. Some nights I don't. When the alarm goes off at six o'clock, I'm not really ready to get out of bed. But I do.

For some reason, I have an overwhelming desire to take a nap at about noon.

I'm Watching You

When I was Aidan's age, my family lived in small town Indiana where my dad was attending seminary. My mom was busy caring for my two younger sisters and we didn't have a television. To keep me out of her hair, she would send me outside to play.

Unsupervised.

I can hear the gasps from here. Yep, my mom let her three-year-old son play outside without an adult watching his every move. Crazy!

And yet, somehow, I survived to be a semi-productive member of adult society. She had one rule for me when I went outside:

"Tell me where you are going."

Most of the spankings I received (perhaps a topic for another post) were because I failed to remember this one little rule. I would get so caught up in whatever I was doing that I would forget to go back and tell her what new location I had decamped to.

Amazingly I was never kidnapped.

These days, you are a bad parent if you let your children out of your sight for one moment. Bad things could happen. Your child could be kidnapped, molested, jumped into a gang, crash on his bicycle, given drugs, given candy, given non-organic food, given non-locally grown non-organic food.

The horror.

I think we, as parents, need to lighten up a little. Kids need some unsupervised time to themselves to figure out how things work. They need to learn how to negotiate with their friends without adult intervention. They need to learn that it's "okay" to fall down and skin their knees. They need to start to learn how to be independent.

Because seriously, I don't want to be taking care of my kids when they are in their forties.

They should be taking care of me.

It's Like Riding a Bike

We bought Abigail a bike about two years ago. It was a cheap little BMX from Walmart. I figured she could learn to ride on that and then pass it on to Aidan.

We finally removed the training wheels a few weeks ago.

My little girl, who jumped off a high dive at the age of five, was afraid of falling on her bike. She was content to pedal around the street leaning on the training wheels.

It was driving me crazy. Every time I suggested removing the training wheels, she started to cry.

A few weeks ago, she was riding a neighbor kid's scooter.

"Daddy, I can ride the scooter."

"If you can ride that, you can ride your bike without training wheels."

"Okay, take off the training wheels."

She shed a few tears that first day but picked it up pretty quickly. It was as if a switch was thrown inside her head.

I look forward to riding my bike with her around the street. Aidan pedals furiously on his tricycle to keep up with us. Sometimes, the neighbor kids are out on their bikes. We ride in circles on the cul-de-sac, trying to keep from crashing into each other. It's been great.

I want to get her a new bike for Christmas. I've got my eye on an Electra Hawaii.

She's Growing Up

Abigail's Second Grade portrait.

A Basket Left by the Door

He sits on the couch, completely focused on the television screen.

It's dark outside. A young woman carrying a basket looks furtively around her. She approaches a large door and rings the bell. Twice.

A woman opens the door and finds a baby.

Aidan wanted to watch "Meet the Robinsons" today. The movie (for those without children) is about a young orphan who tries to build a machine that will show him the face of his mother. There are time machines, singing frogs, a man in a bowler hat, and the voice of Tom Selleck in the movie.

Aidan loves it.

Aidan came to our family when he was five days old. He has never seen the face of his birth mother. We are the only family he knows.

We haven't kept his adoption a secret. He understands it about as well as you would expect from a three-year-old. He knows he didn't come from Mommy's tummy. Today in the car he implied most people don't know their mommy and daddy.

What does he think when he watches the movie?

As much love as we give him, there must still be a piece missing for him.

Keep the Rubber Side Down, Part 1

Late in my high school career I started to dream of owning a motorcycle. Two wheels meant freedom, excitement, danger. It meant breaking away from the mundane. Motorcycles were cool.

My only previous experience with a motorcycle ended with me crashing into a trailer and opening a deep gash on my leg. That incident cost me a week in the hospital and about three months in a splint. I missed the last few weeks of my fourth grade year.

I wasn't going to let that stand in my way.

What did stand in my way was a lack of funds and an inability to save more than two dollars at any given time. My motorcycle dream was on hold.

While I was in the Navy I had subscriptions to a couple of motorcycle magazines. Every month I would devour the descriptions of the newest machines the motorcycle manufacturers offered. Each new model offered incremental improvements that rendered the previous model hopelessly obsolete. I could think of dozens of motorcycles I would like to own.

However, being somewhat intelligent I didn't want to buy the most powerful model for my first bike. I wasn't going to be one of those knuckleheads riding a GSXR 1000 while wearing flip-flops and no helmet. I was going to do it right.

One day I was reading the magazine when I saw the Suzuki Bandit 400. This motorcycle touched something very deep within my soul. It was red. Its tiny four-cylinder motor wasn't hidden by plastic. It revved to 14000 rpm.




It looked awesome.

I'd saved a little money during the Gulf War. I returned to a father happy to have me home and willing to help me buy a motorcycle. We went to our local motorcycle dealer and exercised Pop's credit card. The next day I rode home on my new motorcycle.

The Night Shift

I've been working nights in the salt mine for about a year now. At first, most days passed in a fog of half remembered conversations and missed appointments. I struggled to sleep during the day, the bright sun boring its way through my closed eyelids. I would fall asleep and then wake up four hours later and not be able to return to the blissful dream-like state.

I never even considered taking a sleep medication because, seriously, who has eight hours to devote to sleep.

Slowly I got used to my world being turned topsy turvy.

I remember most conversations now.

Things turned around for me when I splurged on a set of heavy drapes. They block most of the sun out and allow me to sleep in relative darkness. I still have a lot trouble making the drive home in the early morning hours. Sometimes I'll stop at Starbucks for a cup of coffee and a chance to stretch my legs.

Only once did I catch myself shutting my eyes for a moment too long. The rhythmic rumble of the reflectors glued to the freeway startled me awake.

But things are not all rosy.

On my days off I can't get to sleep until midnight. This is normal for many people but my family is usually sound asleep by nine-o'clock. And then I have this nearly uncontrollable urge to take a nap at about eleven in the morning.

Yesterday morning, I came home from work and crawled into bed. I slept for about six hours and then woke up with a splitting headache. I called in sick. The family went to bed at their usual time. I stayed up until about eleven and then crawled into bed to read. I read until one.

And then I couldn't sleep. I just laid in bed for five hours drifting into and out of consciousness. My afternoon nap was a welcome relief.

Tonight I'll do it all over again.