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| The Boss and CEO |
I'm sitting in my minivan, waiting for my son's teacher to escort him out. I arrived early, which is great because I'm close to the school's entrance. I have a clear line of sight when teachers and students walk out of the heavy metal doors that remind me more of a fortress than a learning institution.
However, when you're a kid, is there a difference?
It's not even close to 1:50 PM. That's about when I'll first spot them as they trek down the long winding sidewalk to their waiting parents, who have been patiently on hold until their arrival. Mimie used to do this all the time. This was her job as a stay-at-home mom. And nobody does it better than Mom.
Taking care of three lives is a challenging task. It's up in the morning. Getting your school-age son ready for class. Packing up the little one, who isn't quite school age yet, but he can't be left behind. Traveling to the school and returning home for tender love and care for the baby.
Your commute is reversed as the stay-at-home mom.
After you drop your child off at school, you travel back to your office and home. There's no clock to punch, just mouths to feed. After you park in your assigned parking space and enter your enterprise, you head straight to the kitchen to feed the boss, your two-year-old. Who, by now, has been up for almost an hour with no food, and he's chewing you out for not having his daily meal ready.
Assistance is needed to get this job done. It's just you and him.
In between the food preparation, the dogs sit patiently by their bowls, waiting for their turn to be fed. If you're lucky, you can start the coffee pot so that when you are done with the crew, you can take care of yourself and enjoy a caffeinated treat.
The boss cries as you do your best to finish his work promptly.
You run to the television and put on his favorite show, hoping that the sound of Sesame Street will calm his demeanor like a favorable stock option paying dividends. When you are done preparing the meal, you serve him, hoping he'll accept the proposal you just presented. As he chews on it and mulls it over, deciding whether he'll eat it, it's time to feed the dogs.
In haste to prepare their food and try to find time to feed themselves, before the two-year-old alter your plan, the first big decision of the day comes.
Do I give the dogs dry dog food or mix it with the wet food as usual? It's an executive decision based on your need to eat and please the dogs. After you give in to the wants of your pooches and mix the dog food, it's time to prepare your own meal.
You toast a bagel and pour your coffee while you fry an egg, all at the same time.
Take a quick time to check on your boss and ensure he is comfortable with his meal. His plate is nearly empty, and the dogs are barely eating, making you suspect a little more is going on. Realizing that the meeting of the minds between canine and human is going on way too long and trying to keep a schedule, you break up the pow-wow and send the dogs outside.
Once the back door is shut, the smell of burnt toast reminds you that your breakfast has just gone down the tubes.
In the struggle to eat, in this dog-eat-dog world, you deal with the consequences of leaving your food too long. You eat around the edges of the bagel only to realize that it's a circular object, so you eat from the middle, working your way out and discarding the rest in the trash. You scoop your eggs and swallow them down as you chase them with your morning brew.
So far, two hours into your morning shift, the day is barely beginning, and you're ready to take a break.
So before the dishes are done, you sit on the couch, only to get up again and let the barking dogs in. On the way back to finish your break, you get intercepted by the boss, who enables you to know his diaper is ready for waste. So, according to OSHA guidelines, you bend at the knees when you pick him up and carry him to the changing station.
Once you settle him in at his usual place and all parties are ready to go, you realize that the shelves need to be stocked by the night shift.
Now, hoping your boss will stay, you run to the baby bag by the door and grab all the necessary supplies. Thrilled with your ingenuity to find his toiletries, the boss gladly stayed where you left him. He allows you to wipe his butt because kissing his ass will do you no good.
After he's changed, you've missed your break and head back to clean the kitchen.
Like making the bed every morning, you question the purpose since you'll only be messing it up for lunch and dinner. It's like you have eight arms as you push away your boss, who is standing over your shoulder, hoping to get the chance to get his hands wet and show you how it's done. You can load the dishwasher as he stands on the open washer door, and it's all good fun for him.
You walk from room to room, gathering the clothes that litter the floors, like a maintenance worker after a rock concert.
You pause with the basket on your knee as you thumb through the DVDs to find a movie of his liking, hoping to distract the boss so you can get your projects done. You arrive at the washer with the boss in tow, who tries to help you. Of course, he hands you the wrong tools you need to do your job, and you just smile and accept it without a confrontation. When he runs away because the television is calling, you do it as it should. He'll take the credit anyway.
Between the cleaning, you follow your boss around to clean up the mess he left behind. It's such a thankless job because your son thinks this is how life works. He knows this isn't how the real world survives, just like a typical boss.
After the chores, you think you can breathe and relax on the couch. But the moment of rest is forgotten between the dogs barking, the dishwasher going, the television blaring, the washer machine humming, the phone ringing, and your son talking to you. You can only hope to zone out and fantasize about an island somewhere, collect all the sounds, and place them in your thoughts.
The barking dogs are the native wildlife, coinciding with the humming of the dishwasher making the sound of the ocean, the television blaring is just the waiter asking for your drink order, the washer machine humming is a plane overhead, the ringing phone is the local church tolling its bell and your talking son is telling you they love you over and over.
Suddenly, without notice, you're distracted by a jump on your crotch. It's funny how a two-year-old always seems to land there when they are jumping on you for your attention. You advise the boss it's nap time and lay him in his bed, only to hear him cry himself so he can sleep. Funny, about the only thing we have in common.
When he wakes, it's time to head out and pick up the CEO.
And here you sit in his limo, waiting for him to appear as he's escorted by his posse. Their day is ending, but mine continues until they sleep for the night.
As I get out of the van to greet him, I can only hope that he has accepted his dad's tall figure approaching him when it used to be his mom's. I can only do my best to do what my predecessor did before me, and this is the most challenging day job I've ever had.
1,367 words.
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