I was devouring a messy slab of ribs
at a working dinner when my cell phone rang.
I was devouring a messy slab of ribs
at a working dinner when my cell phone rang.
I searched in vain for a napkin, not wanting to baste the phone with barbecue sauce. I finally managed to find a towel, to the high amusement of my coworkers, who were watching me struggle to clean myself while the phone screamed.
It was my wife, who was six months pregnant with twins. “I’m contracting.”
What? Now? She couldn’t be—it was the one weekend when both sets of grandparents, normally an arm’s length away, were preoccupied and out of town. And I was busy working, as I did most weekends during the summer, at my job as a Web editor at a not-for-profit, this time about a four-hour drive away from home.
I didn’t know what to say. I tried to calm her down, but didn’t really succeed. We agreed to check in with each other in a few minutes. I prayed for her and for us.
Meanwhile...
Meanwhile, my duties, which entailed a lot of hands-on interviewing and multimedia production, would be starting again in about 45 minutes. The sky darkened and a classic Midwestern downpour began. I prayed that I wouldn’t get sick or waterlogged.
I went back to the ribs, with one eye on the clock and the other on the cell. Twenty minutes later she called and said the contractions were slowing down. I breathed a barbecue-flavor sigh of relief, but both of us were still concerned. I prayed and thanked God that she was OK.
Guilt
That night spotlights my eternal dilemma in the workplace. I was constantly on the road during the summer weekends, when I should have been at home, taking care of my very-pregnant wife and 3-year-old daughter. I should have been there to help her through the contractions, heat and pain, not working a 16-hour day, two states and 300 miles away. I often prayed that I’d make it through the summer.
But I was continually wracked with guilt. In those moments when I should have had a clear head to make crisp editorial decisions, I was preoccupied with my wife’s condition. When I was given a rare weekend off to tend to the family, I felt I was letting my coworkers down by being at home. I prayed they’d spell “Pennsylvania” correctly.
And when the travel required flying, I always booked the earliest flight home to Chicago, which usually involved a 3 a.m. wake-up call. By the time I got home, usually around noon, I was exhausted and worthless as a father. “I’m sorry, what did you ask me?” I’d respond when Klara wanted a purple crayon. I prayed she’d forgive me.
Just in Time
That summer, I worked in San Antonio, TX, Louisville, KY, Murfreesboro, TN, Indianapolis, IN, and Foxboro, MA. Each trip left me stressed and stretched. A week after the crazy schedule ended, our sons, Axel and Tait, were born. I was home and there for the delivery—what I wanted most of all!
Generally these days, I think that God has a lot to think about and that my own prayers are probably somewhere on page 2,633 on his priority list—somewhere below global warming, the governance of the world (particularly the pestering matters of our United States) and the Chicago Cubs.
But last summer, I think that my own scatterbrained-prayers, often peppered with goofy inclinations like “Please help us balance our checkbook,” were answered, in the form of our healthy boys, our own health and my presence at their birth. Now if I could just find time to sleep, I’d be all set.
I’ve moved on occupationally and I am anticipating a summer of sweaty kids and good times. Stay tuned.
Dave Wilson is a writer and editor living in the south suburbs of Chicago IL.