The Boy is at college, his first year. Loads of new experiences for him, and conundrums.
Sunday night I got a call from the Boy.
“What kind of salt do I get to soak an ingrown toenail?”
“Epsom salts. E-P-S-O-M.”
He responds, “Yeah, I’m at grocery store and I can’t find that.”
I think for a long second and then, “You’re in the spice aisle, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s in the medicine section kiddo.”
“Ohhhhh.”
There is a distinct story that accompanies the image. The night before as we sat in the family room - my wife, my mother, the Boy and myself - I heard the sound of gushing water from somewhere in the backyard. I went to the door leading to our patio and in the darkness I thought I could barely see what resembled a geyser in the far garden bed of the yard. I went outside and as I got closer it was indeed a fountain of water, 10 feet or more in height shooting straight up. further investigation showed a faucet hose bib pipe had somehow cracked and water, at full pressure, was pouring out of it.
I raced to find the shut off for the sprinkler lines but when I did it was rusted into the open position. I worked for 10 minutes to get it closed, applying WD40, only to discover once I did that the hose bib, for some stupid reason was connected, not to the sprinkler valves, but to the main house line (which explained the substantial water pressure involved.) So my only option to stop the flow was to turn off the entire water main to the house. I returned to the pond that now existed at the hose bib and determined I could not fix it in the dark and would need to wait til morning. I cautioned the rest of the house that we would be without water until it was repaired, so don't flush or think about showering.
The next morning I assessed the damage and the job ahead. The crack was below grade and would require digging out the pipe. The ground surrounding it could best be described as a swampy mudpit. I headed to the hardware store for supplies and returned as the rest of the house was waking. With shovel I began the miserable task of digging out that mess, and clearing the pipe to begin the repairs. It was awful as my feet sucked deep into the muck and I quickly became caked in the stuff. Having never repaired PVC lines before I classically had gotten the wrong size pieces for repair and had to return to the hardware store. It would be the first of three more trips to the store as I could not seem to get the correct items, or pipe dope, or whatever. What should have taken no more than an hour ended up taking nearly 5 hours to complete.
I struggled through the process, adding coat after coat of mud cake to my body, covering my arms and legs and face and hair in the gunk. Just keeping the pipe clean in order to securely repair it was insanely difficult as muddy water kept seeping down around it. I became more and more frustrated. But the worst part was the swelling anger I felt that all this time it was taking was time I was not spending with my son.
Since his birth 20 days earlier I had become enamored of the kid, spending all my time, with him, or around him, or holding him, or just staring at him. It was narcotic, and I never wanted that feeling to end. Yet here I was stuck in mud to my knees, needing to get this fixed to let water flow again into my home, and the longer it took the less time I had with my Boy.
When I finally finished, it was roughly one o'clock and I was a swamp thing from head to toe. I informed my wife the water was back on and we could now flush and shower. She looked at me and suggested I shower first. I accepted her offer, but as the the earth washed off me in that shower I could not ease my anger. I just wanted to get clean and see my son.
I dressed and went to our patio, breathing deeply. My wife brought the Boy out to me and put him in my arms, before heading to shower herself. As I held him, despite finally having him in my arms, I was still seething. The universe had robbed me of 5 hours I was supposed to get with him, had stolen time I would never get back. That anger was blocking the endorphins I should be loading from being with him. So I tried calming myself. I told myself it was only 5 hours, I had plenty of time left. And I began listing the time in front of us:
it would be a month before he could focus on anything further than a foot in front of his face;
it would be 3 months before he could even sit up;
6 months before he ate solid food;
a full year before he might walk;
perhaps 2 years at least before he and I had anything resembling a conversation;
3 whole years before he was out of diapers;
more than 5 years before he began kindergarten;
there was an inconceivable 18 years before he went to college.
I had plenty of time, I told myself. These lost 5 hours, and anger, would fade from my memory. "Relax." Slowly I found the anger receding, a calm returning. That was when my wife emerged and snapped the picture you see.
But all that was a lie.
Those lost 5 hours did not fade. There was not plenty of time.
He turned 18 last month. He leaves for college in the fall. I spent more time with him in the last 18 years than most fathers are ever privileged enough to be allowed. And it wasn't enough. Every moment with him mattered. Every lost moment is painful. There was never enough time.
The only "good" that emerged from that turmoil 18 years ago today was the sense that I couldn't waste any of it - that every single second with him, and later my Girls, must be treasured. He was only 20 days old and I knew it was going by too quickly. I was warned for the coming years. That is why the image has rested on this page for all these years - as a reminder to fight for, and cling tightly to, every bit of time allotted.
For that, at least, I am appreciative (despite wanting those 5 hours back.)
