Every day around lunchtime Julia starts asking if she can wait on the porch for Dave to get home from work. She asks me about six thousand times between then and four-fifteen when I finally let her go outside to listen for her dad’s truck as it chugs its way up the street.
Last week was rather long and arduous and by the time 4 p.m. rolled around on Friday, I was ready to jump on the weekend like a fat kid on a Smartie.
Oliver was cranky and clumsy, on an all-day mission to wind up in a body cast and Julia, at her whiny and emotional best, had been crying for goddamn ever because she wanted to wait on the porch for my husband.
Like he does every afternoon, he called from his cell to tell me he was on his way home. I could hardly hear him over my screaming children and barked at him to call when he was close to home before abruptly hanging up and running to catch Oliver as he fell backward off the couch.