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20 minutes on a Friday morning
Apr. 30th, 2004 10:30 amEvery weekday morning, I get up at 6:30 to help usher the wee ones through their respective morning rituals and escort Abbey to the bus stop to begin her school day. Today, I had the luxury of sleeping later, as Kristi has arrived back in New York to deal with such things, but I still pulled myself from bed a bit after 7 for the bus stop walk. I had good reason to.
Abbey was already primped and prettified when I first saw her; she greeted me with a "Good morning, Daddy! What do you think?" and a pose for my benefit. Her Aunt Marci had waved her hair, a fact that Marci and Kristi both noted to me sotto voce in case I'd missed it (God help me if I had). I told her the undeniable truth—that she looked lovely—and she grinned and bounced off down the stairs for her shoes. All the usual struggles of wills and negotiations were absent today, as she willingly presented her feet to be shod, grabbed her backpack and jacket, and headed to the door with me.
The trip to the bus stop is a scant block down a private tree-lined road, and most mornings it means me double-stepping ahead of her in an effort to arrive on time while she lolls behind. This morning, however, she held my hand, something I don't think she's done on this trip since she was a kindergartner. We chatted about various nothings as we walked, the way we always do on this walk when we're not running late and cranky at each other. Abbey lamented that I wouldn't be able to attend her Girl Scout awards ceremony that night, due to my work schedule. She told me all about the sash she'd get to wear as a second-year Brownie, and the prizes she'd be getting for her cookie sales. Then she began walking in a lurch step and groaning as we neared the corner:
Abbey: Guess what I'm being!
Me: You're...a monkey?
Abbey: No!
Me: A moose?
Abbey: No!
Me: Um...a toaster?
Abbey: *laughs* No!
Me: I know! A drunken robot!
Abbey: No! I'm a zombie!
Me: Ah. So, you're being what I feel like right now.
Abbey: *laughs again* Oh, Dad. You're silly.
We arrived plenty early enough, so we engaged in some of our usual time-wasting games. We played "slowpoke," in which one of us has to walk very, very slowly and try to poke the other person (at least until they decide to cheat). She held up her unnecessary jacket and became a bullfighter as I charged her over and over again. We stood a few feet apart front to back and made a two-headed monster out of our shadows. Finally she crowed, "Let's play I Spy! I spy, with my little eye, something yellow with red flashing lights..."
As the bus pulled up I got down on my knees to give her a hug, as I do every morning. The hug seemed to linger a bit longer today; I think she knew the significance as well as I did. "You have a great day today, okay, hon?" I said.
"Okay, Dad. I'm going to miss you."
"I'll miss you, too, Abbey. I'll see you in the morning, though, okay?"
The bus pulled up, and she bounced off to board. Usually I'd turn back home as soon as she reaches the door, but today, I watched her board, watched the bus pull away, watched my daughter head down Flat Rock Road until she was gone.
Today and tomorrow, with help from Kristi, her dad, and some friends, I'll be moving the last of my furniture to the new apartment, all of the heavy and awkward items. Tomorrow will be my first official night in the new place. And come Monday, Abbey will be taking the walk to the bus stop with Kristi, who'll do a wonderful job of it. This morning was the first of the lasts, the first of the goodbyes. No time to stop and think about it, though. I just need to keep moving, keep moving, keep moving...
Abbey was already primped and prettified when I first saw her; she greeted me with a "Good morning, Daddy! What do you think?" and a pose for my benefit. Her Aunt Marci had waved her hair, a fact that Marci and Kristi both noted to me sotto voce in case I'd missed it (God help me if I had). I told her the undeniable truth—that she looked lovely—and she grinned and bounced off down the stairs for her shoes. All the usual struggles of wills and negotiations were absent today, as she willingly presented her feet to be shod, grabbed her backpack and jacket, and headed to the door with me.
The trip to the bus stop is a scant block down a private tree-lined road, and most mornings it means me double-stepping ahead of her in an effort to arrive on time while she lolls behind. This morning, however, she held my hand, something I don't think she's done on this trip since she was a kindergartner. We chatted about various nothings as we walked, the way we always do on this walk when we're not running late and cranky at each other. Abbey lamented that I wouldn't be able to attend her Girl Scout awards ceremony that night, due to my work schedule. She told me all about the sash she'd get to wear as a second-year Brownie, and the prizes she'd be getting for her cookie sales. Then she began walking in a lurch step and groaning as we neared the corner:
Abbey: Guess what I'm being!
Me: You're...a monkey?
Abbey: No!
Me: A moose?
Abbey: No!
Me: Um...a toaster?
Abbey: *laughs* No!
Me: I know! A drunken robot!
Abbey: No! I'm a zombie!
Me: Ah. So, you're being what I feel like right now.
Abbey: *laughs again* Oh, Dad. You're silly.
We arrived plenty early enough, so we engaged in some of our usual time-wasting games. We played "slowpoke," in which one of us has to walk very, very slowly and try to poke the other person (at least until they decide to cheat). She held up her unnecessary jacket and became a bullfighter as I charged her over and over again. We stood a few feet apart front to back and made a two-headed monster out of our shadows. Finally she crowed, "Let's play I Spy! I spy, with my little eye, something yellow with red flashing lights..."
As the bus pulled up I got down on my knees to give her a hug, as I do every morning. The hug seemed to linger a bit longer today; I think she knew the significance as well as I did. "You have a great day today, okay, hon?" I said.
"Okay, Dad. I'm going to miss you."
"I'll miss you, too, Abbey. I'll see you in the morning, though, okay?"
The bus pulled up, and she bounced off to board. Usually I'd turn back home as soon as she reaches the door, but today, I watched her board, watched the bus pull away, watched my daughter head down Flat Rock Road until she was gone.
Today and tomorrow, with help from Kristi, her dad, and some friends, I'll be moving the last of my furniture to the new apartment, all of the heavy and awkward items. Tomorrow will be my first official night in the new place. And come Monday, Abbey will be taking the walk to the bus stop with Kristi, who'll do a wonderful job of it. This morning was the first of the lasts, the first of the goodbyes. No time to stop and think about it, though. I just need to keep moving, keep moving, keep moving...
