At some point I’m going to get a phone call from various defunct 80’s bands demanding some sort of restitution for all the titles I’ve stolen after a morning listening to Sirius XM’s First Wave.
I like to use the drive back from drop off to think about what needs to be done during the day and to formulate a plan of attack for whatever bizarre circumstances or unforseen disasters will fall in my lap thanks to my smallest child.
You see, despite the best laid plans and extensive help from all the most expensive professionals he still has some issues that prevent him from being ready for prime time.
Like the Saturday Night Live players but with less parody and more physical pratfalls.
So here I am, the grown up, struggling to hack my way through the thick brush surrounding the path back to normality for this kid.
Never have I been so confounded by another human being.
I lie in wait for the ramifications of each decision I’ve made on his behalf dreading the large casualty laden explosion that is clearly imminent. Nothing is clear-cut and never have the stakes been so high.
Imagine if laid before you are a deck of a thousand cards and you must pick five or six to determine the path that someone takes at various important crossroads in their life.
Now take a look at the possible outcomes.
Steven Hawking or the Unibomber.
Churchill or Mussolini.
Yes, perhaps I’m exaggerating his potential but his propensity for extremes is legendary and being in his service for these long five years has taken its toll on the staff here.
It would be accurate to say we live in fear.
Fear of the next step.
Fear that the wrong choice will cause everything to go up in flames (don’t laugh, it’s happened)
Usually I have these things set up far in advance of the actual decision-making event but I happen to be in the middle of a long period of wait and see fence-sitting that’s really starting to hurt my ass.
And so, as I perch here and think about making plans for Nigel I’m still frozen with doubt and remorse over things I’ve not even done yet.