22 May, 2002
For god's sake, it's 8 a.m. already?
I spray a cloud of perfume under my arms. I push my feet into grey socks, then my shoes. Those damn laces. I keep knotting them, they keep coming untangled. I knot them again, and they fumble from between my fingers.
As I am leaving, my waistcoat gets caught on the door. I struggle to move forward, but hear a sharp zap.
I let out the loudest, most absurd PG-13 groan.
"Babe? What's up?" Romy calls from the kitchen.
"Nothing." I stand in the hallway contemplating my life decisions. I tore my waistcoat. I teach 10th-Grade Physics at one of the most accredited schools in Oregon. And yet I flatter myself because I know that the strength and toughness of the material as well as its elasticity and ductility can play a role in determining whether and how the material will rip under different conditions and I still was not careful with my waistcoat.
The kitchen door flops open and Romy comes towards me. The concerned look on her face makes all my floppiness disappear. She can really look pretty. Some flour is smudged across her face. Her hair are a beautiful mess. She's wearing an apron over her night-clothes.
"Daddy?" Rebecca peeps from behind Romy.
"Oh, you're up!" I walk towards Rebecca and lift her in my arms. She laughs as I does this.
Rebecca is my three-year-old daughter. She has blue eyes like her mother, Romy. She has hair till her shoulders. I hug her tight against my chest.
"God, let her breathe," I hear Jackson say. He's come out from his room and joined the family in the hallway.
"Good morning, Jackson," I smile, letting Rebecca down on the ground. "You ready for your first day in sophomore year?" He mimics vomiting, walks back into his room and slams the door shut.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. Romy meets my gaze. An understanding passes between us. "I'll get him ready in two," she says as she makes her way to his room and knocks, calling him.
Jackson is my son. He's fifteen years old. I understand he can be a little moody sometimes. Oh boy was I always moody in my teenage years. But I know it must be hard for him. He's a foster kid, that Romy and I just took in - about two months ago. And I want to give him as much of my love as I can. He is my son now. But... He's not... He doesn't really call me 'dad'. Or Romy 'mom'. I guess it takes time to settle.
"Dad!" Rebecca screams, breaking me out of my reverie. "Your waistcoat is so ripped."
Goddammit, I am late.
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