Routine and Relegation

2022-0125. Tuesday. 1121 PM. My alarm woke me at 400, as it does every morning. I spent an appropriate amount of time in the bathroom, carefully descended the stairs and quietly made coffee. I checked the weather by walking outside and smoked a cigarette while listening to my Mazda's engine warm, slightly annoyed by the squeak of the AC compressor pulley. It was cold and oddly dry; felt like mid-30s. Once inside again, I deftly swapped the coffee pot with a ceramic IHOP mug so I could pour my travel cup mid-brew. I sat to read from the Bible plan I'm following. Job 38 and 39. I call these the "Who the f**k are you, Job?" chapters. Job's a book I highly recommend and everything you've ever heard about it is likely romanticized. Reading the real thing (even if translated into English) is eye-opening! Every morning, I wrap up this routine by listening to the third hour of 2 Pros and a Cup of Joe on Fox Sports Radio, while I walk about two miles. I used to do this with my dogs, but we recently decided to surrender them to rehome. I miss them, but I refuse to miss the walking. By the time I get back to the house, I'm fully awake and ready to prepare food for me and the kids. 90% of the mornings, I fry bacon and eggs. I always make a smoothie with strawberries, almond milk and whey protein. French toast, pancakes, biscuits with sausage will all occasionally grace the plates I place on dirty mats on the island, but bacon and eggs are the staple. The island is almost always cluttered with drawing and coloring supplies from my 5 year old daughter's evening projects.

Most mornings, after the bacon is laid in the pan and my lunch is partially made on the other side of the island, Montgomery, the aforementioned daughter, will amble down the stairs, blanket and stuffed animal in hand. The animal, sometimes pluralized, must sit at the island with her while she continues yesterday's project, putting off breakfast till I insist. It's usually then that we begin to hear them heavy thuds of my 13 year old son as he stomps his way from bedroom to bathroom above us. Often, the conversation he has with himself while sitting on the commode is loud enough to hear in the kitchen below. Each and every morning, I must remind him to take his meds, put on clothes and then come to eat. While he expresses great hunger each morning, it still seems to take him an extraordinary amount of time to dress himself, so we typically listen to him making noises and thudding above for a good twenty-five more minutes.

Turning up the volume on my morning music will almost assuredly do two things. It will help drown out the noise Amos (the 13 year old) is making and it will cause my daughter to complain about how loud the music is. Somewhere in the chaos of art and breakfast and stuffed animals and music and Amos, my bride will return from the hotel where she's staying nights with our 16 year old daughter. Unpredictable, violent behavior and lack of impulse control has made it unsafe for Mayfare (the 16 year old) to live at home over the years. The pandemic's hit on the work force has relegated us to this current situation, as there are long waiting lists for treatment centers or group homes. Not quite like, but not entirely unlike two ships passing in the night, the bride and I are able to briefly share affection and status reports after she showers and the kids finish eating. At this point, if I haven't yelled at Amos, he begins to calm, as his meds kick in. I attempt to have a conversation with he and Montgomery, but it often devolves into the two of them repeating the same movie line to each other, over and over. As I leave for the shop, eagerly anticipating work with inanimate cars and trucks, I call out, Love you! The sounds of my music changing to cartoons and commands of lunch making muffle the cordial responses. I'm once again greeted by the squeaking pulley as I drive away.

Aside from being a husband, father and mechanic, I'm a big time sports fan. I think it's about the only decent television programming left. I enjoy the commitment to excellence and showmanship. I admire the planning, scheming and gamesmanship. I appreciate the athletes' adherence to routine and discipline. I feel a level of kinship or empathy to the grind and sacrifice. My team, our family, is several months into this alternative and unanticipated lifestyle. I've not kept count of how many weeks it's been exactly, but it's been long enough for us to build routines and habits. Much like basketball or hockey teams with mid-season injuries or the Tampa Bay Bucs with Antonio Brown, we've suffered from some unexpected circumstances. I've never been a high level athlete, but I imagine they rely on their training and discipline when their squad is hit by unexpected circumstances. So, I'll keep training. I'll keep practicing. I'll keep doing what I can to honor my King. I'll keep preparing morning sustenance. I'll keep fixing cars. I'll keep walking, reading, watching and writing. This is bakesHere. 2022-0125. Tuesday. 1121 PM. ACQUIRE as NEEDED. bakesHere.com