You mean you're cool with my being late?
So, I get everything I can edited for the next day's newspaper as early as possible, hand off the news "budget" to the night copy editors, and with a "You can get me on my cell!" scramble out the door at the last moment.
Once I'm in the car, without fail, my cell phone rings. It's not the office, though, it's my husband with my daily "where the heck are you?" call. When I admit where I am enroute, I usually get a stern, "Babe, you've gotta be kidding me."
And nope, I never am. It's the truth. I'm running late.
Last night, per usual, I was answering last-minute questions about a story as I grabbed my purse and literally ran to my car. Thirty seconds down the road — you guessed it — I get the "where are you" call. Well, at least that's what I anticipated hearing. I was all ready with my answer/excuses of my whereabouts, but instead, he just jumped right in.
He explained that he was leaving the baseball field with our daughter to get her to the soccer field for her game (what probably should have been my job). There was no panic or concern in his voice — just total calmness.
"I just told Dave (a friend of ours who was at the field with his son) that you would be along shortly. So, I'll talk to you later. Love you, babe!"
I hung up a little stunned. No flak whatsoever? Could it be that he's finally come to terms with the fact I'm probably always going to struggle to get out of the office at that time of day? Maybe. Or maybe he was just in a super forgiving/accepting mood. Either way, I was super relaxed as I drove to Doubleday fields, toted my chair to the location of the game and gave my son a little wave upon my arrival. Time for a little forced relaxation.
It was a great game, too. My son, who had seemed to settle into being walked every time at bat thus far in the season, took to heart our encouragement to get in there and swing. Two solid base hits later, I took home a beaming little boy.