PJ Man
This morning, I woke at 2:30 a.m.: my turn for nursing duty. Four hours of sleep. My throat was scratchy: not a good sign since I was out sick a half-day this week. I popped a Sucrets and tapped Janette in Hannah's room. She collected herself, mumbled some medication and bedtime updates, gave a quick hug, and crawled off to bed.
I downed two cups of tea thick with honey and settled in, watching the clock, listening for changes in either of the kids' rooms. Hannah slept like a log, her compressor snoring loudly on her behalf. Gabriel tossed and turned as usual. I heard him pop up with a yelp in his bed before 6 am. The remnants of a dream backlit his face. I encouraged him to lay back down and rubbed his back. The magic worked; he fell back to sleep.
The house was quiet. I slid into my slippers and snuck to the front door. I was hopeful. Maybe it had arrived.
I opened the front door and peeked out. 6:00 a.m.. No, no sign of the morning Oregonian. Grimly, I closed the door.
The Oregonian, our local paper, must be delivered by 5:30 a.m. weekdays; 6:30 a.m., weekends. The Sunday edition, with the extended Opinion section, is my second favorite (Friday, with the weekend entertainment planner, my first). I am, it could be said, a sucker for schedules.
But my paper was not there.
6:15 a.m.. No dice. Nice sunrise (pictured), but no paper. Kids? Still asleep.
6:25 a.m.. Still none. Would I have to call today? That would be disappointing.
6:30 a.m.. Ah, the paper is here! I dash out to the driveway, the front door open so I can listen for the kids. I am PJ man in slippers, but I don't care. Everyone sleeps in on Sunday.
Except for me. To enjoy my paper in peace and quiet. With a fresh cup of coffee in my hand.
I unwrap the paper from its plastic sheath and scan the front page. Thick with ads, the newspaper nestles against my chest. Just me, my coffee, and the paper. One last quick check on Hannah....
Just me, my coffee, my grinning daughter, and the paper.
-- Dad
