Everything Happens For a Reason

"Everything that happens happens as it should. And if you observe carefully, you will find this to be so." - Marcus Aurelius

Thanks to a confluence of several events, I missed my bus on Monday. First, the clocks in the kitchen were set a few minutes earlier after a brief power surge over the weekend. Then, the bus probably ran a bit early due to fewer riders on Columbus Day. And finally, because of the holiday the guys I usually wait with at the bus stop weren't there to hold the bus for me.

Seeing the bus fly by my street, I shattered the pre-dawn quiet shouting, "NO! STOP!" I thought I caught a break when it stopped at the next block. I shouted, "hold the bus!" And started sprinting. It didn't wait. Crap.

Now I'm mad. Frustrated. I instantly decided to drive into the city. My Director didn't need the swagger wagon since Peanut did not have school that day either. Instead of driving to the train, My Director would take the bus to work. (And catch it on time.)

As I drove toward the Lincoln Tunnel confident I would make it to work on time, I calmed down. I thought to myself, there must be some reason this happened. I had no idea what that reason was. But believing that there was one allowed me to maintain a certain level of clarity and didn't allow the annoyance to take over. Such spontaneous introspection is rare for me. And I must say, I liked it.

Later that day, I had found my reason. I was at the gym. Normally, I have precious time to waste if I go to the gym because I am at the mercy of the train or bus schedule. Normally, missing my ride home isn't an option since I am in charge of daycare pickup. This day, however, I had no pickup obligations since Peanut was happy at home with a pre-determined babysitter. (My mother-in-law.) No need to rush for mass transit since I had driven.

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Freaky Friday

"The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother." -Theodore Hesburgh

The alarm sounds. The bright green numbers read an ungodly hour. Ungodly even though it's an hour and a half later than I normally wake up: 6:00. Did I oversleep? Wait... that's not my alarm clock. And what am I doing on this side of the bed?

I rub my eyes, thinking I must still be dreaming. I'm not. Something feels different. My hands feel smaller, smoother. The knuckles are less hairy and clunky. I think I'm just overtired. Imagining things because I would swear I feel different.


Smaller. Prettier?

I go to scratch myself, as I would any morning. Left hand to right 'groin' is always the opening move of my personal game of scratch-and-wake Twister. And... it's different. It's not there.

This is every man's worst nightmare. Worse than the naked-in-front-of-an-audience one. Worse than the haven't-been-to-class-in-weeks-and-finals-are-coming one.

My man parts are gone. Not only are they gone... they've been replaced. By lady parts. Holy good God, what have I done? What did I say? Did I touch a cursed idol and recite the wrong thing at the wrong time? Did I switch bodies with someone? Who?

I jump out of bed, panicked. I throw on the switch, and look in the large picture mirror that hangs over our dresser.

In it, a familiar face is staring back at me. Oh. My. God.

The face in the mirror

I'm gorgeous. I love this person so much.

I pinch myself. I'm definitely awake. This is no dream. Ok... where is she? For a brief fleeting moment, I think of the ridiculous statement I've made the few times my wife and I have joked about 'being each other for a day.'

"I wouldn't leave the bedroom," I've said. "And I'd have a lot of fun."

I now know how ridiculous that statement is. I've got so much to do, so much to figure out, and the last thing on my mind is sex... let alone with myself.

At that moment of clarity, the phone rings.

"We got our wish," she says. I hear her grinning as if she were planning this all along. "What? Where are you? Are you me?

"Yes. I'm in the city, on my way to work. Your work."

Once again...Oh. My. God.

"How the hell are you going to do it?"

"Like you always say," she answered. "We'll figure it out. We always do."

"You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Yes," she says. "Immensely."

We hang up. OK... focus. I can do this. Can I? I have no choice.

Shower. Do I need to shower? She doesn't shower every day. She's that clean and pretty. I shower twice a day. I'm that dirty and disgusting. I decide to shower, just in case.

This exercise is a maze of confusion and tribulation. I wish I had the time to enjoy myself loofa-ing my wife's body. But I need to get myself to work and my daughter to daycare.

Holy crap... the peanut. How am I going to trick her? Nothing gets by her.

I decide not to wash my hair to save time (knowing that my wife does this is very helpful). I throw my hair in a shoddy ponytail. I get dressed. I choose an outfit from the year I was adventurous enough to go into Anthropologie and buy her some clothing for her birthday. She loved all of it. Still does.

I put on a white skirt with green floral designs on it. A matching blouse. A pair of blown glass earrings that we bought on our honeymoon in Venice. A necklace that matches that. Shoes? Definitely not heels. Sandals.

Makeup. Makeup? My wife is pretty enough without it. I skip the makeup.

Do I look fat? That's something I ask myself every day. She has no such issues.

Of course not. I think I look amazing. (I think she looks amazing.)

The peanut stirs. Luckily, I know enough about their morning routine to get through without incident. I get her into the car. I've offered her a cookie to distract her from my awkward and petrified state. Drop off goes smoothly.

Now off to work. On the bus ride to the city, I look at my hands. Still perfect, but I wish I had time for a manicure. Same with my feet. A pedicure would be nice.

I think about my rushed time with the peanut. And the doubt starts to creep in. Do I pay enough attention to her? Am I working too much? Do I spend enough time with her?

Am I doing the right thing?

These are the things a working mother must think of before she tucks away the family obligations and starts focusing on the career ones.

The work day is, luckily, uneventful. It's summer and my wife works at a college. While there are a few issues to deal with, they are all by phone and email. There are a few strange interactions with her assistant. I actually snap at her with some of my trademark sarcasm at one point. Then quickly cover it up with an apology. "Don't mind me," I say. "I'm not myself today."

Literally.

It's still a full work day. Midway through the afternoon, I realize I hadn't even peed yet. Another mini adventure since even when my daughter goes, I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to wipe. And if I am causing irreparable emotional damage as a result.

On the bus ride home, all I think about is how badly I want see my family. I enter the house around 6:00 pm, exactly twelve hours after I boarded this roller coaster.

She's a momma's girl

My daughter excitedly yells "mommy!" as I come through the door. And despite the unfamiliarity of this affectionate greeting, it still feels good.

We hug. We kiss. We snuggle.

Then, the moment I've been waiting for. I go out the back door to find my wife, grilling hamburgers. But I'm staring at my own face. I look a lot more put together than I normally feel I am.

We smile. Hug. And I say, "You're pretty impressive."

"So are you."

Somehow we manage to endure the motions of the rest of the evening. Dinner, bath, walk the dog, bedtime.

We close the door to our daughter's room after 'one last hug and kiss.' My wife turns to me and asks, "Shall we turn in too and end this craziness early?"

"Actually, why don't we watch last night's Grey's Anatomy on DVR and then go to bed?

A lot in common, a lot in love

An hour or so later, as my head hits the pillow after an exhausting day on so many levels, I reflected on my day in her shoes.

She works hard. She worries sometimes she works too much. She loves her family more than anything.

She would like a manicure and pedicure.

She looks forward to new episodes of Grey's Anatomy.

Turns out, we're not that different after all.

I originally wrote this post for my Week 2 assignment of Blogger Idol 2011: "If I were the opposite sex for a day."

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I Need a Nap

"The worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not to."  ~F. Scott Fitzgerald

All I really want is a little peace and quiet. Is that too much to ask? I really don't ask for much. It's the little things I look forward to.

Naps are precious

A twenty minute power nap. That's all I need. That's all I want. That's all I get.

On the bus or train ride home. I look forward to it every day. That twenty minutes of peace. No blackberry. No cell phone. No iPad.

No commitments from work, family, or otherwise. Just twenty minutes of peace and semi-quiet.

A rare opportunity to close my eyes and wander off before my focus shifts from work demands to family demands.

Twenty minutes. It's all I ask for. This is my only chance. I even time it perfectly from the moment we exit the Lincoln Tunnel to the moment we make the turn off our exit.

Everywhere else I'm rushed. Even at the gym. Even in the bathroom.

One day recently I boarded the bus home and looked for an empty row of seats that would give me the option of stretching out if no one else sat with me. I kept walking to the back and finally spotted an empty one in the next to last row.

Then I saw who was sitting in the last row... a mother and her young child. A child younger than my daughter. Noisy and messy and annoying.

Totally admitting to myself that I am a hypocrite, I turned around, and headed back towards the front of the bus. Out of ear shot of this woman and her pestering progeny. I would expect anyone else do to the same thing if me and my daughter were on the bus together and all they wanted was a short nap.

Just the day before, another mom and her pre-teen daughter shattered any chance I would have at quiet time. They were seated in the row directly across from me. They played word association games the whole time. Torture. When they had explored all avenues of this thrilling vocabulary exercise, they tightened the vice another half turn, moving on to something they called "would you rather." Here, they each came up with two unfortunate circumstances and challenged the other to choose which one they would do or have happen to them.

For example, would I rather ride the bus sitting next to this pair or be locked in a room with nothing but Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry, Be Happy" playing on endless repeat?

Cue the McFerrin.

My nap time is precious. It's rare. It's my only me time. Don't mess with it please.

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Dude, Where's My Car?

"You ever travel by bus before? No? Your mood's probably not going to improve much." - John Candy, Planes, Trains and Automobiles

How do we do it? It's apparently been a topic of conversation in at least three newsrooms in New York recently. Must be a slow news cycle for some of my colleagues.

Always asking the hard-hitting questions, they want to know: How do my wife and I manage to function with only one car?

Let me tell you: it's a lot easier than you think.

The swagger wagon

Still, while not impossible, surviving suburbia with a child and only one vehicle involves a very delicate dance. It also requires impeccable timing and reliance on public transportation... two things you have absolutely no control over. So there are days where it gets very interesting. And there are days when things go very wrong.

It has Fahrvergnugen

Daily, we perform quite an impressive tango:

I take the first bus into the city. It picks me up right outside our front door a little before 6am. My wife wakes up Peanut, gets her ready for school, and drops her off as soon as daycare opens at 730am. She then catches the 8:01am train into the city, parking the swagger wagon at the station lot. I take the 4:52pm train home, get the car, pick up the Peanut, take her home and start dinner. My wife hops on the 5:35 (or later) bus, which drops her off, conveniently, outside of our front door no later than 6:45pm. We eat dinner at 7pm.

Then, playtime, bedtime... repeat until the weekend... which is a whole other dance. A slow one, if you will.

You get all that? It's a simple rule: whoever has Peanut has the swagger wagon.

Potential hazards along the way: traffic - that's a big one. How many text messages have I received from my wife saying she's in traffic? And, of course: weather. The snow got its own post recently. It sucks (the snow, not the post). And rain isn't much better. Buses never seem to be prepared for rain. At least you don't have to shovel it.

But the biggest potential hazard, hands down: the cranky daughter. This is a hazard that I thankfully manage to avoid since I leave the house when everyone is still asleep.

Grumpy... but strapped in

If the Peanut is not cooperating in the morning, my wife finds herself squarely in the stress zone. She has 20 - count 'em 20 -minutes to get her up and out of the house. If she is even the slightest bit unruly it throws off the timing of the entire operation. Oh, the stories I've heard. She wouldn't wake up. She wouldn't get dressed. She wouldn't listen. She cried. She fought me on everything.

Depending on the level of non-cooperation, I may have to get the car at one of two alternate train stations. Or take the bus from one of two alternate gates. We have a contingency plan for everything.

That's how powerful my daughter is. Great power... yet no responsibility.

Still, I wouldn't waste the money on a second car until I absolutely have to. We make this work with relative ease.

I must admit, there are times when it would be incredibly convenient if we had a second car. For instance, we've had to skip church the past couple of weeks because I've been driving to meet my half-marathon training group on Sunday mornings. Sundays are long run days. We're up to 11 miles now... which takes me about an hour and a half (ok... a little longer than that). That means I get home right when service starts. If we had a second car, I could meet the family at church and just miss the announcements.

Thankfully, being Episcopalian means not feeling guilty about missing church (sorry, mom). It's Catholic Light (sorry again, mom).

Also, if you had a vote, which would you have us get: a second car, or a second child? We can only afford one.

Case closed.... but neither is happening anytime soon.

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