Triggering the Wait

I was about three years old when my dad went back to school. He was twenty-five and so was my mother. In order for him to do this, my mom needed to become the sole bread-winner. She got a job in the bank and my dad entered medical school. (When my dad asks me now if I've finished my dissertation yet, I think about him-- he finished school in three years because he knew he couldn't linger around grad school. He had a family to support.)

In kindergarten, I attended Spartan School, the elementary school placed in the middle of Spartan Village, the married housing section of Michigan State University. There I met my first boyfriend, Jed, and my "best-friend," Tacy. (Tacy, Jed, and I were the only Caucasian students in the class. Every one of our parents regarded this as a positive aspect of our early childhood education.) Tacy's dad was in my own father's class at medical school, and it didn't take long to arrange it so that her mother was my caretaker when my mother was at work.

After kindergarten, however, Tacy's family moved from married housing. With three kids, the tiny apartment was getting just a little too small. My own parents moved from Spartan School and into St. Thomas Aquinas. My mother drove me to school, but I needed to take the bus home. Some afternoons when my dad had to stay later with his own schoolwork, I needed to stay at a woman's apartment who ran a day-care out of her own small apartment. I hated it, but that's neither here nor there for this story.

When we moved back to south-east Michigan, Tacy's family moved too. My dad and her dad were going to be doing their internships at the same hospitals. But while we moved back to my mom and dad's hometown, Tacy's family lived elsewhere, but we'd get to have sleepovers. Tacy came with her little sister, Katy By this point, I was in second grade with a teacher who wasn't very nice and new little brother at home. To top it off, my dad, who I was very used to being with, was gone all the time. To see my friends' familiar faces and spend time with them felt like a comfort.

I can remember having to clean my room before she came, and I can remember how my mom would clean the whole house. I knew there'd be pizza for dinner and that we'd play outside for hours-- usually Charlies Angels. (I was always Sabrina.) But what I recall the most was the waiting. It was like five minutes was an hour. An hour was days, and more than than two hours was weeks. I would watch the clock slowly tick forward. I'd go outside and ride my bike up and down the block a few times and return inside to look at the clock again. I'd lie in the grass and look up through the trees into the clouds. I'd try to sleep. I knew that time passed more quickly when sleeping. I'd check the clock. I'd ask for a drink. I'd check the clock. I'd plead to watch to television (no), and check the clock. I'd try to read. And then guess what I'd do? Check the clock. The excitement I felt when I finally saw their car roll down the street was almost too much to bear. Each wheel rotation felt like it was taking forever. I could see Tacy and Katy waving from behind the car glass. And then, finally, they were OVER!

To this day, when I think about time passing slowly because of being excited, I remember those early days when Tacy and Katy were due at my house.

Although, somehow I think after tonight, that memory of "time passing slowly" might have some competition.

We trigger Partner at 10:30 pm. Retrieval scheduled for Thursday at 10:30 am.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock...