“I just need an hour of your time,” Dad muttered as my foot hovered over the basement stairs. Inwardly, my gut tightened with a sickening amalgam of anxiety and dread. It was almost 9 am and already I felt drained.
My father’s sense of time is generally exaggerated to the point that I had already given up my Saturday as a loss. After a week of teaching gas laws and grading fifty ten-page labs on molarity (I loathe repetitious activity. It is the water torture of the soul.), a Saturday morning without immediate plans provides an opportunity for refueling my mental, physical and emotional energies. For Dad, it’s a chance to simultaneously plan and execute a Honey-do list while enlisting the aid of his inactive children.