what this costs

...having to set my middle son down early, so I can keep gathering my things before a 48 hour shift. may as well be a deployment, or a jail sentence. fuck that, I'd prefer those. jail I can sleep for 48. deployment would be food, sleep, action combination, ideally.

he wakes up as i'm scrambling to gather my debris, the collection of stuff from my life that I take with me to keep me more comfortable, keep my mind elsewhere - I frantically move back and forth through the house, as he stumbles out of the darkness of his room, into the harsh light of the morning.

this is a goddamn heart-breaking metaphor for life. him waking up as I am readying to leave. me holding him, but not long enough - it never is. torn between what is right and the right now, holding him, being present and loving with each other - and then the invasive + soul stripping pull of time. the clock, always knocking at the fucking door! shut the fuck up time. dirty thief.

what this costs... the rest of this morning's hug, this cuddle session with my middle kid. it costs me the chance to be there for him tomorrow morning, and the morning after, (since I'm on a 48).  this job costs me a small connection, because now i'm absent from his next couple mornings, those days, and those nights. I worry that can and will lead to me fading as a pillar of love and presence in his mind, and in his life. this job costs pieces of relationships, and my concern is the growing and future size of the pile of pieces...