Week 12: A Day in the Life

Only one more blog post after this one, if you can believe it. Well, the last post for our Ignatius Loyola class. Who knows, though? I don’t think it would be totally inconceivable that I might blog over the summer. If it’s anything like last summer, I’ll certainly have the time.

As we dive into our final topic of the semester (Jesuit education), Fr. Dziak wants us to look into the future – presumably to see where our own Jesuit education will take us. What would an average day be for the 40-year-old Cameron McCormick? Just imagine…

5:58 AM. That’s what the fluorescent green display reads as I stare at the clock on my bedside table. My sleep cycle is so routine that, once again, I’ve woken up mere minutes before my alarm is set to go off. When it does make the first sound, my arm shoots out from under the covers and smacks the ovular button on top.

I carefully slide out of bed, trying hopelessly to avoid the floorboards that creak. I glance at my wife of twelve years as her ribcage moves gently up and down. She says that my morning routine never disturbs her, but I always wonder.

As I walk to the gym, bag slung over my shoulder, I take in the brisk autumn morning. The douglas maples are a bouquet of bright yellows, deep reds, and warm oranges, made all the more pungent by the first streaks of white on their branches. Some people are rushing off to work, but for the most part the streets are empty. I like it: being alone with my thoughts, the fall of my footsteps and the sting in my cheeks reminding me of how alive I am.

I swim laps for an hour or so, taking breaks to soak in the hot tub. After tearing my patellar tendon, that’s about all I can do. I look at all the twenty-somethings working themselves to death to keep thin, and I laugh to myself as I remember being that age and totally unaware that I could eat all the junk I wanted and I would still burn it all off in a day. Yes, youth is certainly wasted on the young.

When I open the door to our small, two-story home, my wife is up and cooking breakfast. I run upstairs to take a quick shower, inevitably getting stuck contorting myself to stare at the top of my head. It’s gotten to the point that I strongly consider cutting my losses and just buzzing the whole thing. Maybe when spring comes around.

I sit down to my usual morning meal: a glass of 2% milk, a bowl of steel-cut oatmeal, and an omelette – egg whites only, what with my family’s history of high cholesterol. My son and daughter run downstairs shortly thereafter to shovel down their own bowls of oatmeal before school. I ask them what they’re most looking forward to today and, as usual, they both shrug their shoulders and say, “I-D-K.”

I clean up the dishes and tell them to “Make it a great day,” as my wife whisks them off to school on her way to work. I pack up my briefcase and gather my things, carefully cradling the plans I spent all last night drawing up. My wife reminded me once again that I should switch off from “work mode” when I get home. And, once again, I ignored her sage advice. It seems neither of us will ever learn.

Apparently my wife used the charger last night. That’s okay, though. My car is pretty small and I think I have at least enough energy to get to work, where I can charge up again. After setting down my things at my desk, I immediately take the plans to my supervisor, excited to hear what he thinks about them. I gingerly tap my knuckles against his door as I walk in and tell him about my hard work. I hand him the cardboard tube and, without even opening it, he sets it down on his desk. “That’s great,” he says, “but one of the sites doesn’t understand our instructions. Something about our materials. That’s where I need you now.” So I drive across town, working through lunch, trying to explain that, no, you can’t use cyanoacrylate glue with Polynanofoam© baffles because the alkyl groups dissolve it.

I pick up my son and daughter from school and take them to their gymnastics class. They always look so excited to see me, but sometimes I have to wonder if they’re running towards me or away from school. This is the happiest part of my day: driving with my two beautiful children; taking them to something my wife and I decided for them but which they, themselves, actually enjoy; watching them jump and tumble and play with their friends in the wonder that is human interaction. After class I let them play in the foam pit a while. As I stare at the foam shapes, all I can think about is work.

When we get home, I fix them an afternoon snack of apple slices and sticks of celery and carrot, with a glob of peanut butter for dipping. Then I send them off to do homework, reminding them that they should try to work the problem out as much as they can, or ask me for help, before resorting to the Cloud. They just kind of mumble in noncommittal compliance as they take their bags to the living room.

It’s at about this time that my wife gets home. I ask her how her day was and she says it was “fine.” She reciprocates the question and I give the same generic answer. I make us some tea and we sit by the window, enjoying each other’s company and talking about whatever happens to pop into our head – neighborhood gossip, her parents’ trip to Australia, our Christmas plans. Eventually it grows dark and I know it’s time to start on dinner. Tonight I’m making linguine carbonara.

As I pull out the dried pasta, my wife looks at me frustratedly – we’re supposed to be on that gluten-free diet this month. But I just smile back at her and tell her that I remember full well, and that I made sure to get gluten-free pasta. By the time dinner is ready, the kids have already finished their homework and are plugged into their Playstation 5. When they don’t respond to my calls, I walk into the room, take their glasses off, and tell them to clean up for dinner. As we sit around the table, we each say what our favorite thing was about today. I say picking up our children from school; for my wife, going out to lunch with her coworkers; and, expectedly, our children both don’t know. But with a little encouragement, our son says gymnastics while our daughter admits that it was art class.

My wife clears the table and goes to watch TV with our children, while I unpack my briefcase and get to work on the progress reports that need to be typed up. I’m so engrossed in my work that at first I don’t even comprehend what my wife means when she says it’s the children’s bedtime. When I walk into their room, they’ve already bathed, changed into their pajamas, brushed their teeth, and are lying in their beds.

I kiss them each goodnight, and remind them to fill their dreams with music, because they have piano lessons tomorrow. I turn off the light, leave the door barely ajar, and head back downstairs to my computer, while my wife flips through the channels for something to watch. A couple hours pass before it’s time for us to go to bed as well. We go through our usual routine of teeth brushing, face washing, alarm setting, before dragging ourselves into bed and, with a gentle goodnight kiss, finally falling fast asleep in wait of what tomorrow will bring.