Retirement duties - 2011

Retirement duties - 2011

 

A Pensioner Enjoying Life

I retired from a teaching career, now seven years, and have been gainfully employed since by my daughter. My title is personal assistant, which is a fancy word for a pick-up, delivery and babysitting service that revolves around her three – Emma (9), Eddie (7) and John (4.5).

 

Today I am savoring life. It is a little before ten AM. I have just pulled into a great parking space (always a joy) at Home Depot. I'm here to pick up some Spackle. The wallboard is peeling in my bedroom and having a small container of Spackle sitting on my dresser will go a long way toward relieving my anxiety about the wallboard. I’m not really planning on using the Spackle today. I’ll just set it on the dresser; maybe put a Spackle knife next to it. Then later - not sure when - I’ll do the Spackling.

The Cell Phone Rings

But for now I’m going to enjoy this bright fall morning. I lean back into the car seat and let the sun warm me. I pick up the newspaper, thinking that I could actually take an hour right here in the Home Depot parking lot, watch the people go in and out and read the paper plus drink some coffee which is right at my side, a full cup still warm in the holder. “I don’t need much to make me happy,” is the thought that occurs to me, and it pleases me.

Ooops – there goes my cell phone. It must be daughter Ashley calling to remind me about something. I fumble for the phone. We seniors do this. The vibration stops, ringer starts. I undo the seat belt, fling it at the door. There! I’m still fishing for the phone. It’s still ringing. These jean pockets are tight. I’ll never … OK got it.  

“Hello.” I say – thinking it’s probably too late.

“This is Mrs. DeFranco from Holy Family School.”

“Yes hi, I guess my daughter is ... anyway you got the grandfather. Did you want my daughter’s number?”

Mrs. DeFranco doesn’t want my daughter. She explains to me that Johnny (my grandson, age 4.5) has just announced that he has to go to the bathroom – poopy – and that he will not go unless papa (that’s me) is here to wipe him.”

“OK, but I’m out at Home Depot, now.” I say this in a tone that suggests that I am actually in Home Depot, pushing a cart of stacked two-by-fours, a pencil in my ear, making mental measurements for construction of a new dormer. 

Mrs DeFranco is undeterred. “We’re afraid he will go in his pants.”

“OK,” I say, “I’d say, take him to the bathroom and tell him that I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“OK, please hurry.”

I make the six miles in twelve minutes. I ring the security bell and am let in, no questions asked.

A harried looking administrator greets me in the hall. “He’s in there,” she says pointing to the door-less boy’s room.

I Already Did Poopy

“John,” I say.

“Papa?” he answers. He’s in a stall.

I tug on the door. It’s latched. “OK, John, unlock the door.”

“Papa, I’m on the toilet.”

“I know, get off and come unlock the door.”

“I can’t I already did poopy.”

OK, wasn’t expecting this. I make several more pleas, but John doesn’t relent. I step back and think. I gauge the space underneath the stall door.

I glance out into the hall. There is no one there. No one to whom I might explain what I am about to do. So I kneel down and place my hands stretched out on the floor ahead of me. From there I flatten out face down before proceeding to roll onto my back. I then stretch out, turn my head once more toward the hall - still no one. Pressing the heels of my hands against the floor for traction, I push down and away, inching my way backward, my body sliding on the tile floor. This is a Catholic grade school, not a turnpike restroom I think as my head passes under the door. How dirty can the floor be? After my ribs clear the door, I try to raise myself into a half sit-up position, and reach my hand upward, stretching for the latch. I have trouble with this. I strain a bit more. I roll up my eyes up and tilt my head backward, so that I glimpse the outline of Johnnie sitting on the toilet behind me. He is silent, offering no comment about my actions, but clearly seems to be watching with interest. Finally, the Gods are with me. I reach the latch, my legs still visible protruding beneath the door .

 

May I Help You?

“Do you need help?”  It is an adult female voice from the hall.

“My grandson locked himself in here ... I'm OK,” I say. I assume that the questioner sees my shoes and pant legs and perhaps wonders, “Is he trying to get out? In? Or what?” Regardless she obviously hears my sincere voice and thinks better about coming to my aid. I hope that she goes on her way, which she does.

With much effort, I manage to slide the latch and pry the door. I struggle to come upright with considerable effort, as might be expected for any seventy year old attempting to gracefully rise from back-on-the-floor-prone to upright within a toilet stall in a Catholic grade school.

Finally I stand and listen for voices in the hall. Nothing. Thank God, the Pope, and the archdiocese.

“OK, John, let’s get to it here, are you done?”

“Yes,” John says and I do the job I was called for.

I don’t go back to Home Depot. I move the laundry basket in front of the peeling wallboard. I vow to get the Spackle downtown at the local hardware store.