Yeah, yeah, it's been a week. I spent a good chunk of it riding back and forth between the world's financial and political capitals. I'm not that important, mind you, but occasionally I have business with important people. I am an extra in their theatrical productions, if you will.
So Wednesday night presented a simple choice. On the one hand: a nice hotel bed, uninterrupted sleep, and a productive train ride home from NYC in the morning, augmented by coffee and doughnuts from the Penn Station Krispy Kreme. Boring to some, a luxury vacation to me.
On the other hand: a late-night train that would let me pull in to my driveway at 2:30 a.m., a fact that would neither be known nor respected by three merciless little boys in the morning.
So of course I got on the train. I thought briefly about surprising the wife, but the image of 9mm slugs peppering my chest gave me cause to rethink. She has no qualms about sending someone to meet his maker; she hails from the "kill them all and let God sort 'em out" school of domestic, foreign, and home defense policy. Anything coming up those stairs once the lights are out had best have wings on his back and a trumpet in his hand, because the good Savior and his holy host are the only non-Woodliefs welcome after 10pm.
She was happy to know I was coming home early, which is something that always fascinates me. I can barely stand myself.
I awoke too early, to Eli snuggled up beside me, clutching his slobber-smelling little blanket. He had scooted into my arms, close and snug, so that his hair tickled my nose. We lay there and talked about little boy things for a while. It was perfect. Thank God for the late train.