Two Fridays ago, my co-workers were saying to each other, “See you Tuesday!” It was a long weekend, MLK day was the following Monday.
Sometimes in life certain mundane phrases take on special meaning, and hearing, “See you tuesday!” jolted my mind into childhood memories. My dad always worked late nights—often into the wee hours of the morning. He went into his office in the early afternoon (he was an allergist in private practice), and came home at or after midnight. He would see patients as late as 10 pm and then had a hefty load of paperwork to do! I was quite familiar with this paperwork and even wrote about it in my Family Chronicles project in 2nd grade. My page about my dad said something like, “I love my daddy very much. He comes home very late because he has a lot of paperwork.”
Because we didn’t see him on weekday evenings, my dad made sure to be the one to put my brother and me on the bus in the morning—mainly so he could spend some quality time with us, secondarily so my mom could sleep in a bit.
But Mondays were different. Monday mornings my father was an adjunct professor at the medical school which he had attended, teaching residents about allergy and asthma.
So every Sunday night, after we sat down to our oat bran and apples and watched Lois & Clark, as he wished us a good night sleep, my dad would say, “See you Tuesday!” And so, for that reason, I had a special fondness for Tuesday mornings.