Don't Mess with the Alarm

This past week my alarm failed. Never you mind why it failed. It has nothing to do with its age, with my receipt of the AM/FM radio clock just a few short years ago when I myself was granted the responsibility of getting off to school in sixth grade. I must say that after 20+ years of being dialed into 92.9 Z93 (until the Capitalist turds canceled the station), the tuner may occasionally get nudged just a hair, just a decimal degree, with the result of a blazing silence once the waking hour is struck.

With our children now in the school system, now maturing into responsible members of society, the occasional failure of my alarm is now found to spread its effects outwards, with its first victims of circumstances being our lovely 4th graders.

So I took them by car to school one day last week, missing the school bus but arriving in plenty of time before the first bell. All is well with the world...

Until tonight, as we put Elizabeth to bed.

"Mom, is Daddy's alarm working? Did he fix it? Because riding in the car in NOT fun."

"What's wrong," Maggie asked with naive compassion? 

"Well, when Daddy dropped me off, I barely got there in time. I didn't get to do my morning work (translation, "previous day's homework not yet complete and never revealed to my parents"), AND I don't get the good jobs, like writing the date on the board."

"We'll try better," Maggie tells her with feigned sincerity.

Writing the date on the board: it is a mighty fine job indeed.