Here's Mud in Your Eye

I was up to my eyeballs in the “project from hell” – drinking too much coffee and biting my cuticles off because the only thing consistent or predictable about the project was that the scope of work would be changed on a regular basis.

On one particular day, there was a status meeting that had been rescheduled no fewer than three times. Ultimately it was set for 4:30, which would be iffy for me because this was one of the two days a week that I met my middle son at the school bus, and made up work time after the kids went to bed.

As fate would have it, that day I got a call from the school nurse about my middle son who’d been stomping in mud puddles at recess, got dirt in his eye, and must have scratched it because he could no longer open it.

Of all days, I thought, and told her I’d be there in ten minutes. I dashed over to the school and found my son wearing an eye patch. When he saw me with his good eye, he began to cry.

I picked him up like a baby, thanked the nurse, and carried all 60 pounds of him out. I secured a 3:45 doctor’s appointment, even though I knew there was a risk that I’d either be late for my 4:30 meeting or have to call in from the road.

We were early for our appointment, but wound up waiting 20 minutes anyway. My son sat on my lap and buried his face in my neck and hair, feeling self conscious about the eye patch. When I finally carried him in to the doctor’s office, nothing either of did could convince, cajole, or coerce him to open his eye to let the doctor take a peek. The doctor said he’d have to refer us to a specialist. It was 4:15 at that point.

I wish I could say that I didn’t give another thought to traipsing across town to the ophthalmologist’s office, but that isn’t the case. I thought first about the additional time it would take, and how was I ever going to make that project meeting?

I lugged my son out to the parking lot and situated him in the car. It was 4:30. I called the conference number, but no one was there. So I called one of my colleagues, who told me the meeting had been changed to 4:50, “didn’t you see the reschedule notice?” I groaned inwardly (the notice could have only come in the last hour, since I’d been glued to my computer up until that point), and told her I’d talk with her later.

At the ophthalmologist’s office, we were ushered right in to a cozy, warm, and dark room. As my son snuggled on my lap, I realized that I was the one who needed to get the proverbial mud out of my eye. It became clear to me that this time with my son could not be interrupted or deferred. There was no way I’d be available for any other meeting.