Dinners of the damned

You hear a lot these days about layoffs and what they are doing to workplaces. Low morale, heavier workload on those left behind, survivor's guilt.

I can relate to the lowered morale and the heavier workload, but survivor's guilt? Sorry, can't go there. I've worked past midnight and every weekend and pretty much every holiday for too many years and am simply too exhausted by my schedule (and the fact that I haven't had a week off in nearly a year) to feel survivor's guilt.

Don't get me wrong -- I am very grateful to have a job at all in this economy, and I intend to do my best at that job as long as it is there for me. I have no choice -- our household depends on two incomes. But reading all these articles about post-layoff workplace issues has me wondering if those who write them have any clue what they're talking about.

Take the office refrigerator. Please.

No one ever seems to write about this, which is why I'm convinced that the layoff stories I read in newspapers are written by free-lancers who never actually set foot in a newsroom.

I've never been unfortunate enough to actually be at the office as co-workers are being told that their services will no longer be needed (one of the few good things about working nights is avoiding these scenes, which generally happen during "regular" hours). So I don't know exactly what people do in those minutes between the time they are informed of their layoff and the time they leave the building.

But I can tell you what they DON'T do -- they don't take their food out of the refrigerator.

The results are predictable, and when I read a Chicago Tribune article a couple of weeks ago about an office refrigerator whose fumes actually resulted in several people being hospitalized, it didn't take much for me to imagine how the situation had developed.

It's been more than two months since the last round of layoffs at my workplace -- and it was a huge round. So you know where this is going.

Yes, the food is still there, festering. No one wants to touch what one of my fellow night-shift workers refers to as the "Dinners of the Damned." And who can blame them? I'm certainly not volunteering for the task. And whoever was disgusted enough to post the aforementioned Chicago Tribune article in the kitchen area of our newsroom apparently didn't volunteer, either.

I haven't given a lot of thought to what I would do if I were laid off. It's unlikely I'd have what it takes to launch into one of those philosophical speeches that movies are made of, or to make a dramatic exit that is forever enshrined in newsroom lore.

I admire those who do make a memorable exit, though. Like one former co-worker who, on layoff day, got "the call" to please come up to the publisher's office. Sure, she said, I'll be right up. Rumor has it that she immediately headed there, where her supervisor and other bureaucratic types were waiting. But instead of taking a left and going up the stairs at the end of the hall, she took a right -- straight down the stairs, out to the parking lot and off into the sunset. (On behalf of beleaguered worker bees everywhere, here's to you, G.B.!)

I hope the layoff scenes are over. But if I should get the ax, you can bet I won't take long to pack my stuff. I won't scream, cry, throw a fit or launch into a soapbox rant about the disintegrating morals of corporate America. I'll probably just quietly fade away.

And I'll take my dinner with me.

What have you done for me lately?

It's been awhile since our last post, so here is a quick up-to-the-moment report. Sarah still hates the hours of her job and is tired all the time. I'm still employed, but it is a struggle to earn what I did previously. And Elijah .... well, he's growing and making progress, sometimes in big steps, other times at a snail's pace, but still moving forward.


As an example of progress, he now greets other children and looks at them when he does it. This is a major breakthrough, and though it's not 100% of the time, it's often enough to, as Elijah puts it, "make Daddy very happy."

On another front, after a spill in some mud, the bike-riding was, to say the least, not a high priority. But the discovery of a bridge over a creek at a local park (we refer to it as "Goose Poop Park" as it has many deposits left by our feathered friends) had rekindled the excitement of riding. The routine is to ride to the swings, play on the equipment and ride back to the car, making both Daddy and Elijah very happy.

Along with all of the good, there have been some problems. "Blue's Clues" and its numbing song patterns have been, on some days, the only basis for Elijah's conversation. I guess I should be happy I haven't had him watch the Sopranos, as that rote speech would be difficult to explain to teachers and strangers. He also has mastered getting on the computer and going to a web site that has all sorts of speech and spelling games, turning up the volume full blast and clicking on the same icon over and over again. Again, I should be happy he hasn't discovered some of the web........no, I don't want to go there.


But what really has been happening around here is the marginalization of Mom. As Sarah has posted previously, Elijah has requested that "Mom go to work" and leave him to run amok due to Dad's lack of discipline. Be it going to the store, bike riding or just a walk around the block, Elijah has told Sarah, "Don't want Mommy to come with us. Just Elijah and Daddy." All this is in addition to Elijah's absolute consternation whenever Sarah goes to bed early, gets a good night's sleep and appears in the den during our morning routine (that would be Elijah having milk and a granola bar while sitting in a chair watching television, while I do the crossword puzzle). "WANT MOMMY TO GO BACK UPSTAIRS AND GO TO SLEEP" is the plea (command) which greets a blear- eyed Sarah as she sweetly says good morning. Talk about a tough crowd!

Other instances of his unappreciative nature: Whenever Sarah disciplines, him Elijah always responds the same way -- not with an apology but with a "Where's Daddy?" If we take two cars anywhere, it's always "Want to go with Daddy in the gray car" as opposed to riding with Mom (who is a much better driver). If it is one of the nights we are both at home, it's almost always Daddy he wants to be the one to read to him and put him to bed. And the list goes on and on.

Now I haven't installed a "nanny-cam," but I'm pretty sure Sarah isn't beating Elijah with a ruler, putting his feet in scalding water or forcing him to listen to '80s music, so why is our house a "Daddy's home"? My guess is that Daddy -- and Sarah will agree with this -- is just more fun than Mommy and allows the little tyke enough rope to hang the both of them until Mom gets home. As Sarah points out almost every time this topic comes up, I'm just a child of the '60s who doesn't believe in discipline, and I let the inmate run the asylum.

All I can say is yes, I am guilty, but the punishment of having my little boy saying "I love you so much, Daddy" is a whole lot better than lethal injection. I know I'm being played like a fine instrument, but I waited 50 years to be in the orchestra, and Mommy is a hell of a conductor.