I work with some of the most awesome people in the world. They’re all damn good workers and I know I can depend on them.

So when one of them is running late, I worry. I’m not worried that they’re skipping work. Or that they’re simply tardy. No, being a father, my daddy gene kicks in and I start into some really hardcore worrying.

Case in point. One of my folks rides a motorcycle to work. She’s always on time. Hell she’s usually around fifteen minutes to half an hour early because she’s got a pretty fair ride to get to the library. Today she was running late. Now, did I figure it had to do with a scheduling mix up? (Which is exactly what it was.)


Did it enter my mind that she might have gotten caught up in traffic?


Maybe her clock was off?


No, see the daddy librarian personality kicks in and I imagine that she’s been involved in a terrible motorcycle accident. Not because she’s a bad rider, because she’s not. Yeah, you can be an awesome motorcyclist and still get mowed down by some of the dumbass drivers that Arizona is famous for.

So I called her phone. No answer, went to voice mail. Yeah, that helped assuage my fears not at all. A few minutes later she was through the door, apologizing and OMG she thought it was this schedule and not that one and everything was okay and besides she can’t really answer her phone while riding a motorcycle.

I guess things will be okay just as long as I don’t start buying teddy bears and ice cream for my kids staff.