Sarah mumbles in her sleep beside me.
"Okay," I sigh, pulling myself out of bed.
Ecstatic to see me, our one year old simultaneously rubs her eyes, smiles, holds out her arms for me to take her and jumps up and down in her crib while laughing.
My sleepy heart melts.
Sticking her pacifier in her mouth at the last second, Che lays her head on my shoulder and sighs as if to say, "Everything's okay now."
Then she points toward the door.
"Dad," I hear her saying, "it's time to start this day. Me and you got shit to do."
The reason she says "got shit to do" is because I'm forever telling her "We gotta go. My little girl and her Daddy got shit to do."
Sarah rolls her eyes but I say it anyway.
Letting my wife sleep we go to the bathroom where I hop in the shower while Che pulls everything out of the drawer and occasionally pulls the curtain back to check on me.
It's after 6 when I'm dressed and hauling Che up the spiral staircase when I hear Maddie storming towards the front door.
Hustling in the dark, I jog with the baby completely unaware that Laurel, the effervescent 13 year old is sleeping in the Living Room along with her friends Sammy and Emma ... the fact they've placed a fan in the middle of the floor ... and they unplugged the Christmas Tree so they can recharge their cell phones.
In the pitch black morning, my foot hits the fan, slicing through my big toenail and I trip clutching Che who thinks we're playing a game and begins to cackle.
"Muthafuc ..." I cuss.
"Did you forget about me?" Maddie demands from the bottom of the stairs.
"No, dammit," I did not forget about you."
"Alright then," she says, "take me to work.
Strolling into the Breakfast Club my left Flip-Flop makes a squishing sound and pouring coffee I see it's soaked in blood.
Maddie is clocking in and Che laughs as Ryan and Caroline play with her.
I sip coffee hoping no one bothers to look down.
No one does.
Returning home, I place Che in the Living Room floor so she can wake up Laurel and her juvenile delinquent friends.
It doesn't take long.
"What'd you do that for?" Laurel asks, hair askew and wrapped in blankets.
I show her my slit, bloody toe.
"Gross," she says uncaring and they go back to sleep.
Pieces of my toenail start falling to the floor.
No one cares.
A week later, I've taken to photographing my poor toe in different posses ... as an ornament in the Christmas Tree or wearing a Santa hat ... and texting them to Laurel and her hoodlum friends every day ... with loving messages like, "I'm hope you're enjoying dinner as you look at this."
Neither Laurel or her minor Mafia cohorts bother to respond.
But I persevere.
Somebody's gotta teach these kids to care!
It's my duty as the adult in our family!
