In our home three o’clock hits like a reminder that the day is far from over, even though it already feels like it’s been three days long. This is the hour where I always think I’m going to get something done — maybe run to Family General, maybe grab the Dolly Parton Knick knacks stuff, maybe pick up the Easter things we still need — but the truth is, nothing moves until David gets home. And that’s just the reality of a one‑car one- driver family trying to stretch time, money, and patience all at once. As we work on C’s driver’s license this week.
I swear, every time I say, “We’ll go when David gets home,” the universe laughs. Because that man doesn’t just walk through the door at the same time every day like a sitcom dad. No. His days come with plot twists. His mom might need him. Work might run late. CSL Plasma where David sell’s plasma for gas during the week might take longer. Traffic might be rude. Or he might just be tired because he’s been carrying the weight of three people’s schedules on his back since sunrise.
So, there we are at three o’clock, me and C, standing in the kitchen talking about Dolly at Dollar General like it’s a field trip we’re waiting on permission for. C’s pacing, checking prices, telling me what aisle things are in, what’s cheaper there, what’s cheaper nowhere, and what we need before Easter sneaks up and taps us on the shoulder. He’s ready to go. I’m ready to go. The list is ready. The bags are ready. The motivation is ready. The only thing not ready is the car — because the car is with David.
And I’m not mad at him. Not even close. I’m just stuck in that weird limbo where you can’t start anything big because you might have to leave, but you can’t leave because you don’t have the car, and you can’t relax because your brain is already in the seasonal aisle holding a plastic bunny and comparing prices on egg dye kits.
C keeps checking the window like David is going to magically appear in the driveway if he stares hard enough. I keep checking my phone like maybe he texted and I missed it. The dogs keep barking at shadows because they think every noise is David coming home. And the house feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the next move.
This is the part of the day nobody talks about — the waiting. The in‑between. The hour where you’re ready to go but life says, “Not yet.” The hour where you realize how much you depend on each other, how much teamwork it takes to run a family, how much invisible labor goes into something as simple as going to the store.
When David finally does pull in — whether it’s 3:45 or 4:10 or whenever life lets him — the whole house shifts. The dogs lose their minds. C grabs his shoes. I grab the list. And for a moment, everything feels possible again.
But at three o’clock? We’re just waiting. Waiting on the man who holds the keys — literally and figuratively — to the next part of our day. Which is why our circle remains unbroken and my circus and the Monkes including the dogs get louder and more rambunctious.
Thank you,
Glenda, Charlie and David Cates
