RAW: Yesterday it was a four-hour delay at O'Hare, en route to Newark. First one plane broke. Then they couldn't get gas in the second one. Finally we took off, landed, and I had only minutes to make my presentation. Unfortunately, I stood in the cold *downstairs*, while my driver was apparently waiting *upstairs*. I swore at the dispatcher. I'm not proud of it, but I didn't plan it. Sometimes profanity just comes out. We made it with minutes to spare.

I had 150 people waiting for me, and the A/V stuff was was not what it was supposed to be. They said it was X, and it turned out to be Y. Alas, it worked, more or less. I am a pro. Don't mean to brag, but: I made it work. That's my job.

Then my next driver was not where he was supposed to be. I found him, circling the block. I was frozen, but I did not swear. And redemption was just around the corner.

He was canny, and so he found a quick way around an overturned truck. I made it to the airport, running on one Powerbar over the course of a 12-hour day, only to discover: My flight was cancelled. That's alright. It was only the last flight of the day! I'd spend the night at Newark, eating pizza and trying to find new levels of discomfort.

And then: Deus ex machina! The earlier flight was still there. "Sir, run to Gate 14. Run!"

And then home, late, even though I was on the earlier flight. Go figure. One sick kid in my bed. One healthy wife downstairs with the other kid. Not sick, just lonely, the other kid.

And then today the sick one's cold turns into asthma. The wheezing and gasping. And that's just me. God I hate the anxiety I wear when my kids are sick. Like swimming in a sweatshirt and jeans. Heavy. Six breaths. Just relax.

So what? So I make it to dinnertime, albeit after 9PM. So a quick bottle of Chimay Blue, and ordered-in sushi. The FDA may not know it, but the buzz after raw fish is more exilarating than most controlled substances. It's a quick slap of alive, a salty, slimy, brilliant jolt of raw energy, minus the jitters. Feel good, says sushi. Full, and yet still agile. Fueled.

The wife?

Jumped the 8-bird to Memphis, headed to a meeting. Gone 'til tomorrow night. Twenty-four hours of away. Bet she sleeps like a champ tonight. As for the rest of us, I'm counting on two bedmates before dawn, and neither one likely to be good company. The sick one will come first, probably around 2AM, when the albuterol wears off completely. Six more breaths, buddy. You can do it. And then the lonely one will follow. "I want Momma." By morning I'll be wearing the both of 'em, half-dead from lack of sleep, all of us, but totally alive by dint of feeling needed. Connected.

And come tomorrow night I'll be sleeping somewhere outside of Pittsburgh, wishing I was here anyway. So why not be here now. Right. Here. Raw.