pneumatic karma for my son

You may recall that the Wendling usually spends two nights a week with me, and the rest at his mother's house. You may also recall that we his parents have been dismayed at how late he stays up at night and sleeps in the morning.

Well, not so much lately at my place. About three weeks ago, my building's management decided to patch and replace some of the cracked concrete in the sixty-year-old building. You know what that means: a jackhammer running about forty feet from my son's head, starting in the morning.

Fast forward to today. In the street right in front of my building's front entrance, there's a crew of about four men doing what I'm guessing is buried utility work because they're using an even bigger hammer to break up tens of square feet of pavement, again about forty feet from my front door. I note with approval that they've poured some brand new concrete where they were digging stuff up yesterday.

Does it bother me? No, because I'm getting ready to go to work by the time they start. My son, however, has a different opinion.

Less than a day before I leave for San Francisco, and not a minute too soon.