Anyone who has seen a two year old prone in the center of the cereal aisle knows how frustrating terrible can be, for everyone involved. The child's ability to accelerate the emotional machine is unparalleled. Much of the parental recoil comes from the inability to understand the child's irrational behavior. If the adult's response were equally unreasonable, one might think him appallingly egocentric, rude, unclean, and dimwitted.
I was a very patient young man. Cut, perhaps, from the cloth that adorned Job, little fazed me. Readers familiar with Job's story will find the humor in this. Looking back, it was a charmed existence. All was well and all would always be well.
My wrinkling eyes now see a different world. A world changed by cruel disease, rising costs and political unrest. It's a world known to many throughout existence but it seems new to me.
I still have patience. It's just not natural -- it's manufactured. My coworkers see it. My in-laws see it. Celia feels it. It seems hardhearted, but Jenni and Tucker are usually the last to benefit from it... aside from myself. I rarely find patience with myself and I have no tolerance anymore for my own mistakes.
This blog has been a wonderful exercise in self realization. I started this post with just a title, the result of a little breakfast meltdown this morning. As the words came through my fingers this afternoon, I discovered the irony. It was supposed to be a story about a toddler, but through writing I realize I often mirror my two year old's reaction to little wrongs. I'm inflexible, impatient, short-tempered, selfish. My version of face down in the grocery store is a clenched jaw, wide eyes and a racing heart. The words that follow are always regretable and the recipient is rarely deserving. "Sorry" and a kiss don't usually come next but, inevitably, remorse does.
Maybe we can grow out of this together.
