Patience Is A Virtue

Charlie Shake: 2 parts odds and ends, 1 part mom-patience

There are times when I question the hypocrisy of my never-ending patience for the children I teach and my serious lack of patience for my own 2-year old son.  Is it because he is my progeny that I expect him to be compliant and obey my commands at all times?  Is it because I get paid (or will when I get a job) to be patient with the children I teach? I don’t think so.  Why is it that I get so flustered when he goes limp noodle and throws a tantrum or when he decides to take all the tampons out of the box in the bathroom and line them up down the hallway like railroad ties?  Why is it that I can’t smile and shrug when I notice he’s taken every piece of folded laundry out of the basket and strewn them across the room?  Why do I blow a fuse when he puts all his scrambled eggs inside his glass of apple juice when I turn my back for two seconds?  I think I need a reality check.  At times like these, I think: he’s healthy.  I’m healthy.  He’s curious, learning, experimenting, testing the boundaries.  These are all really good things.  Why should I care that he’s a Tasmanian devil leaving ripped, dismantled, wrinkled and wrecked things in his wake?  

I suppose it is because I find myself unable to catch up with the messes that present themselves in every corner of my house and instead of laughing about it, I let it put me in a crabby mood.  Today for example, there are puzzles everywhere.  The dishes need to be emptied out of the dishwasher for the next load of crusty ones to go in.  Charlie’s clothes are all over the place and he’s removed the entire contents of my pantry and put two items per kitchen floor tile like a grocery store checkerboard.  When I open the lazy susan to find my coasters, can opener, plastic cling wrap and a pair of socks inside my empty juice pitcher, I feel my shoulders hunch tighter.  Maybe I do need that Eucalyptis roll-on anti stress stick I was given.  If only I could find it.  As I empty the contents of the pitcher to put the items back in their respective places, Charlie comes around the corner protesting wildly.  “No, mama.  Benda.”  He takes the items, returns them inside the pitcher and puts on the lid.  Suddenly he begins to make a blender whirring sound.  “See? Benda.”  Mr. Messy is a genius.