COLUMN: All You Need Is Patience
I have a confession to make. I have men-oh-pause.
That’s right. Say it with me – MEN-OH-PAUSE. Very good. Now, let’s make something explicitly clear – I don’t get hot flashes, feel the need to eat 38 chocolate éclairs or desire to wear suntan colored pantyhose. Sure, I worry about having love handles, a receding hairline, wrinkles and a flabby butt, but I’m not emotionally imbalanced, at least not that I’ll admit. I do entertain mood swings from time to time, and they are usually caused by worrying. Incessant worrying is my downfall.
I worry about slipping into my thirty-something years (still three years away, I might add) riding the freight train of obscurity and failure. I ask myself constantly, “Am I on the right course? Will I end up in a career that I love?” Potential job paths are important, especially to an aspiring writer. I don’t fit the typical nine-to-five mode, and I loathe the thought of finding myself stuck behind a desk, pushing papers, eating jelly donuts and wearing clip-on ties.
I worry about not being somebody. I really want to be somebody.
Nevertheless, certain events have led me to feel that I am full of crap.
My wife left town to spend the night with a friend in Salt Lake City. That meant my 3-year-old and I were doing the father/daughter/bachelor thing at our tiny homestead in Providence. Given the fact I spend two or three hours at school each day and seven to eight hours at work, time with my daughter is precious, so a just-the-two-of-us weekend was a promising event. And it started off wonderful.
We played Candy Land, dress-up and dinosaurs. She and I watched a horde of movies, including “Star Wars,” “The Little Mermaid,” “Aladdin” and “Beauty and the Beast.” We read books and had non-mom food like chocolate, pizza and chips. Lots of chips. I gave her a bath and then I descended into the seventh circle of dad hell. She started whining and moaning and doing all those I’m-3-so-back-off tricks kids like to perform. I was calm and collected, until she screamed that she wouldn’t go to bed because Jafar from “Aladdin” was in her closet. I lost it. I said, very fatherly and sternly, “Emma, now that’s enough. Go to the corner.” In our tiny apartment, the corner, in my opinion is every bit as menacing as a jaunt with Jafar in the bedroom closet. She cried and did as I had instructed.
Now, I’m usually not so stern with her, so I felt particularly bad as I waited in the other room. The words unmerciful and mean kept popping into my mind. Then her little voice broke the ominous silence. Crying and sniffling in the corner, my little girl said, “Daddy, I’m so scared.” The biggest lump you can imagine lodged itself squarely in my throat, tears filled my eyes and I ran to the corner and just held her. I was so encompassed by selfish feelings and irritations that I failed to realize she was truly scared of a monster hiding in her closet. Instead of being her protector and guardian, I lashed out.
Shame on me.
Lesson learned.
Life isn’t about how much money you make, what clothes you wear, what car you drive and what career you hold. It doesn’t matter where you’re from, what religion you treasure, or what you like or dislike. It’s about who is with you and who you love on this incredible journey from zero, until the end – whenever that may be for each of us. It’s about patience with yourself, your spouse, your girlfriend or boyfriend, your children, your family and every person that graces this beautiful planet with their presence.
So what does all that mean. In layman’s terms it means not flipping the parking attendant the bird. Don’t scowl at other drivers. Try to say kind words when mean words form at your lips. Hug someone. Smile. And realize that it starts with one person and can only be done at intervals of one day at a time. It may sound cliché, but it’s true. I know it is.
Try it for a day. Be patient.