My 4 year old daughter is currently throwing books around the house and screaming I hate you. My 14 year old and 17 year old have locked themselves in their rooms for no other reason except that they like it better in there than being in the same room with me trying to control the book throwing, shouting 4 year old.
A day ago someone asked me if I was a patient person. I gave a vague yes, no, maybe so answer followed by a few ‘if/then’ scenarios only because the real answer doesn’t sound as good. Having wiggle room and options and excuses for my bad behavior sounds better. Or just straight up lying and saying yes. I’m not always above that.
The catalyst for the book throwing was a constant “Mom…Mom…Mom” diatribe without even a 1 second break between each mom. Of which I responded to in haste and visual frustration, like every good parent does, “Be patient.” Period.
Hypocrite.
As much as I want to believe that patience is about endurance, about waiting, about a time span between one thing and the next. It’s not. Patience is completely 110% about gratification. And I am no bigger, in that regard, than my 4 year old. I am currently throwing books around my house and around my relationships and around my social sphere every day because they are not gratifying me in the way that I want them to or when I want them to. I adult-temper-tantrum my way through life. In my psyche there is a push, pull, drag mentality in my conversations and in my public posts of images that attempts to force gratification. And the sadder thing is…it works. I post. You respond with a heart. I ask. You give an immediate, off the cuff, answer. I text. You ping me back. And all of that makes me feel good, productive, valued, heard, thought about. I have lowered myself to feeling valued by how quickly someone responds to me, how instantly they can gratify my feelings.
And I’m sitting here shaking my head thinking, how did I get to this place? Knowing full well that the best work, the deepest connections, the most important interactions, the most beautiful creativity are never instantaneous and never forced. And it’s debilitating in so many ways. And right now, I’m willing to raise my hand, willing to call myself out.
I don’t want to live in a house strewn with books; in a space filled with hastily flung intentions and haphazard emotions. Not now. Not anymore.