Patience. It’s a funny thing. It comes around sometimes when you least expect it to, and then seems to hide around the corner laughing and pointing at you at times when you need it the most, leaving you to fend for yourself— and those around you to fear for their lives.

My boys have a real knack for lurking nearby, carefully watching, scouting, waiting for the moment when they know Patience is far, far away, ready to laugh and point. Then, BOOM, they unleash the beasts within. This is, of course, not news to anyone who has children or has ever been around children or has read anything about children or been a child. Kind of like a baby horse falls out of the womb knowing how to stand and walk, a baby human falls out knowing how to drive a person completely mad.

When they outgrow one method a new one is always there to take its place. You know what they say, when one door closes, another one opens… And there stands a really mouthy eight-year-old who knows no greater pleasure in life than to hear himself talk about things nobody cares about, on a continuous loop that nobody can turn off. Ever.

Me: “Honey, do you think maybe we can just go 2 minutes without talking? Just two. Please?”

Kid: “Probably not.”

At least he’s honest. Also, I think someone is quite pleased with Himself for blessing this introvert who, for the most part, would rather chew off her own tongue than have long conversations with anyone, with a chatterbox of her very own to love and care for.


I often scold myself, tell myself to stop getting annoyed at this, remind myself that someday he will prefer to talk to the stuff he finds in his bellybutton than to his lame mom who is only alive to make his life worthy of bad emo poetry and terrible decisions.

I should enjoy this time. I should relish all of those moments he wants to share with me what is going on in that feisty little mind of his. I should absorb it like a ray of sunshine, filling me with energy and hope and excitement that only a child can emit because they haven’t yet been tarnished by the cruel world, or had kids of their own to suck the life out of them on a daily basis, whichever.

Supermom can do it, I say. Supermom loves listening to story after story, question after question, word after word after word after word after eight million other words that have already been said eight million other times. And, I bet when Supermom’s kid is done talking• Supermom remembers what Superkid said because she’s SUPERmom and not a selfish jerk like Okayishmom over here that fantasizes about thirty minutes of silence.

•Note: MY kid is never done talking, he falls asleep talking and wakes up talking and when he’s not talking he’s still talking and thinking out-loud what he’s going to talk about next.

Patience. It’s a work in progress. In the meantime, does anyone have any good advice on how to facilitate a child’s healthy interest in the art of miming?

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