I spent a week interstate at a work conference just before
Christmas last year. It was a very long
week of meetings, discussions and unrelateable guest speakers and many of my colleagues
were feeling their patience pushed to the limit.
One younger colleague of mine approached me towards the end of
the week and said, “I just wanted to tell you, I really admire your capacity
for tolerance. We’ve all been stressed
and annoyed this week, but you just seem so calm. Nothing seems to bother you – not even when
the really irritating people in our team go off on a tangent. It’s something I really need to work on personally;
can you give me any pointers?”
How could I tell her that in order to achieve a Zen master-like
inner peace, one only need to spend 20 minutes in the car with my children? Then everything else becomes infinitely more
bearable.
Take this morning’s drive for example: home to my parents’
house. 20 minutes. And yet, my boys can turn 20 minutes into an
unfathomable dark voyage, the likes of which can never even be conceived by the
childless. Let me give you the edited
version of my dialogue during this period, and we begin by backing out of the
driveway with the toddler, Toes, already shrieking like an injured seal…
“Toes, what’s wrong?
Toes? Toes? What do you want? A book?
A car? WHAT???”
Picture me nearly driving off the road as I try to hand
random items to the source of the noise, now reaching glass-cracking volume.
“How about a dinosaur?”
I hand him a stuffed toy.
My older son, Smudge, immediately corrects me.
“Mummy, that’s not a dinosaur, it’s a dragon. Mummy?
It’s not a dinosaur. It’s not a
dinosaur mummy…”
“YES, thank you Smudge.
Here Toes, take the dinosaur.”
Toes grabs the toy and says, “Dinosaur!”
Smudge pipes up again.
“Toes, it’s not a dinosaur. It’s
not a dinosaur. It’s not a dinosaur Toes…”
“YES THANK YOU SMUDGE.”
The not-dinosaur gets thrown on the floor and the wailing
continues.
“How about some water?”
I pass a squeezy bottle back to Toes.
Mercifully, it goes silent as he sucks it down.
Smudge realises he is missing out. “Mummy!
I want a drink too! Mummy I’m
thirsty! Mummy!”
He makes a grab for the bottle and Toes begins to scream
again.
“SMUDGE! Leave it!”
“But I’m THIRSTY!!!”
Smudge bursts into tears so violent, I am concerned he may vomit from
the heaving. It’s happened before.
“Smudge, Smudge, calm down, you can have a drink in a…
TOES!!!”
Toes is merrily squeezing water over himself, his car seat
and the door upholstery. A small battle
ensues while I rip the bottle out of his hands and try not to crash while
turning onto the freeway.
“That’s IT! No water
for anyone!”
Both children erupt into wailing so loud, other drivers
begin to pull over, believing that an ambulance is behind them.
There is only one solution in this situation: turn up the
radio and sing along. And I completely
understand the strange looks from my parents as I turn into their driveway
belting out Taylor Swift with two hysterical children in the backseat.
So, for anyone looking to improve their tolerance levels, my
children are available for rent by the hour.
Although long term, I’m not sure repressing this much can be good for
me, but short term, it sure beats caving into the urge to hop a one-way flight
to Fiji on my own.
