Last week as I was leaving for work, I buckled my 3-year-old
into the car. And then. Could not. Find. My
car keys. Anywhere. New smart keys have not helped me keep track
of them. If they are anywhere in the car, the car will start. They were not in the car. My 3-year-old was impatient. And I was getting more impatient by the
second. I handed her a pacifier -- the
iPad -- and went back in the house -- for the third time -- to look. They were not in the house. I called my
spouse to see if they were left in her car from the night before. They were not
in her car. They were gone. I needed to
suck it up and face reality.
Before I moved to seeking a solution -- how I was going to
somehow drop off our daughter and make it to my doctor appointment -- I lost
it. My daughter was (fortunately) obsessed
in the cartoon of the moment and barely noticed as I alternately riffled
beneath and banged my fist on both front seats yelling, “Shit! Shit! Shit!" I knew what was happening.
Somewhere inside me was a kinder, gentler, nobler me full of compassion
watching a 3-year-old tantrum as expressed by a 41-year-old adult. Three-year-old me and mature-adult me both
had on a collar. The me who was cursing was judging the cursing too. It was the perfect opportunity for our
daughter to cry "Hypocrisy!" Fortunately, I was spared. This time.
I called the only
person in the world I would bother at 7:45.
This noble friend would have to go to my office and obtain the spare
key, then drive 15 miles out of town to give it to me. She knew I wouldn’t ask unless I were
desperate. She knew I would do it for
her. As soon as she said yes, I
unbuckled my confused child. I told her
I had lost the keys and our friend would bring me an extra. Then I took her upstairs where she was giddy
to have a chance to increase the length of her cartoon fix.
Then, I went to sit
at the dining room table. There, laying on the table where I had looked three
times previously, were my keys. I
quickly called off the rescue mission to a very grateful friend who earned all
the points having never left her home. I
turned off the television and moved the real 3-year-old full tantrum now in
progress back to the car.
Now that the roles
were righted, I approached her freak-out with patience and grace. I was ashamed
of how I had acted. What kind of a role
model was I to our child? What kind of
minister curses and pounds her fists on the seat like a toddler?
I regained something in that moment that I had temporarily
lost, the keys to compassion -- for both of the 3-year-olds in the car.
So real..... just like the rest of us. :) Thank you.
ReplyDeleteWow. Just wow.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Mary.
DeleteAnd...that is so funny. Believe me.....but I know you won't.....but it's the God's truth.....that you NEVER, EVER threw a tantrum when you were 3 years old, much less during the so called "terrible two's". You must have saved all those "tantrum times" for when you got older....and out of the house. LOL!!!
ReplyDeleteI can relate to this...too well. Thank you for sharing your human-ness(?) with us.
ReplyDelete