Patience

Not long after Sir Chatsalot turned two I discovered that while time may have made me wiser to the ways of weefolk, it has not made it easier for me to endure the ways of weefolk.

Especially the screaming, kicking, NO MOMMY! ways of weefolk.

Sir Chatsalot is firmly entrenched in the tantrum phase that is the terrible twos. Smacking at me in toddler-rage, throwing himself down on the floor with a thump, rediscovering his voice potential as he shrieked so loudly and shrilly in Kroger yesterday that three (yes, I counted) grown adults in our immediate vicinity slapped their hands over their ears and looked around in shock.

And I am sick of it.

I've done this twice already; Princess Pinky never approached the crystal-shattering levels of wailing that Sir Chatsalot achieves but she sure knew how to tweak her tantrums with a nice dose of emotionally-laden language directed squarely at me.

Oh, and her terrible twos lasted until she was three-and-a-half.

Prince Tatertot didn't talk much until he was three so at least I was spared from the verbal onslaughts that result when a tiny ego is overrun by body-shaking rage. It was his sheer size that made his tantrums epic - when they did come, that is, for he was and is of a much more even-keeled personality than his siblings.

When man-boy decided to throw down in the middle of a store, parking lot, or church, all I could do was bend at the knees, exhale, then jerk him up to my shoulder and tote him out like a writhing sack of potatoes while explaining to slack-jawed rubber-neckers (don't you just love how public temper tantrums bring those folks out of the woodwork?) that he was only two. Yes, I know he's as big as a four-year-old but he is only two, m'KAY?!

Now it's Sir Chatsalot's turn to wreak havoc and while I know it's just a developmental phase, a sign of healthy emotional growth, and all that yada-yada-yada baby book language, I want it to be over and done with already.

Patience is a virtue that I've yet to master in life, especially as it pertains to mommying.

I know I need more of it; can I tell you how hard I laughed when Blue's Clues came on last night? The show's title: Patience. I almost sat down and watched it with the boys thinking that maybe I'd learn something new.

It's harder and harder to be patient when a tantrum stops everything. The balancing act between three children and their competing needs is a daily dance for me. Add to that the demands of The Schedule (and while it's summer and school is out, The Schedule still lurks) and I'm forever dancing and dashing from one child to the next, one place to the next, one pressing task to the next.

A toddler throwdown derails all of it and I...?

Well, I certainly don't have as much patience as I should have given my long years of mommying. And this troubles me - have I learned nothing?

*Sigh.*

What I do know is this: when this stage passes, other things pass away, too. His chubby arms wrapped tightly around my neck. His little nose pressed against my cheek as he kisses me. Carrying that sweet babe/boy on my hip with one arm.

And my favorite: sitting in the rocking chair with him curled up in my lap, his arms and legs tucked under his blanky and his head tucked under my chin as I read yet another adventure with Thomas the Tank Engine before bedtime.

This passes away and vanishes so quickly, too quickly.

Patience, Mommy, I whisper to myself.

Patience.

WM