War and Patience

Yesterday, my mom said I was the most patient person she knew in front of me, my 8-year-old son, and my 13-year-old niece. We were in the car looking for parking at the East Austin Studio tour.

“You don’t know how lucky you kids are. Shelly is most patient person I know.”

I was looking for a place to turn around so that we could see this bicycle sculpture my son had seen a few blocks back.

“I thought you were going to go back!” my son exclaimed.

“I am,” I said patiently, “I’m just looking for a good spot.”

It was so beautiful and serene. I was basking in the warming glow of my newfound patience. I’m patient! I’m patient! I WIN! So much wisdom and holiness right here in the driver’s seat! I felt light and solid at the same time. The halo lifted me, improved my posture. But my feet, in the way of all wise men, were firmly planted on the car floor.

“Why didn’t you turn?"

"Too much traffic, sweetie, I couldn't then.

Meanwhile my mom continued with her praise.

“Oh, she’s a lot more patient than me or your parents, Maria.”

The awesomeness of my patience was being truly recognized. I was being compared to my brother and sister-in-law! I win again!

“My parents are patient,” Maria protested.

“Oh no, they’re not. Not this patient.”

“Like how, how are they not patient?”

That’s right, Maria, I generously thought, children should defend their parents. Meanwhile traffic was still gnarly and it seemed impossible to turn around.

“Oh I’m not going to go there,” Mom firmly announced. “I don’t need to give examples. I just think Shelly’s more patient.”

“But how?” Maria was looking hurt. “I think they’re just as patient as SHE is!”

Things were not looking good, not good at all. The halo was beginning to fizzle like an old balloon. Maria wanted concrete examples and Mom was not going to give any. It was me against her parents and the mighty transformation from Mother Theresa to Mommy Dearest had begun.

“How, Gigi?” (That’s Maria’s pet name for me.)

“Hey, wait a minute, I don’t have a dog in this fight!”

(Mom actually supplied this conceit. I think I just stuttered sheepishly, “But wait, hold on, I didn’t start … I didn’t say anything!”)

It got worse from there. Maria insisted on examples of her own parents’ lack of patience, Mom wanted to end that conversation, I began to fume at all the morons on the road, and my son, who rarely even rides his BIKE, suddenly became an expert in backseat driving so we could get back to the bike sculpture. I thought of Bill Cosby with his very young daughter. She wants to watch Froofie the Dog on TV, but he’s watching Gunsmoke. He tells her she can’t because he’s already watching a program. She whines and begs and begs and whines until, finally, he says “You can’t watch Froofie the Dog, because he’s dead!”

And that’s how I felt.

We can’t go back to that bike sculpture because it’s gone. I saw a group of girl scouts taking it down. Did you notice it was pink and decorated with Barbies? It looked like they were going to take their bikes down the alley to play with dolls. I can’t go down the alley because cars are forbidden. Plus there was the sign,“No Boys Allowed”. So that’s it. We CAN’T do it!

Excuses and lies! I was on fire, proudly, even as the halo flopped to my forehead like a bad comb-over. Patience? Out the window! Serenity? Poof!

In the end, it was easier to do the right thing—go back—than fight. When we finally made it back to the “sculpture”, it turned out to be a bunch of junk in front of a crack house. The residents glared at us as we cruised by gawking and laughing, because it was funny.