Patience

I have a vivid memory of when I was younger and it was Easter. I can’t remember exactly how old I was, young enough to still believe in the Easter Bunny, but old enough that I can remember this. My mom had taken me to an Easter egg hunt in the lawn outside the May D&F in Cherry Creek. There were so many children there. All dressed up in their Easter finery. And we were all waiting for the hunt to begin. We must’ve waited for an hour or more. And I distinctly remember my mom looking down at me and saying, “You must be the most patient child ever known to man!”

The comment took me off guard, mostly because I didn’t really know that there was any other option but to be patient. I looked around at all of the other children and most were whining, or crying or running around with irate parents in tow. I had simply just been standing there, staring off into space, waiting for the event to begin.

There are a lot of other memories I have where my mom would comment on my level of patience and I remember always feeling the same way, that it was unremarkable. What else was I going to do? Throw a fit and then stand in line some more? It was just easier to wait quietly.

But now, at the ripe age of 32, I’m fairly certain that I used up all of my patience when I was younger. Because I now have very little. I love surprises, but I hate waiting for them to happen. Even when I was in high school and wanted to be a drama teacher, I knew I’d never make it because I quite simply didn’t have the patience it took to wait for students to grasp something.

Every time I’m vibrating with anticipation over something that is still days or weeks away or waiting for my son to put his shoes on, my dad’s voice makes its way into my consciousness: “Patience is a virtue,” “Practice makes perfect.” Ah, the mantras of my youth! Some things never change though, those words still make me crazy.