I haven`t been out on the highway in a car for some time. When I was recently, a week ago on Sunday, I was again reminded that men can be such hotheads. I mean what is the point, men? When you have a long line of cars on a two way, two lane highway, pretty much evenly spaced apart going average 60 mph, 100 km, there is absolutely no reason to pass going into head on traffic. It endangers a lot of people. Once you pass one, there are just as many ahead of you. And yet, men are driving, edging out into the other lane, getting ready to nearly kill everyone by passing.
My Father always did it. My Mother hated it. I hated it! He always had some excuse for passing. "Too much room between the two cars up ahead", "We will be home faster". Whatever, Dad. At least I am still alive I guess.
Still, the point being that only men do this type of passing. Seriously. Or the percentages must be like 90 per cent men, to 10 per cent women. I wonder how many deaths occur from this type of driving?
The further point being that men are just impatient boneheads. I can say that of men, myself being one. And I point this out because impatience and bringing up kids DO NOT MIX. It should say that on the label of kids. "Warning, do not handle if you are filled with impatience". Or, "Warning, mixing impatience with kids can lead to, a, b, c, and d death." Of course the cigarette companies will vehemently oppose this warning. But it would be good for lawyers.
In retrospect, I can`t remember why I was so impatient to get my older girl`s clothes on after her nap. With the younger one, I usually have to get her out in time to pick up her sister at a not too reasonably late time from her pre school. But when the older daughter was one to two, what did I have to do? I had to hurry to go to the park maybe? I have no idea now. It seems like I was trying to pass into oncoming traffic. There was no point to hurry. But I had to!
So there I am trying to stuff her little arms into her jumper shirt. And for some reason, after the one piece pajama, this piece of clothing always befuddled me. It would always come on backward, or inside out and I never got the shirt on in the first two tries.
In the middle of trying to get the jumper on, my daughter would see a free space and get loose and scamper to the top of her parents bed. She loved that and would give a little baby laugh sitting on the pillows while I was left holding the jumper at the bottom of the bed. We are going to be late, we can`t do this, we are going to be late for our appointment at I`m not sure what time nor where the appointment is. And I make a lunge at her. She scampers to the other side of the bed and brays like a mule. I remember my pet guinea pig used to do the same maneuver when I had to put it back in its cage after I had let it run around my room some. She looked at me just like some prairie dog sitting on its hind legs and gave a chuckle.
Don`t ask me how I caught her, but it was another ten minutes of my life "senselessly" shaved off. Too bad only in retrospect do I have the patience to see what fun that was even for me and that it was funny too. At the time, in the midst of the battle, the adrenaline was starting to clog my arteries and I was getting upset. Getting upset? I was frustrated and fuming. Get over here you little doggie and get your shirt on. It`s all a wonderful game to them, but for us impatient men, it is a battle to the death. Well, metaphorically speaking. Just a bit of hyperbole there, over the edge.
At some point, in some manner, I would catch her and now it was her turn to cry. It was time to put on her socks. Every time I put on her socks she started to cry. What, what, what is it? Is the sock too small? Too tight? She was too young to talk (besides saying C`mon since she was 16 months old) so I had no idea what the problem was. I worried that something real bad was happening and because I had put on the socks wrong we would soon have to amputate her foot because the sock was cutting off the circulation. Well, there was nothing I could do about it. We had to get to where we were going on time. I guess she would just have to limp after her foot was cut off.
The whole process turned me into a frazzled bundle of high voltage barbed fencing. "Don`t touch me I`m a real live wire"
About a year later after she could speak more, I found out the problem with the socks. I always put the sock on so that the seam which goes across the toes was a little bit too far over. The seam was either too far to the left or right and going onto the back side. It didn`t go across her toes PERFECTLY and she cried about that. Well, at least she still has both feet. We didn`t have to amputate. I wish I hadn`t been so impatient with dressing her. There was no point. Exactly like there is no point in passing the car ahead of you on a two way traffic highway. The whole thing was rather fun and funny. The wasted time was the time I spent being impatient with whatever.
Don`t be a bonehead, men.
I think men are unduly focused on the finish line. You weren't "late" for the park, but you were genetically wired to finish the task (getting her dressed) quickly and competently . Just like your dad had his eyes fixed on the horizon and was determined to get home. Anybody enjoying the journey? Hello? Do you remember that old 60's TV show, "Mission Impossible?" I swear, that theme music would start playing in my head every time I had to do something like pick a few items up in the supermarket with my kids in tow (this is when they were, say, 4 and 1 respectively). Everything was a mission to be finished as efficiently as possible. There was no time to savor, I was getting from A to B. As you say: bonehead.
ReplyDelete"I think men are unduly focused on the finish line.
ReplyDeleteAnybody enjoying the journey? Hello?"
Exactly spot on. Well we might as well just kill ourselves as that is the ultimate finish line. But thinking about it now, I think I may be as guilty as my Father as my favorite place (finish line?) to be is behind my office desk, behind my store desk or at the kitchen table. Maybe I am always hurrying to be at one of those places just as much as my Father was hurrying home. Hmmmm, food for thought. Thanks.