Patience

   They say patience is a virtue, and I would say I am a fairly virtuous being, but patience isn't on my resume. I recently told my husband I planned to show more when it comes to my two year old, because I lose it with him more often than I care to admit. Not a day later, he came home from work through the basement entrance to find my son and I in a heated game of Tug-O-War with a full laundry basket. The monster wanted to take the basket and dump it after I had spent a tedious hour filling it with ant clothes. It was actually my two month old daughter's basket and folding infant clothes is like doing origami with confetti. I was yelling at him to let go because surprisingly his death grip is more difficult to break than pulling Excalibur from the stone. My husband pointed out that children don't have fully developed brains and the part that controls maturity, good judgement and self-control is most likely the size of a pea. And he catches us fighting like siblings over a laundry basket. My judgement control center in my brain must also be the size of a pea, and don't ask me where it's located because if it filled the forehead area of my cranium, we know it would be more comparable to three fully ripened grapefruits. 
   My son is actually a loving, sweet and wonderful darling. He just happens to be cut from the same cloth as me, and we clash several times throughout the day. He, on top of all his good attributes, is stubborn, temperamental, and you guessed it, impatient. The other day he was playing with his 5,821 thousand Legos and out of no where lost it. He can't quite talk yet, but through my supreme deduction skills I learned that he NEEDED the Lego that can be attached to the Lego truck. This specific Lego has been lost to the Bermuda Triangle since August, also known as the couch, and would be more difficult to locate than a plane from Malaysia. (Too soon?) They say kids have a very short attention span, so you can imagine my shock when I learned that once a child has a whim spawned in their heads there is very little you can do to change their minds. He threw a fit for 20 minutes over that Lego.
   When things reach pandemonium level, I've been told to go outside for a quick .4 second breather. The problem with that is, when you come back inside, well-rested, level headed and relaxed, you find your daughter has pooped her pants and it has seeped through her onesie onto the couch. You also find that the older one has raided his father's work desk and has thrown a 100 dollar bill into the trashcan, has shredded an unknown document (remind me to move the shredder...seriously!) and has so considerately placed dog food all throughout the entire downstairs of your house. Scout should have easy access to her food at all times, right? In moments like these, I want to be left alone to chain smoke cigarettes, drink a glass of wine and peruse my Facebook. Instead, I hike up my skirts and get to work. Being a mother isn't easy. It isn't always fun. It's dirty and annoying and gross. But you will come to find that when you've changed the diaper and fed the baby she will coo and smile at you, and even though you've seen 500 babies do the exact same face, you are convinced this one is the most special child ever to have lived. And when you clean up the tornado-induced mess your toddler created and he grabs blocks and helps you, you will be positive this one is the smartest, most helpful, and caring child to grace this Earth. There are days when I want to give up and leave town, but it truly amazes me how the smallest of things like a baby cooing happily and a toddler learning to count can melt my heart and make me toss the train ticket.