I lost my patience with my nearly fourteen-year-old son last night. I roared. Can you relate? I am, at the very least, grown up enough to know that when I reach that point of no return it is due to me and not anyone else. This morning I’m feeling the aftereffects of last night’s roar – much like a feeling I used to get ‘the morning after’ in my twenties.
I forgot the pause.
For instance, at nine o’clock last night, rather than bringing up the inflammatory topic of homework-doing efficiency (because as of late after track practice son and friends head to the library where productivity is questionable) – with said son, disgruntled by having to attend a Boy Scout meeting where all they did was pack for a really cool trip he wouldn’t be able to take due to a conflict – if I had remembered the pause I could have asked myself whether this was the optimum moment for that. But I hadn’t. Didn’t. Whatever. ‘I did it my way!’
‘My way’ got me bested by a teen with the agitating ability to speak in an ever growing (now) low, calm, ‘higher road’ voice which served to send this fiery Italian mom to greater and greater heights which ended in the roar!
(I am familiar with his art, by the way. I used to practice it on my younger sister.)
The roar then led to the teen’s even more infuriating persistent sub-level pressed murmurings commentating on the irrational controlling desperation of that roar trying to manipulate him into admitting, or conceding, to my view of things as right whether they were right or not.
And all the while a realization was growing in the (now) lioness, as she inwardly fought to hold her ground, that the paws with claws she perhaps subconsciously wanted to strike down her (falsely perceived) foe with, would have been better served if she, in the very beginnings of things, had minded their homophone the pause.