Sometimes I feel like my four year old's extended battery. Sean and I went to play miniature golf on Sunday. We initiated take-off from the house around lunch time. One quick errand later and we were on our way.
Music request was "Fix you" from Cold Play. So I did the math and the fiftee minute travel time corresponded to just over 3 repeats of that song. Suffering from 'parental love syndrome' it becomes tolerable.
Stars and fries are on the menu for lunch. Luckily their is a "Stars and Fries Place" on the way. Unfortunately, anticipation had spoiled his appetite. I tried the "Only boy who eat a good lunch get to go to the arcade." This opened an extended negotiation of what exactly constituted a "good lunch." This combined with the normal stream of behavioral corrections, was like a shot of emotional novacaine. And being kind of high strung myself, I needed to stay "big picture." The moment I lost my center, we'd best head back home.
Lack of fuel was the first domino in this slow emotional decline. To begin with Sean is "particular." He has to have the yellow putter AND the yellow ball... everytime. Hmm. If the ball goes into the water, then it has to be completely dry before it is again usable. Each instance being a domino lined up to get to the next. But as Sean becomes more tired, he becomes less tolerant. This tolerance factor seems to be the umbelical link upon which flow my energy to him.
We only played 21 holes. But time is relative. It seemed as if the sun had stopped in the sky. Didn't I just tell him not to pickup my ball? Or to wait until his ball had competely stopped before hitting it again? Or to wait until everyone had teed off before running down the hole to see where your ball went? Or to .... AAAARGH!
Ok. He was getting frustrated at my continuous corrections. I was getting frustrated also. The immense capacity for patience powered by love and strong desire for this to be fun for everyone or else was creating a kind of Catch 22.
Recognizing you have a problem is half the battle... yeah, the easy half. So I sat down and began to hack off the dysfuntional parental chains of behavioral expectations. Once freed myself, I was able to free my son. And we had a great time.
Until it was time to leave...
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