Friday, February 25, 2005
A Lesson from Max
I had an 8:30 appointment with a new dermatologist yesterday morning. As I was leaving the house at 8:15, I discovered that the electric gate across our driveway wouldn't open, leaving me imprisoned in my driveway. A cold front had arrived during the night, accompanied by lots of pyrotechnics, and the rain was coming down hard. Lee had an appointment downtown and had taken our only functioning umbrella with him.
Sometimes the remote mechanism on our gate is ornery in inclement weather. I drove close to the radio doohicky. No luck. I rolled down the window and stuck my arm out. Nothing. I stormed out of the car and stomped up to the antenna. Nada.
I knew that the gate had an emergency release mechanism. The key that activates it is stashed at the bottom of the remote control box behind our garbage cans. When I bent to open the box, it was tightly sealed with the contents of four deeply recessed holes. I remember watching our gate man access the control box with a screwdriver, so I wiped the wet hair out of my eyes, bent low and peered into one of the holes. Phillips head. I went into the house, located the appropriate screwdriver, returned, and removed the first screw. I tried the second hole but couldn't get a firm grip on the screw. I tried the remaining two holes, with no effect. After a frustrating couple of minutes, I peered into one of the remaining holes. Regular slotted screw. Did I mention that the rain was coming down hard? I went back into the house to retrieve a standard screwdriver. Soon thereafter, I had the key in hand. I was still hoping to make my doctor's appointment. I walked to the end of the driveway, inserted the key in the electric gate mechanism, and turned. Then I tried to push the gate open. It wouldn't budge. The appointment was now out of the question. (Good thing it wasn't a real emergency.)
After it became evident that I couldn't make my doctor's appointment, Araceli went home to nurse her lingering respiratory infection. A couple of hours later, my gate man arrived and released me from the drive-way. In between, Martin the repair man arrived to resucitate the washing machine. I was way beyond grumpy.
Today was one of those days that bears out my tongue-in-cheek remark awhile back that sometimes the trip to Starbucks is the highlight of my day. I look forward to coffee for two main reasons: (1) I can procure it from a drive-through window while the kids are immobilized in the back seat. (2) I can callibrate my drink to remedy the preceding night's events and to fortify myself for the day to come: Everyone slept through the night, Max going to school? Decaf grande non-fat latte. Boo up in the middle of the night, followed by an hour of insomnia? Half-caf grande non-fat latte. Araceli out sick and Max home from school for President's day? Triple venti latte. The boys were still sporting their p.j.'s when I packed them into the car and headed for Starbucks. Max knows the route well by now, and as we turned south on Post Oak, he piped up:
- I want gessert.
- Max, it isn't time for dessert.
- I want lemon cake.
- You haven't had lunch yet. What kind of sandwich would you like?
- Turkey and cheese. But I want lemon cake first.
We pulled into the drive-through lane, and Max took notice of the cars ahead of us:
- We line up like this at my school.
- You do? Where do you go when you line up like this?
- Anywhere around the school.
- Where do you like to stand in line?
- At the back.
I drove to the counter, secured my coffee in the cupholder, hid the slice of lemon cake, and deposited the change on the console. Max eyed the coins.
- Mommy, do we have money to buy lemon cake?
- Yes.
As I pulled away from the counter, Max's face contorted and he began to wail.
- Argh! I want lemon cake!
- Max, I have lemon cake in the car.
- Can I hold it?
- Max, you can have it after lunch.
- No way!
- Max, I told you that if you want lemon cake, you have to have lunch first. It's your choice.
- I don't want lunch!
- No problem. But no lunch, no lemon cake. It's up to you.
- No, sir! I want lemon cake.
Then I recalled how I'd managed to break one of these stalemates with Max a few months ago.
- You really, really like lemon cake, don't you?
- Yes. And I don't want lunch.
- You just want lemon cake?
- Yes.
We drove in silence for a few seconds. Then Max switched gears:
- Hey, there's a butterfly on our windshield!
- There it is! It's green and yellow!
- I want it to fly away.
- You do? Why?
- Because it's so beautiful.
In less than a minute, my three-year old's frustration and disappointment yielded to the magic of a butterfly. Even on days like this one, surely I can learn to spot more butterflies.
Sometimes the remote mechanism on our gate is ornery in inclement weather. I drove close to the radio doohicky. No luck. I rolled down the window and stuck my arm out. Nothing. I stormed out of the car and stomped up to the antenna. Nada.
I knew that the gate had an emergency release mechanism. The key that activates it is stashed at the bottom of the remote control box behind our garbage cans. When I bent to open the box, it was tightly sealed with the contents of four deeply recessed holes. I remember watching our gate man access the control box with a screwdriver, so I wiped the wet hair out of my eyes, bent low and peered into one of the holes. Phillips head. I went into the house, located the appropriate screwdriver, returned, and removed the first screw. I tried the second hole but couldn't get a firm grip on the screw. I tried the remaining two holes, with no effect. After a frustrating couple of minutes, I peered into one of the remaining holes. Regular slotted screw. Did I mention that the rain was coming down hard? I went back into the house to retrieve a standard screwdriver. Soon thereafter, I had the key in hand. I was still hoping to make my doctor's appointment. I walked to the end of the driveway, inserted the key in the electric gate mechanism, and turned. Then I tried to push the gate open. It wouldn't budge. The appointment was now out of the question. (Good thing it wasn't a real emergency.)
After it became evident that I couldn't make my doctor's appointment, Araceli went home to nurse her lingering respiratory infection. A couple of hours later, my gate man arrived and released me from the drive-way. In between, Martin the repair man arrived to resucitate the washing machine. I was way beyond grumpy.
Today was one of those days that bears out my tongue-in-cheek remark awhile back that sometimes the trip to Starbucks is the highlight of my day. I look forward to coffee for two main reasons: (1) I can procure it from a drive-through window while the kids are immobilized in the back seat. (2) I can callibrate my drink to remedy the preceding night's events and to fortify myself for the day to come: Everyone slept through the night, Max going to school? Decaf grande non-fat latte. Boo up in the middle of the night, followed by an hour of insomnia? Half-caf grande non-fat latte. Araceli out sick and Max home from school for President's day? Triple venti latte. The boys were still sporting their p.j.'s when I packed them into the car and headed for Starbucks. Max knows the route well by now, and as we turned south on Post Oak, he piped up:
- I want gessert.
- Max, it isn't time for dessert.
- I want lemon cake.
- You haven't had lunch yet. What kind of sandwich would you like?
- Turkey and cheese. But I want lemon cake first.
We pulled into the drive-through lane, and Max took notice of the cars ahead of us:
- We line up like this at my school.
- You do? Where do you go when you line up like this?
- Anywhere around the school.
- Where do you like to stand in line?
- At the back.
I drove to the counter, secured my coffee in the cupholder, hid the slice of lemon cake, and deposited the change on the console. Max eyed the coins.
- Mommy, do we have money to buy lemon cake?
- Yes.
As I pulled away from the counter, Max's face contorted and he began to wail.
- Argh! I want lemon cake!
- Max, I have lemon cake in the car.
- Can I hold it?
- Max, you can have it after lunch.
- No way!
- Max, I told you that if you want lemon cake, you have to have lunch first. It's your choice.
- I don't want lunch!
- No problem. But no lunch, no lemon cake. It's up to you.
- No, sir! I want lemon cake.
Then I recalled how I'd managed to break one of these stalemates with Max a few months ago.
- You really, really like lemon cake, don't you?
- Yes. And I don't want lunch.
- You just want lemon cake?
- Yes.
We drove in silence for a few seconds. Then Max switched gears:
- Hey, there's a butterfly on our windshield!
- There it is! It's green and yellow!
- I want it to fly away.
- You do? Why?
- Because it's so beautiful.
In less than a minute, my three-year old's frustration and disappointment yielded to the magic of a butterfly. Even on days like this one, surely I can learn to spot more butterflies.
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