Don't Come In Here, Mom's Throwing Spaghetti

by Renee Hawkley

Patience. There's that word again. It bothers me. When I'm not wishing I had more of it, I'm wondering why I keep losing the little I have. Getting patient takes too long. I want patience, and I want it now.
I ask you. What's so hard about keeping a sprinkling of poise when things don't go smoothly? It should be easy. All you do is nothing.
At least I know I'm in the right profession to acquire it. A mother's patience gets wrung out and strung out on a never‑ending clothesline of surprises. The variety cov ers everything from trying to clean soggy cat food out of the vacuum cleaner because your child tried to hide some evidence to responding when a teenager calls at 2:00 a.m. ask ing if she can break her midnight curfew.
I dream of having the patience of my friend, Melody. So I asked her to give me some pointers. She reminded me that mothers don't see each other behind closed doors. Then, she told her story.
One evening, Melody made spaghetti for dinner, called each member of the family and sat down to wait. Nobody came. She called the family a second and third time with no response. By this time, the spaghetti was lukewarm, and Melody was hot.
When her teenage daughters finally sauntered into the din ing room, they were too late. Melody had boiled over. She flung fistfuls of cold spaghetti at them and only came to her senses when they dashed out of the room shouting to the rest of the family, "Don't come in here! Mom's throwing spaghetti!"
Reassurance. That's what this story gives me. Reas surance and courage to start a new day, knowing that oth er moms have been exasperated and angry and frus trated, too . . . just like me.