Nerve Surfing

I love the little guy. I really do. But Michael has a way of riding my nerve the way no other child of mine can. He's skilled at it. I believe it is his daily objective. If, at the end of every day, the single checklist item of "Surf Daddy's Last Nerve" can be scratched off, he can go to bed content.

Today's little delight came just before he sat down to eat lunch.

Michael's Mommy had just offered me a spoonful of her world-famous potato salad, which I gobbled down with great enthusiasm.

"Mmmmmm! That is so good!"

"Can I have some?" Michael asks. I'm thinking "He won't eat it. He hates everything."

Sure enough, when his mom puts the spoon to his tongue, he shrinks back in horror, eyes wide.

"I don't like that," he says, his tongue remaining extended to its fullest.

Then, he picked up his water cup, and in an effort to cleanse his palate of the offensive matter, he poured the entire contents over his tongue, letting the water cascade off of it, dribble down his chin and the side of his chair, to create a sizable puddle on his seat.

I stood there, paralyzed with disbelief at what I was witnessing. Where would he ever get the notion that this would be a good plan?

And instantly my patience vaporized like the morning dew in the summer sun. It was as if he had explored my brain, found the neuron that lies at the core of my impatient response, and applied a cattle prod. Any resolve I'd had at keeping my cool was immediately switched off.

This is what I pray for daily: patience. And as I have said so many times, Michael provides me no end of opportunities to practice it. Some day, perhaps, I will learn. And then God and Michael will be able to rest.