Patience

I was an unremorsefully impatient child. Not all the time, but when I was, it was bad. I’m much more a model of patience now in my thirty-sixth year than I was in my sixth. My impatience grew to its all time high during my big pubescent transition from innocent kid to hormonal teenager. My angst expressed itself in fits of furious irritation over every little ding-dang thing. My mom and dad didn’t always understand where all this was coming from, and neither did I.

Mommy had an innate gift of patience with her children. It didn’t mean she didn’t get angry with us or lose her temper, but this was only occasionally, while mine was a matter of daily uncertainty, something my mom hoped wouldn’t last in perpetuity. It didn’t. I’ve mellowed out more and more with each passing year, but I do remember one moment as a little boy, an awfully embarrassing one that could have scarred me for life and enervated my self-esteem had my mom reacted differently than she did, which was delicately and with the utmost love and patience. Through actions, not words, we learn.

I grew up in the woods where there were no sidewalks, no corner deli, no place for kids to hang out and cause trouble other than the old beech tree on the edge of what we called Indian Grass Hill. The tree was scarred from various engravings of hearts and romantic epigraphs along the lines of “Laurie + Stevie”. There was also the occasional “Brian = Horse Puckey” or “Jeffrey eets boogers”.

Be that as it may, any opportunity to flee the woodsy environs and take a trip to the strip mall or even better, The Echelon Mall five towns over, was as welcomed as if I’d been offered a all-expense paid trip to Disneyland. That’s what happened one balmy summer Tuesday evening when my mom walked into my room, a foggy trail of Aquanet hairspray dissipating behind her, and asked, “Wanna go to KMart with me?”

I think I was six years old at the time, maybe five. Kathy joined us on our little excursion. Mommy had to get some toilet paper, paper towels, and a few other odds and ends. When we arrived, we decided to separate, agreeing to meet back at the front of the store in thirty minutes. My mom told me not to talk to strangers and then we parted.

Kathy always went to the hair products section. She was determined to dye her hair blonde, even against my parents’ wishes. I think it may have come from her early childhood obsession with Farrah Fawcett. Mommy told her repeatedly: “I don’t trust those cheap hair coloring kits and we can’t afford to take you to the salon.” Kathy inevitably sighed and offered to save up her pennies for a dye job, but Mommy wouldn’t have it. These were times that truly tested my mom’s patience. At the time, Kathy was only a teenager. What I didn’t know then was that Kathy was even more impatient than me. She was also what Grandmom called a “conniver”.

I immediately made a beeline for the toy section. The toys were cheap at KMart and I could always persuade my mom to buy me some little piece of plastic junk that I simply had to have, but probably didn’t need. Star Wars was still fresh in the collective conscious, but the action figures were often too expensive. I found an obscure character. I think it was a Death Star Trooper that apparently nobody wanted because it was on sale – three dollars! Oh boy! I was sure I could talk my mom into it.

I picked up the toy from the sale bin, looked up at the clock on the wall, and saw that I still had fifteen minutes before I had to meet Mommy and Kathy. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through my stomach and I farted. Then there was another digestive tract pain, and then something dropped inside me. I had to go to the bathroom. Really bad. I couldn’t believe it. One second I’m fine, browsing the action figure section of KMart and the next I gotta take a mean number two. It was all I could do to hold it in.

I remember it all clearly. I stopped in front of a “My Buddy” doll. It was a small boy doll with blonde hair. He wore red overalls and a baseball cap and was probably about two-feet tall. The ads said you could take him with you anywhere! (“My buddy and me like to climb up a tree” went the jingle.) I always wanted one, but never admitted it to anyone.

I was too scared to ask anyone where the bathroom was. Besides, I didn’t like using public restrooms: they were always so dirty and you never knew whose butt had sat down on the seat before you. I couldn’t walk because I knew if I did, I’d lose it, so I stood there, motionless, the only movement being the beads of sweat starting to roll down my brow.

An older kid walked by me and regarded me squarely, standing in front of “My Buddy”. He snarled, “Those are so gay,” and walked away. I knew they were gay! I never wanted one – never – but I couldn’t help it if I was stuck in front of this gay little boy’s doll, Playschool’s answer to Barbie for boys. I knew that, you gunkey person, you!

I moaned quietly, I held my stomach, and then I couldn’t wait any longer. Nobody was in sight. The coast was clear. I let it go right into my underwear and it was both the best and worst feeling at the same time. I had relief, but I was left with an unwanted gift in my shorts. Oh no! I panicked. I could smell it. It was gut-wrenching. Just then Kathy walked by, a shimmering ghost at the end of the aisle, and I gasped, “Kathy!”

She turned, walked down the aisle, and then started waving her hand around. “Geez Louise, what died?!”

I quickly explained and Kathy, bless her heart, was sympathetic and didn’t say one disparaging remark. She hustled me down the main aisle towards the front door and outside. I think she did so because she might have been more embarrassed to be caught with smelly ol’ me, rather than it being some act of kindness. I knew I was leaving a stinky, foul trail of stench behind me, but I didn’t care – I had to get outta there. Kathy stopped me in front of the little horsey ride outside the store and told me to stay put until she got Mommy.

“And don’t sit down,” she said sternly.

“Wait!” I yelled. “Can you take this back to the toy section?” I held up the Death Star Trooper figure. Kathy grabbed it and it wasn’t until then that I noticed she was holding a plastic bag. She had bought something, but right then I didn’t care to ask bupkis.

She was back in five minutes with Mommy in tow. We hightailed it to the car and before I could sit down in the backseat, Mommy said, “Don’t sit down! It’ll make it worse!” Right. Gotcha. We opened all the windows and my mom put the petal to the proverbial metal.

Mommy patiently turned the wheel at every turn and all the while she never yelled, never asked me why I didn’t try to find a bathroom, never even wanted to know why the heck I took a crap in my underwear: a paragon of understanding and patience. In fact, I remember us laughing about it on the car ride home. She simply let the incident go as quickly as I had let it go in KMart’s Aisle 5.

When we got home, she took me into the bathroom, handed me a garbage bag, and told me to put the underwear in it, seal it tightly as if it was radioactive waste, and then take a shower. There was no way she was going to wash my Superman Underoos. It was easier to just send them off to some unknown South Jersey landfill. I still miss those Underoos to this day and think it would be a great Generation X marketing ploy to make them in sizes for us 30-somethings.

Later that night Mommy walked into my room to tuck me. She turned on the fan by the window. To this day I always love a fan on during a warm summer eve. The steady drone and breeze puts me to sleep like a baby. My mom sat down on the edge of the bed. Even in the strong breeze from the fan, her hair didn’t move. That Aquanet sure was great stuff! She then handed me the Death Star Trooper action figure. “Next time,” she said, patting me on the arm, “can you please just ask where the bathroom is…and use it?”

I agreed and thanked her for the gift.

She kissed me, told me she loved me, and said, “Now, I’ve got to deal with your sister.”

“What’d she do?”

Her face flushed and her eyes narrowed. “The little conniver bought a hair coloring kit.”