Wasn't This a Guns 'N Roses Song?

I know you’re not going to care about this because no one ever cares about what I’m about to tell you. If we bother to engage in this activity at all, we only want to talk about how the activity affects us personally. We couldn't care less when it applies to someone else. And even though it comes up as a matter of conversation every year, at the same point in the year, and somehow manages to be the topic on everyone’s lips for a two-week stretch, after those first two weeks no one cares anymore. And we certainly don’t care when other people start talking about it.

But here goes: I made a New Year’s resolution this year.

It’s the first time I can remember doing so. I know, I know. That doesn’t captivate you anymore than if I had said I make one every year. So what, right? You’re right. I’ll try harder to keep you interested.

I’ve never made a resolution before because I’ve always thought I was perfect in every way.

Ok, that’s not true. I just tried saying something outlandish to keep your attention. I’ve never really made them before, not because I didn’t think there was something I could do to better myself or the world around me, but because I just never gave it much thought. Seemed like something to do if you wanted to quit smoking or lose some weight. But this year I thought, “What the hell.”

So are you ready? Here it is: I’m finally going to tell the police about that body I found.

Ok, that’s not true either (I’ll never tell them). My real resolution is to try to be a more patient dad. The results so far have been… mixed.

After making it, it dawned on me that if I wanted to achieve my goal more easily, I probably picked the wrong year for this particular resolution. With two kids, I would have been better off making this resolution while one of them, perhaps the older one, was still a fetus. Instead I picked a year in which the younger child just turned two, and the older one will soon turn four.

But I’m finding that if I can in fact become a more patient parent, this is the year in which it will truly be an accomplishment. In the three short weeks that have passed in 2011, I’ve decided the biggest obstacle standing in my way is the questions. The constant, unending questions that force me to talk to one or sometimes even both of them.

The little one is trying to make sense of the world, so she’s curious about everything.

“What are you doing, Daddy?”

“I’m getting your jammies.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s your bedtime.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the end of the day and you need to rest so you’ll be ready for tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Because without your rest, you’ll be cranky in the morning.”

“Why?”

“That’s just how our bodies work, sweetie.”

“Why?”

“Good night, Ada.”

“Why?”

“I love you.”

“Why?”

(Sigh).

The older one is full of questions as well, but he doesn’t even care about the answers, he just wants to be sure that three consecutive seconds never pass without filling the air around him with sound.

“Daddy, where are the markers?”

“Over on the bookcase.”

“Daddy, where are my shoes?”

“I thought you wanted the markers.”

“Daddy, what are we having for dinner?”

“I don’t kn-“

“Daddy, can we go to Grandma’s?”

“What?! Sometime, I guess. Maybe this weekend we c-“

“Daddy…”

“JACK! YOU’RE NOT EVEN LETTING ME ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS! Now enough. This is the last question. What. Do. You. Want?”

“My leg is on fire.”

“Oh. (Slight pause) Ok. Sorry I yelled. Here, let me get the extinguisher.”

Actually, the questions aren’t really that bad when they’re coming from just one source, but my kids like teaming up to try to wear down my wife and I. Their favorite method is to decide which of them is going to throw a screaming fit, and which one will then try to steal attention away from that one.

For instance, if I happen to hand one of them a blue cup instead of a green cup, he or she might start sobbing as if they just watched me run over a bunny with the lawn mower. The other child will then use that precise moment to add to the noise by any means possible; usually by peppering my ears with questions.

“Daddy (or Mommy; they don’t discriminate), can I have a drink? Daddy, can I watch a video? Daddy, why are you crying? Daddy, can I have some money?”

What follows next is either Brigitte or I, or sometimes both of us in tandem, will imitate the hitchhiker in Dumb and Dumber who regrets getting in the giant dog car as Lloyd and Harry try to out-noise each other.

“GUYS! GUYS! GUYS!”

But, since Brigitte typically has more patience, I’m usually the one acting like the hitchhiking gas man. Therefore, the resolution. After all, Lloyd and Harry are just two men trying to have a good time while they drive across the country, and my kids are just… well, kids.

That’s it. I think I just figured out how to be more patient. Patience, you see, lies in three little words.

Giant dog car.