Improvement of Patience

At times, God seeks to improve one’s virtues; and apparently I need to improve the virtue of patience. I think of God like a blacksmith. He gathers materials, mixes the ratios, heats it to an unbearable temperature, and then strikes it repeatedly with a very large hammer until it either bends or breaks. #7 is my hammer.

The little year and a half old boy had a bottle, warm pajamas, and was sleeping with his eldest sister who would cradle him in her arms all night, provided he would stop spinning. Apparently that only meets his standards for half of the night. Usually sometime after midnight he wakes up and begins to cry. His banshee like wailing rings through the house like a lost soul. #1 tried to comfort him, but he was as soothed as a cat in a cold shower.

The midnight fury of a one and a half year old.

The midnight fury of a one and a half year old.

When Wife stumbles down the hall to attend him, she most often rocks him back to sleep or lies down with him; at the same time putting herself to sleep. A mother’s instincts I suppose. But she always puts #7 back to sleep and silences to house.

On the other hand, when Wife is busy with the #8 I get up to put #7 back down, I have to battle with my own disposition of looking for a short-cut. When I lay the boy in bed, I tend to do it in a hurry. Slap a bottle in his mouth and tuck him under the blankets. At that point I find myself of listening to his cry between sucks sounding like an old-fashioned air-raid siren.

You see, he would cry in between sucks on his bottle, just to make certain that we all understand his discontent. His siblings, and I do mean all six, that sleep in the same room, have learned to tune him out.  He has quite literally cried wolf too many times. While he cries and kicks and rolls, the rest of our brood roll over and ignore him.

In defense of my quick and ill conceived actions, it all happens at about one thirty in the morning; and unlike the child, I have to go to work before the sun shines. I am not only frustrated at an apparently unsatisfied little boy, but also at the clock which had no concern for how fast it was spinning while I can’t sleep because of the wailing.

I watched the minutes turn into hours, and every time I thought I had #7 asleep, I was wrong. At last, I gave in and held him until he was certainly sound asleep. And after he was in bed and I could crawl into my own, I saw I had only one hour before my alarm clock went off.

I could have been angry. I could have despaired. I have simply been frustrated. But I was too tired. So I patiently waited for the coffee pot to fill.

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