When this mother saw a Dad losing his patience with his son at the supermarket, it made her realise that she, too, was sometimes THAT parent.
Dear Dad in the checkout queue,
I am writing this letter as much for myself as I am for you…
I understand that you’ve probably had a tough day. The dirt on your jeans and the stains on your hands tell me that you’ve worked hard. The slant of your eyebrows and the furrow of your forehead tell me that you are tired, that you’d rather be at home watching Storage Wars, that this is the last place on earth you want to be: here with your lovely wife and two beautiful children.
How old is your son? Four? Five? He oozes a bright curiosity that reminds me of my own.
The questions are exasperating. Believe me, I know. You think they won’t end. That there’s no finale to the answering. That nothing can ever happen where he won’t demand “Why??!!”
I'm here to tell you, it does end. And when it does, your heart will shudder and you'll find yourself begging him to talk to you, to ask questions, to wonder about the world beyond Minecraft, to hug you, to say "I love you, too."
When did you stop asking questions? When did you stop viewing the world like a giant floating ball of opportunity and excitement?
When did you stop looking at the sky from the perspective of a dandelion or imagine yourself a revving engine in the middle of the frozen foods aisle? Can you remember how big the world was?
What it was like to always have to look up? How airplanes were superheros and how sure you were that you'd find dinosaur bones in the sandbox?
"Juice boxes? Juice boxes? Why do you want to buy juice boxes???"
He was so darling, standing right beside me, his chin resting on the lip of the counter, his finger tapping the juice on the conveyer on it's way to the cashier.
"My kids like juice boxes for school," I told him. "Do you like juice boxes?"