Patience: Eight Letters or Four?

Some people in this life are blessed with a high tolerance for whiney kids, overbearing bosses, pushy relatives, entitled neighbors, long lines at gas stations, and neverending day-to-day bushels of crap. I have discovered that I am not one of these people. So why, then, am I the poster child for examples in patience...or perhaps those who need to be slapped upside the head with patience?

Since I was a young child, I knew what I wanted out of life and had a plan. From my earliest memories, I paid heed to my parents' counsel. Work hard, serve others, always put forth your best effort. They were adamant that there existed strict rules for securing happiness and success in life: obtaining all A's in school from birth until death, attending BYU to obtain a well-rounded education, and marrying a return missionary. There was never an utterance of patience in this list; it wasn't mentioned in the bylaws and not one family home evening lesson on the subject. To be honest, I never actually witnessed these rules written down in a constitution or anything, but since this wisdom came from my parents, I believed them. Thus my plan of embracing a strong work ethic, sacrificing frivolity, living a thrifty lifestyle, and creating a professional, organized, square-box-to-the-side checklist was born. Sounds like a good plan, doesn't it? However, I think my parents forgot to tell me the part about the best laid plans, because I am fairly certain that nothing has gone according to my plan except for getting all A's in school...and let me tell you that 4.0 from BYU is sure moving mountains for me!

So, back to patience. You have probably noticed that I have none. Well, I have next to none. I feel as if I have made great strides in recent years with developing this humble virtue in my day-to-day activities. I still get agitated when an older person is writing a check in the grocery store line (Doesn't this person know I am on a schedule?), and when the person in front of me doesn't speak English (again, Doesn't this person know I am on a schedule?), but all in all I have refrained from swearing at people under my breath and now control my thoughts when my brain instructs my hand to slap people for acts of idiocy. Because let's face it, if I acted on impulse with my thoughts, half this county would be walking around with red marks on their foreheads, cheeks, and chins. The stupidity of others astounds me...

Oh yeah, I was speaking of patience. Looking back, the first twenty years of my life were really good. You will hear no complaints from me. My parents loved and groomed me, fed me pizza every Friday night, and made sure I felt secure from the world. Our home was a haven of love, laughter, and prosperity. I knew I was a fortunate suburban girl with educated, all-American parents: They were stable, worked hard, served their neighbors, paid taxes, and loved Ronnie Reagan. My parents patterned a life for me that I thought should and would always exist. I had no idea they were actually preparing me to appreciate the free handout, because the gravy train was about to end! My life would become full of opportunities and trials that would shape me as a human being...and as a woman seeking virtue while kicking and screaming all the way.

Fastforward a few years to marriage and mommyhood. I bet you didn't know that when you reach the age of maturity to choose a mate and produce offspring, patience automatically resides inside your soul. You have made it! Made it to a new level of dsyphoric consciousness, that is. I really just want people to follow my instructions and my prayers to be answered according to my time table. Is that too much to ask?

After being childless for the first eleven years of marriage, my husband and I were blessed with a daughter...scratch that, a son. All my ultrasounds up to 36 weeks translated into a seemingly pronounced female gender. You can imagine my surprise (and panic) when I found out the nursery was painted the wrong color and my son had more dresses to wear than he did camouflage nighties. Hopefully Xavier didn't notice the A,l,l,y,s, and e letters that were adorning the wall above his crib spelled his intended name up until his birth. That kind of confusion could scar a kid for life!

Moving on to baby #2, I received my first ultrasound on September 8th of this year. The doctor informed Thaus and me we are having a son. I was excited that Xavier is getting a brother and content with the doctor's prognosis; I think Thaus was satisfied too until friends and family asked to see the ultrasound photos and orated their objections to the gender. Some people pointed out girl lines, some noted agreeance with the doctor, and others informed us of my doctor's poor track record when diagnosing gender. Ay, caramba! Now, I not only have to deal with doubting the good doctor, but warding off hypersensitive remarks from my husband and scheduling a second ultrasound in another doctors' office. I am fortunate that my youngest sister works for a group of doctors in a neighboring city. I made an appointment for a follow-up ultrasound on October 8, exactly four weeks following the first. I had this funny karma-like feeling that we were pushing the envelope and this could prove more devastating than helpful. After forty-five minutes of poking, prodding, and disturbing my sensitive bladder, the doctor stated with 50% accuracy that I am carrying a female child. However, since he was not really sure he suggested I obtain another opinion. Say what? A third ultrasound? Even without an ultrasound, I can assure myself 50% accuracy! Why can't I just know the gender like every other woman in this county? Why must everything in my world require so much effort? Why must life circumstances transform me into the same whiney child that I so fervently detest?

Final synopsis: I am having a baby. That is all I know for sure. Whether it is a girl or boy, I am clueless. And patience, dropping letters by the minute, is becoming a four-letter word to me.