I have recently decided that I might be a strong candidate
for Anger Management therapy. I’ve
always had a bit of a temper, but in the past few years, it’s become a bit more
serious. If you want to know the
severity, please read the blog entitled “Hello Anger, My Old Friend.” However, I am now consciously aware of the
problem, and as they say, that’s (hopefully) at least half the battle. Nothing made me more aware of the problem
like a recent episode involving my 11 year old son.
I should pause here to point out that in his 11 (almost 12)
mischief-filled years of living here on Earth, he has never really done
anything that has truly shocked me.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s all boy and is constantly pushing every limit
and button he knows to push of, and many he’s not aware of, all because that’s
what boys do. And so despite all the
outbursts in crowded shopping centers and all the publicly repeated comments
meant only for private ears and all the broken precious items that once
belonged to family and friends and all the times of outright disobedience, my
son has always lived within the boundaries of expectations – that is, until
last week.
We were in Phoenix, visiting family. It had been an especially long day – one in
which we had been on the road for 2 hours in what I would call ‘doable
traffic’, meaning it wasn’t a bumper to bumper parking lot, but rather a large
number of cars barreling down the highway at a speed that is both acceptable
and stress-inducing all at the same time.
I know it’s no excuse, but I was a little on edge from the traffic
stress and very much tired from having to wake up earlier than I would have
preferred, given that I was on vacation - a fact that was lost on no one in the
truck at the time. We were on the interchange
between the 101 Loop and the northbound lane of I-17 in north Phoenix. The ramp is two lanes wide, and since I was
aware of the fact that those 2 lanes would soon converge into 1, I legally and
conscientiously changed lanes leftward (and by conscientiously, I mean with no
intent to impede or inflame any other motorists in the vicinity – a fact that
you should hold on to as we plod along the storyline). All was well until we got to the little
stretch of road beyond the merging point where there’s no more dotted line in
the center of the road, but the space between the 2 solid white lines is more
than enough for just one vehicle, temporarily speaking, of course. As we hit this space I affectionately call
“no man’s land”, the car behind me decided that the view must be better from
the front and pulled over to the right to pass me – in no man’s land.
As I pointed out earlier, we were travelling at a pretty
good clip down the highway – I would guess 60 to 65 - so real estate quickly
became an issue for us both as we barreled down the ever narrowing stretch of
road, side by side. Caught in a game of
chicken I had no intention of playing, I braked hard as the car and its
reckless driver swerved in front of me and away from the solid concrete wall on
its right.
At this point I, along with everyone else in the vehicle,
realized that I officially have an issue with anger. I said things you wouldn’t expect to hear in
a PG-13 movie – good thing my sweet little girls were asleep. My lovely wife quickly chided me. I didn’t hear her words of correction,
however, because my son had some choice words of his own. His were PG, but the
situation swiftly deteriorated from there.
As I now recount the story, I can see the whole scene unfold
in sloth-like motion. Rest assured,
however, the following events happened in such rapid succession that I was unable
to think as clearly as I can now. In a
fit of rage, I hastily chose to get even with this numbskull, who had ruined my
otherwise perfectly tolerable drive, by pulling up beside him and giving him
the look of death. In moments such as
this one, where I’m simply recounting a story with little, if any, emotion
other than shame, I well know that glaring at someone does next to nothing to extract
revenge. In fact, my experience tells me
that most of my evil looks at other motorists simply go unnoticed, which only
makes me madder. After all, if I’m going
to glare at someone, the proper thing for them to do is at least take notice. But as I said, I wasn’t thinking with my
head, but rather with the adrenaline that was coursing through my veins. So I commenced with operation stare
down.
As my foot hit the accelerator, my son popped off a
question, “want me to flip ‘em off, Daddy?”
I promptly answered with a resolute, “yes!” And before I could correct myself, I caught a
glimpse of his little arm flailing about in the window, middle finger
extended. I gasped, “What are you
doing?” I then noticed that the “he” who was driving the car was a very much
elderly “she”, who gawked back at my son and me as if we were the Manson
family. A wave of nausea hit me like a
baseball bat to the groin. Thoroughly embarrassed,
I turned away, hung my head in shame and eased off the accelerator. I was a monster – not a father.
In all fairness, I truly thought he was joking. My son has never seen me give anyone the
finger. I know this because for all of
my flaws, flipping people off is not one.
I always saw that gesture as being beneath me, somehow. However, my half-joking, half-angry ‘yes’ was
enough license for him to begin gesturing like a drunken sailor at a blue
haired, cataract sun-glasses adorned old lady who’s only sin was scaring the
bejeepers out of me, a trigger-happy, stressed out driving buffoon.
My wife quickly moved from chiding to outright rebuke, and I
can’t blame her in the least. I may as
well have doused the boy with gasoline and given him a lighter to play
with. This is what’s known as an epic
fail in the fatherhood department, and I owned up to it.
Few things have ever truly shocked me. At the top of my list is the sight of my son
flipping off an old lady… with my
permission.
