I was driving. He was crying.
As desperately as I tried, there was zip, zero, zilch I could say to ease his sorrows. He just whimpered… and whined… and worried.
We were on our way to swimming lessons, after all. Scary, awful, torturous swimming lessons — instructed by the deplorable, eight-legged Ursula herself. [Or so my son’s anxiety would lead one to believe.] Truth be told, he has been a water warrior since nine-months of age. On this particular day, however, he was making a mountain out of a molehill.
So much so, he missed the trucks.
Trucks – the very reason he breathes – were zooming past his window.
Cement mixer.
Tow truck.
Fire engine.
Fuel tanker.
One mighty machine after another. Each worthy of a gasp or a squeal or a pointed index finger. Yet my boy did not see a single one. Tears blurred his sight and nerves distracted his attention. He was so focused on what was coming down the pike that he completely missed what was coming down the street.
It got me thinking. How many trucks have I failed to notice?
How many times has fear obstructed my view? How many tizzies have tunneled my vision? How many times has “Woe is me!” interfered with “Whoa, that’s Justin Timberlake!” [Dear Lord, please tell me zero.]
I am not denying bad days or bad moods the freedom to happen. They happen. Yessiree they do. I’m simply pondering rhetorical questions, munching on some food for thought, and trying to make sense of the ruckus in the back seat.
If only he realized a dump truck was leading us to swimming lessons.