Patience -- Don't Cry

Josh is sometimes very fond of rolling his eyes, sighing deeply, and lamenting, “all I have is patience.”  I’m sure this is him at his most passive aggressive, and I suppose that you can’t fault him for this little dig, because he has spent years and years of his life waiting (somewhat) patiently for me to be ready to go.  These last few years I’ve been learning to try to be patient as well: teaching land-lubbers to row was an everyday test of patience; waiting for the number one bus to make its way through Central Square was a trial of patience (one that I eventually quit, instead opting to run six miles a day to avoid the stench and headaches of that bus route); pregnancy was patience at its most enjoyable; we’ve put in a clothes line, so when I have free time I like to sit in the yard and patiently watch my clothes dry. 

Josh defines my rage as “zero to hero,” and though I’m not particularly proud, my fury at my cow led me to punch her square in the side.  My parents left on Sunday morning for a two week vacation, leaving me to milk the cow entirely by myself.  Sunday morning was a disaster and Sunday evening was hardly better, my forearms and thumbs were numb, my back was aching, I had been milking for over an hour when that cow finally stuck its foot into the bucket and began to kick wildly about until she broke a hole through the bottom.  Milk and tears poured about the floor and with scarlet eyes I made a fist and punched that cow as hard as I could.  Thankfully, several week’s worth of milking has caused me to have excessively strong hands and wrists, so I did not suffer any punch related injuries.  I cannot speak for the cow, as her surprise at being punched caused her to fall to the ground, but she was quickly back on her feet.  Of this I am not proud; neither was I proud when, after being kicked in the arm, I took aim and kicked back.  My dad chastised me over the phone “you know, you have to outsmart the cow, and you can’t get in a kicking contest, because she’ll win.”  I’m sure that from the vantage point 500 miles away, it is easy to offer this wisdom.  Had my dad been there to help me, I’m sure none of this would have happened (probably because the milking process would have been over in a third of the time); frankly, though, by Monday night this cow was bringing me down.  “Cow,” I plead, “I’m trying as hard as I can!  Have patience with me!” 

In college I took a Shakespeare class with Marjorie Garber; the take home point was that everything is in Shakespeare and Shakespeare is in everything.  As an assignment I think I might have written about the parallels of Shakespeare’s plays and the television show Lost, though as I was never that involved with the television show I can’t recall the shape my paper took.  Today, though, I would have written a very good paper about King Lear’s rage against the storm, the fool in the barn, and my fury towards this lousy cow.  Thank you Marjorie, it really is Shakespeare after all.   

So I remind myself that you can’t let your self esteem be decided by a cow and while I don’t think the cow is any better behaved, the week has been decidedly improved.  Christi and Sarah have been milking with me and yesterday, when the cow put her foot into our full, hard-earned pitcher of milk and we had to dump the entire thing, I told Sarah “Sarah, it’s just a cow, don’t let her control your emotions.” 

So I’ve outsmarted the cow.

I taunt her “Hey bovine!  Who has the patience now?”  She flicks me in the face with her tail and I don't even care, because I'm smarter.  

Fortunately, she did not see me leave the barn with Sarah and accidentally drop the pitcher on the ground--we watched with dismay as the milk poured away--or else she might have appeared to be very smug.  

"Ah well, don't cry," Sarah is quick to point out, "it's only milk!"