My wife and I share “that look” across the kitchen.  You know the one, the one that says “I’m sorry, were you talking?  I’m not sure, I can’t hear you over… EVERYTHING!”  That look.  Do we resign ourselves to yet another unfinished conversation, or insist, again, on some respect for the fact that every now and again we actually enjoy speaking with each other…. directly… without interruption… for FIVE MINUTES!?

Patience is not my strength, nor is it my wife’s.  Not the best weakness double-whammy for parents, but alas that is us.  So when Gran’mama yesterday mentions how teachers are saints, and our son asks “what’s a saint,” I answered with the first thing that came to me: “You know how we talk a lot about practicing patience, and how sometimes we’re all not very good at it?” “Yes!” “Well, a saint is a person that has all sorts of patience.  It’s pretty amazing.  I think patience is the biggest requirement for sainthood.”

He took in that answer, as the adults wondered if we thought that was an accurate description.  As it turns out, we agreed enthusiastically.  Patience, the pre-requisite for Sainthood candidacy.  We won’t be getting any letters from the Vatican at our door I assure you.

Let’s rewind to five minutes before our Sainthood discussion.  We were talking across the kitchen, in the high traffic area of our, umm, kitchen table (it’s not that big, people!).  The dog runs in and starts jumping.  Sage wants a cuddle.

“I want a cuddle upstairs with Momma.

NOW.

PLEASE!”

Noah wants to know what we’re talking about.

His food is too hot.

Or perhaps too cold.

Maybe both.

Sage is hungry, but she doesn’t want to eat anything.

The dog wants to go out, again.  “Mommy!  Mommy!  Momma!  I have to tell you something!  It’s URGENT!”

A toe gets stubbed.  The dog starts barking.  My wife and I exchange the look of resignation.  Clearly, this conversation needs to wait, until, well, college.

Since it seems we can never say anything to each other directly in person, let me write behind your back that I love you.  You’re a dynamite mom, saint or not, and I appreciate you in ways we’ll need another date day for me to tell you all about.

Deep breath.