I Let Him Have It With Both Barrels.
Last week, during a surprise snow “storm,” Dylan and I headed out to visit a college. He was interviewing for a fellowship and auditioning for a music scholarship, as well as having an “academic exploration” day. In other words, he was on his way to do things a mature, responsible adult would do.
It was supposed to be a four-hour drive. Since it had snowed in the morning, schools were closed. I suggested we leave early, around 1:30, to avoid both slushy roads from the morning and the evening rush hour.
At 1:30, Dylan was barefoot, on his phone, and had not yet eaten breakfast.
Fortunately, the roads were still slick, so I didn’t push. At 1:45, after reminding him all day to be ready by 1:30, I reminded him again that I wanted to leave.
“You have eight minutes,” I said. Our bags were packed and in the car. Dylan had packed for himself, and I’d been telling him for three days to have his stuff in the car – at the latest – the night before we left.
At 2:00, Dylan was still barefoot and on his phone.
“C’mon, Dylan,” I urged. “The snow is finally changing to rain. I’d like to get there before it gets dark.”
“OKAY,” he said, clearly irritated by my presence. “I’m almost ready!”
At 2:25, we finally got into the car. We went half a mile before Dylan said, “Turn around. I forgot my music.”
He needed his music for his audition.
“Weren’t you supposed to have that in the car last night?”
“Yeah, but I forgot. Can we go back, please?”
We went back. He got his music. We left again.
On our second try, we went five miles. We were on the highway, merrily rolling along, when Dylan said, “I don’t have my driver’s license.”
That’s when I lost it.
“You don’t have what?!?” I let him have it with both barrels: you didn’t get ready by 1:30, you didn’t get ready by 2:00, it’s going to be dark before we get there, the roads are snowy, you already forgot your music, you were supposed to put your stuff in the car three days ago, and you forgot your license on our last road trip, too! I had to drive for three days!
Dylan learned nothing from my rant, which lasted all the way back home, and for another ten minutes after.
But I learned something.
Again.
“You say a lot of smart stuff,” Dylan told me later. “But when you’re trying to make your point, it’s like you’re trying to land an airplane. Instead of bringing the plane in gently and landing on the landing strip, you’re crashing the plane into the control tower! It’s really hard to see your point if you’re shoving it right into my face.”
He had a very good point.
I don’t know what to do about my communication methodology. I can’t really change who I am, or how I react on a gut level. But I can – maybe – learn to take a moment and pause before flying my plane into the control tower.
I guess I just feel like I’m always making the same point, over and over, and if I don’t keep shoving it into his face, he’ll never see it.
Still, his reasoning is quite valid.
I just don’t know what I can do about it.