Whinging

I don't know, I just like the British version of whining better. Must be all those British TV series I've watched, starting with the '70s and '80s comedies I watched on PBS with my Dad when I was a kid. Whinging.

Wow, I should probably wash my coffee cup now and again, huh?

Anyway, I got in the car this morning with my son to drive him to school before heading to work. He's 10. He's also remarkably equanimous for a kid. Unflappable? Imperturbable?

Not me, though. In fact, I had a number of complaints. My morning was not going well. Instead of steaming, or stewing, or simmering, or some other cooking metaphor for letting my feelings of frustration and annoyance linger and affect my day, I decide to make a joke out of it.

"I'm going to be late to work today!" I whined. Or whinged.

He just looked at me.

"I dropped raw eggs on the floor and had to eat cold cereal for breakfast!"

He had nothing to say.

"My ankle hurts! I may never walk again!"

He smiled.

"Uhhh..." I tried to think of another one. "I have to do dishes and clean the kitchen again when I get home! Uhhh..."

He leaned towards me and whispered, "You're probably not going to get your 10,000 steps today."

"I'm not going to get 10,000 steps today!"

He laughed.

"What else can I whine about? I know! You do one," I said. "What complaints do you have today?"

"I've got nothing," he said.

"Oh, come on! You must have one!"

He thought about it, then ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make it stand up. "It's Crazy Hair Day at school, and you don't even have any hair gel I can use!"

I rubbed my bald head. "Dude. What am I gonna do with hair gel?"

We both laughed. An hour into my crappy day, and it had already completely turned around. Some days, parenting is the very best thing I can imagine.