It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas, since, some calendar-less, seasonally confused people in my neighborhood have begun to put up lights VERY prematurely, and my Dealing With Rude People Stress-o-meter has skyrocketed. (That's an invention I just made up that illustrates my seasonally-induced public displays of rage.) Patent Pending.

First I'm in the car driving through my perfectly normal day. "We sang God Bless America, my home sweet home, and then Mrs. Hawk took away our flags." The princess is in the back seat, recounting her day at preschool. "Oh," I say, genetically unable to resist an opportunity for political cynicism. "Did you tell her she violated your right to freedom of speech which includes the ability to wave an American flag?" The princess looks confused. "No, silly mommy, Mrs. Hawk's not a bad witch, she's just my teacher, who gives me water that I like, not juice, (YUK), at snack time." She hold up a photocopy of a cornstalk covered in dripping Elmer's glue and popcorn bits. "No eat the popcorn, just look at it for art," she warns her baby brother in her most stern Mrs. Hawk voice. It's not like he can reach her "art," anyway, strapped into his car seat. He squirms and yells, in a state of infantile frustration.

I stop at a gas station that I frequent because it's Self Serve Only, and pumping my own gas makes me feel liberated and strong, ...in my minivan. Plus, I'm late for something, as usual. I try to pay at the pump, but the machine keeps spitting my card out. I'm faced with a parenting dilemma. Do I lock the car, and go inside the station to get help, or just drive away when my gage is reading way past empty. I choose a compromise, parking at the pump directly in front of the door, and standing in the threshold of the mini-mart. Then I call the cashier. "Excuse me, the pump on #3 isn't taking my debit card, and I have children in the car. Can you charge this gas for me?" I extend my card to him, but he puts his hand up, shaking his head, not even making eye contact with me. "No, we're cash only." Now I'm looking back and forth between him and my car outside. "But I was just here yesterday and the machine worked." He repeats himself, louder, as if I'm hard of hearing. "CASH ONLY MA'AM."

That's when I forget I'm watching the car and approach his counter, mad as hell. I'm not sure if it's because he called me "MA'AM," or if it was the way he spoke to me. Maybe a little of both. Face to face with this sullen person I start in with him just for the hell of it, "If it's cash only, why do you have credit card machines STILL turned on at the pump, and NO sign indicating the change?" He leans his deadpan expression into my face and responds, "Actually, it's something new here." Next I'm nose to nose with the guy, growling, "Well, ACTUALLY, it's something DUMB here." Then I walk out because I have no cash on me and my kids are in the car. Driving away I'm wondering why I got so upset at this stranger. Why does this always happen to me in the Fall and Winter? This is one of the mysteries of being Loren, and I may not ever know the answer.

I could blame this lack of public patience on being a full-time mother of three, but I think it goes deeper than that. When the holidays approach they bring with them reminders of the importance of being kind and loving. Many times my dealings with people in my life don't leave me feeling warm and fuzzy. That gap between reality and the Hallmark card expectations of the season causes an underlying frustration. I have to work harder to remind myself to try to bring the holiday spirit to others, despite how I feel. Instead of expecting everyone to be walking around wishing me well, I have to become the example of my own expectation. That's hard, and I fail, a whole lot.

Later that afternoon, I fail again. This time I'm walking the kids home from the bus stop, where we picked up Big Brother. I'm carrying the baby, who is struggling to get out of my arms and race with his older brother and sister down the sidewalk. I tell them to freeze, in my sternest voice, because drivers are careless on our block. Big Brother fears me and listens; the Princess, on the other hand, fears nothing. She keeps running. There is a gap between us of several feet. I know I won't catch up to her before she reaches the entrance to the cemetery. Meanwhile, someone is turning a car recklessly into it. I scream at the princess, and put my free hand up to wave at the driver to hit the breaks. The princess stops on her tip-toes on the edge of the curb right before the turning car. I'm running, dragging the two boys with me. Then the driver CONTINUES past my daughter and drives into the cemetery. I'm LIVID, because a three year old can not be trusted to stay frozen on the curb. She still could have darted out in front of that car.

I grab the princess by the hand and turn into the cemetery driveway, screaming at the driver, who slows to a stop. "What are you thinking?! Why couldn't you just wait until I got hold of this kid by the hand? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU!" I shout. Now I'm approaching the back of the car, which has paused in the gravel driveway, and I slam my fist on the trunk. "WHY ARE YOU IN A HURRY? THESE PEOPLE ARE ALL DEAD! YOU ARE INCONSIDERATE AND CARELESS!" My kids are standing there, finally frozen without being told to do so. I can see now that a little old lady with large glasses is the EVIL driver, and she looks disturbed by my behavior. She hits the gas and drives further into the cemetery.

I'm so angry I could chase her right to some grave, but I turn around and start back toward my house, because I know I just lost my mind for a second. She's visiting someone who's buried here, maybe a husband, friend or a child. What am I doing...in front of my kids? I'm not sure, but at times like these, I'm sure glad I'm Catholic. True, I have a bad case of seasonal rage today, but I can cure it after I punish the princess for running near the road, and clear my own conscience for scaring an elderly widow. I'll just stop at Confession after dinner, on my way to Christmas shopping. It feels SO good to turn over ANOTHER new leaf. Then I'll be ready to spread some holiday cheer, and tell Santa what's on my own Christmas list: industrial-size leaf bags and a rake.