My wife makes fun of me by calling me a grandpa because I have

Hear, O children of laughter and reflection, the words of Rob McClure, who jested with honesty: “My wife makes fun of me by calling me a grandpa because I have very little patience for inconsiderate children. So if we’re walking in the mall, and some kid goes by really fast on a skateboard, I become the grumpiest eighty-five-year-old man in the world and start screaming at them.” Though spoken in humor, yet beneath the jest lies a truth about human nature: the battle between the desire for order and the wild energy of youth.

Mark well this confession: McClure, though young in years, found himself stirred with the spirit of the elder, quick to scorn the reckless abandon of the young. The image of the grandpa, grumbling in indignation, is a mirror to us all, for within every soul there lieth both the fire of youth and the sternness of age. The patience to endure the noise and folly of others is not easily won, and many discover, as McClure did, that their temper is shorter than they would wish.

Consider the story of the philosopher Diogenes, who dwelt in Athens centuries ago. Known for his sharp tongue and disdain for manners, he would rebuke passersby without restraint, mocking their vanity and scolding their habits. Some called him wise, others called him mad, but in him we see the same spirit: the refusal to tolerate what seemed to him foolishness. McClure’s tale, though clothed in comedy, is kin to this ancient pattern—human beings ever wrestling with the tension between irritation and compassion.

Yet, O seekers, reflect also on the children upon their skateboards—their speed, their laughter, their unmeasured joy. What appears as inconsiderate may also be the expression of vitality, the boldness of youth to test the world’s boundaries. The elder grows weary of such noise, for he longs for order and safety, while the young cannot yet imagine the dangers that lie in haste. Here lies the eternal balance: the old must temper the young with wisdom, yet the young remind the old of the freedom of life’s early days.

McClure’s words also unveil the beauty of partnership, for it is his wife who teases him, softening his sternness with humor. Where anger may rise, laughter can disarm it. She calls him “grandpa,” not to wound, but to remind him of perspective—that his impatience, though real, need not define him. In this gentle jesting, we see how companionship can keep the heart from hardening, turning frustration into amusement, and helping us face our faults with humility.

The lesson is plain: every soul will meet situations that test their patience. It is easy to grow harsh, to shout, to demand order. Yet such moments are opportunities to practice compassion. When thou art tempted to scorn, ask instead: “What lesson can I learn from this? Can I respond with humor rather than wrath? Can I guide instead of condemn?” For to lose temper is natural, but to master it is divine.

Practical is this counsel: when thou findest thyself angered by others—whether noisy children in the mall, or strangers who offend—pause before thy tongue is loosed. Breathe, laugh if thou canst, or see the moment through gentler eyes. Share thy frustration with humility, or transform it into a story, as McClure did. In doing so, thou takest the sting from anger and turn it into wisdom.

Thus remember: McClure, in calling himself a grumpy grandpa, speaketh of a truth we all share. The world will test thy patience daily, but how thou respondest is thy choice. Let humor soften thy anger, let compassion lengthen thy patience, and thou shalt walk more peacefully among both the reckless and the wise. For in the end, the measure of life is not how loud thou didst scold, but how deeply thou didst love.