I haven’t blogged since Christmas and will not even try, here, to come up with a reasonable explanation. I will just dive right back in and re-introduce you to our family. Whose mornings, whose BETTER mornings mind you, go something like this:
Jessie’s iPod alarm, which she ignores, goes off at 6:30am with a rousing rendition of the “Good Morning, Good Morning” song from Singin’ in the Rain. We all have to be up early and out of the house by 7:30 because Jess is speaking at a business breakfast to help develop corporate support for Propeller Dance. I’m going, ostensibly to schmooze and network, but mostly just to make sure that Jessie gets there on time.
I push myself out of bed, get a fresh cup of coffee, and descend to my office, where I also have a small corner set up for meditation—leaving Dan to make sure that Jessie gets up and ready. I close the door, light a candle, lower myself down into a comfortable position on my cushion, roll a psalm across my lips and heart, and start meditating with the gong that draws me into silence.
Fifteen minutes later, in the supposed middle of meditation, which everyone in the house, including the cat, knows not to interrupt on pain of eternal damnation (or, my ire, which is pretty much the same thing), there is an insistent whisper outside the door: “Mom. Mom.” I meditate through.
“Mom”; gentle knock. “Mom”; gentle knock.
I think this will not go away.
“Mom. I really need to tell you something.”
“Open the door,” I say. I’m thinking that this could be Christ-like, maybe, if I remember to breath and speak gently. Knock, and the door shall be opened, right?
I turn the meditation timer off. (Yes, I have a meditation timer. On my phone. It starts and ends with a gong and I can choose any length of silence I want. This makes my husband laugh. “You actually have silence recorded on your phone?” Actually, I have a choice of three different singing prayer bowls to call me in and out of meditation. But I digress.
“So this is an emergency, right?” I say. “Like really important that you tell ME, not your Dad, and so important that you need to interrupt right now, not in 10 or 15 minutes. Right?”
“Yes!” says Jessie. “I need to tell you that I ate TWO nutrigrain bars instead of just one.”
She looks at me. I look at her and raise an eyebrow.
“I ate TWO, not one, not the rule of one, like we talked about—because we are going to have breakfast at the meeting.”
I raise my eyebrow further. “And this was something SO important that you had to tell me now? Right now?”
“Well, I told Dad, and told him that I was NOT going to tell you. And he said ‘Boc! Boc! Boc!’ making chicken noises,” she is incensed, “So I HAD to come down and tell you.”
Ah, yes. The boc boc boc defense.
And my husband is upstairs shaving, clueless, while I am putting away my meditation cushion. I think this may be one of the reasons why I love him. Go figure.