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.
2 comments:
Haha that's just too awesome! boc boc boc :) I love reading your blog, Nancy. Nice way to "sort of" keep in touch with you guys.
Thanks Kathie! He was probably the same as a kid, right?
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