Mindful Warrior (ha!)
I’ve been willfully continuing to keep the “I’ll
do it in the morning” lie alive and well. I am fully aware the packing kid
lunches for school the night before makes complete, beautiful, and perfect
sense. But the lie is so much easier in the midst of the scattered chaos that I
pitifully attempt to wrangle into a logical life every day! Yet, I always,
always, always hate myself the next
day for falling for it yet again.
So, while my three-year-old Badger is smearing
milk around on the table with the palm of his hand and giggling, and I’m trying
to gently and patiently rake the brush through my hippy-boy’s flowing hippy boy
tresses and carpool is already waiting out front and I’m only wearing a bra and
sweatpants… this is how my kids end up with things like a whole slightly wilty
cucumber, a dishwasher pod, and a handful of uncooked pasta in their lunches. Bon appetite, darlings!
Any attempt at taking care of myself is put off
with the same lie; ‘I’ll do it in the morning’, stubbornly refusing to change
the absurd inner tempo that has been dictating the cadence of my harried
existence. I’ve had a lingering assumption that even a brief daily meditation would
exponentially help with the stress I carry, stress that manifests in relentless
teeth-grinding while I sleep, as though my body needs to process the angst in
any possible way, but can only sneak it out while I’m unconscious. I wake every
day with an aching jaw and ringing teeth.
This morning I made it to work almost kinda not
really on timeish… meetings, emails, decisions, phone calls, too many emails,
issues, idiotic conversations with the office whiner, interoffice politics,
trying so hard to act like I know how to do all the stuff… even called the
kid’s dentist on my lunch break, another harried stupid day in working middle
class paradise.
But today! Today, I forced myself to step away
from the computer, found an empty office, stepped out of my black pumps and sat
cross-legged on the floor. Set my phone’s timer for 15 minutes and just, well,
breathed. A trigzillion stupid thoughts all stampeded at once, and my
beleaguered little brain tried to address them all at once. “Thinking” I labeled them, and let them
continue to try their best to engage me.
My back
hurts.
The mortgage
is late again.
Here I am.
This is
boring.
Right this minute. Here I
am. Just breathing.
Did I sign
that thing for the Badger’s school?
There’s been
a mistake, I’m not a real adult!!!
Am I hungry?
Whoops. Here I am again,
just breathing.
If I were a
real adult, I would have made the kids’ lunches last night!
Don’t forget
that appointment on Friday.
I forgot,
didn’t I?
SHIT. Here I AM. AGAIN.
My armpits
smell like skunk. Or cumin. Or cat piss. Actually all three?
I’m hungry.
Is there a
cub scout meeting tonight or is it next week…?
I AM JUST
BREATHING DAMMIT
The thoughts continued to aggressively bang on
the door of my brain, and although I fell for their tricks over and I over, I
would then try to remember over and over, that my only duty in that moment was
to breathe. I was finally doing it, finally taking steps to wrangle my life
back into logical focus.
“This is good for me”,
I thought proudly, and even realized that silly
thought wasn’t helpful, or welcome even.
The cycle went around this way, over and over,
tensing then easing, the practice always in the return. Gradually, I softened a
bit more, haltingly, but the easing was well, easier, and then the timer went
off. Reluctantly, the pumps went back on, but there was a fresh breeze between
my ears and the emails didn’t each feel like a burning building.
Wow, I was right, meditation
fixed me! I’m all fixed!
I made it to the finish line of my work day, which
meant that it was time for me to clock in at home- husband at work every night
so I get two wiggly goofy boys for dinner, homework, play, bath, stories, teethbrushing,
bed. This evening, I got to stop off and pick up our vegetables from the farm, but
only if I really hustled.
The sidewalks between my office and the parking
garage are torn up from construction, people drive like they are tempted to
just end it all by careening into the side of a building and take you with them,
but I made it to my car with plenty of time. I stood at my parked car, with a
sigh I dumped my bags- workout gear, lunch, laptop, purse. I stood under the
roaring highway and still felt a bit blanketed from the world, like my
perspective softened from taking that time to stop out and try to just breathe.
“... I’m going to be one of those people that
meditates every day
I
thought to myself as I started my car.
…Clearly the benefits are
immediate and I am already a better person…”
My thoughts trailed off as I realized that I
really, really had to use the bathroom. Mentally running through the list of
options, I reluctantly remembered the porta potty in the parking lot of the
farm, and made that my destination. Stiff upper lip for 22 minutes of
stoplights, highway, backroads, and then that glorious plastic box of relief would
be alllllll mine. Husband would meet me there, and he’d hand off the kids and
my evening shift would begin…But- fingers crossed- I would get there first and
pee in glorious peace, and then maybe I could go back to being supposedly more
mindful and patient, now that I’m a meditation expert.
I pulled into the dusty parking lot of the farm,
and while the beautiful fields unfurled in front of me with lush rows of deep
purple kale, a thousand gorgeous shades of greens dotted with ruby tomatoes,
all I could think about was the glorious gushing waterfall of piss that I was
about to unleash. My husband’s van was right behind me, and while we parked simultaneously,
I wasn’t as excited to see him as I wanted to be because I had to pee so badly.
The boys spilled out, bickering about who won the
last round of their car game ‘skittles’, and playfully whipping each other with
their hoodies.
Here I am. Just breathing.
I tried to gently halt the whipping, get the badger
out of the mud puddle, greet my husband and at the same time break free to make
a run for the toilet, when I noticed a tow-headed kid meandering over with the
very same destination. He was maybe about 10 years old, and much closer than I
was, but clearly in no rush (like I WAS), but for me to run and beat out a kid
for a port-a-potty would be well, weird. So, I stiffened my lip again, and asked
my husband about his day. Before he could answer, our older son started in with
a rambling story of his game at recess, and our three-year-old Badger clearly
sensed that his parents had about 43 seconds to catch up, so he threw some
handfuls of sand at the side of the car. SO cute.
Here I am, breathing.
I kept half an eye on the door of the potty,
silently begging that kid to finish up, FOR GODSSAKE. My newfound mindfulness
and smug patience was wearing thin, but I struggled to regroup and embrace the
new, more enlightened me.
Suddenly, I saw the potty door open slightly, and
then close again, yet no one emerged. I hastily kissed my husband and dashed
over, ready to joyfully pounce on that contained canister of blue liquid and
the excrement of strangers.
At long last, my dear…
I practically whispered to it as I approached.
The door popped open again, and abruptly slammed,
and I caught a glimpse of the kid inside, clearly playing with the door. Given
that I was now practically a Buddhist monk, I waited, yet cleared my throat
loudly to alert the kid that someone was waiting. Right. Outside.
I could hear him continue to mess with the door
from the inside, so I gave a gentle knock,
“yooohoo, kiddo!”
Right this minute. Here I
am. Just breathing.
I could hear scratching, and bonking, and then the
door suddenly popped open, the kid jumped out and snarled, “I broke the door”,
and stomped off across the lot.
Oh, kids. Such pure
creatures,
I
thought with forced and maybe saccharine kindness.
Suddenly time slowed, as if in a dreamstate, I
reached for the handle and simultaneously tried to unbutton my nice work
trousers. But I was halted yet again as I heard from across the parking lot the
words that every parent dreads hearing, especially while in public. The words
that wrap a cold fog of fear around our hearts. I shudder now, repeating them.
“Mom! I have to poop!!!!”
The three-year-old came barreling across the
parking lot, joyously kicking up dust and pebbles as he approached, ready to make
a ~big splash~ in the blue liquid.
Right this minute. Here I
am. Just breathing.
Defeated, I held the door open for him, and held
his hand as he climbed the step up. I learned that the door had, in fact been
broken, and I gingerly tried to cajole the sliding lock to latch. I helped my
son take his pants down, and lifted his warm little body onto the precariously
large seat. I held him by the armpits, not wanting to risk him slipping into
the hideous unknown below, yet my face hovered in the updraft of what can only
be described as the pits of all sadness and hell.
Right this minute. Here I
am. Just not breathing.
I could hear the beautiful swoosh of the new
England Fall breeze blowing through the leaves outside. I could hear the crunch
of tires on the dirt parking lot as farm patrons came and went. I could hear
the little plops and splashes of my baby’s turds landing in the ocean of doom
below. I could hear the levee of my bladder, threatening to burst at any
moment.
As quick as he started, he was done, ready to be
wiped. I can’t say a did a thorough job, but that’s what baths are for, thank
you. Finally, my moment had arrived. My pants were down and my ass was on that
majestic plastic ring faster than I’ve ever moved in my life. The stream
started slow at first, unsure if it was really safe to finally fly free, but
then it picked up momentum, powerfully and exuberantly cascading, loud enough
for the whole farm to know that I was finally peeing, thank you JESUS.
Was this experience a lesson in patience,
gratitude, humility?
I wondered when I could finally enjoy some
coherent thoughts again. I was drunk on relief, which is the only reason I
dared to even think the following;
No wonder people say that
children are our teachers…
At that very moment, my son who had been patiently
standing at my knees, not touching
anything!! for about 16 seconds,
decided that he had simply waited long enough. He easily pushed the plastic
door open and broke into a run across the grass.
My futile and desperate pleas of,
“STOP! NO! Get back here! AT LEAST CLOSE THE DAMN
DOOR”
all went
unheeded.
The
new mindful me was excreted as forcefully as my pee.
Actually, kids are total
assholes,
I
realized with an even fresher perspective.
I
think I might be an asshole, too.
I
added in, surprised by my profound revelation.
Fancy work trousers bunched between my knees,
lilywhite doughy lady ass cheeks softly spilling over the narrow toilet seat, my drooping,
beleaguered, exhausted face peering out of the upright plastic poop coffin as
people walked by, carrying their bags of fresh vegetables and herbs. Nothing
could possibly stop my torrent of piss at that point.
Right this minute. Here I
am. Just peeing.