Practice. Interrupted.

Hoodlum. Total hoodlum.

As I eased out of my final upward facing dog pose and prepared to cool down on my belly, I felt one with the universe. The air temperature was just right. It smelled like fall. Henry, my usually irritating yoga practice companion and the original up-dog, was curled up under the magnolia tree dreaming of chasing squirrels. Chloe, my 2 year old, had been amazing through a full hour and a half yoga practice. Playing quietly. Mimicking my poses. And dancing in the Indian summer air. It had been perfection and really, I was feeling, so, well, perfect.

I slowly lowered my head on the mat and took a deep breath.

Then that little stinker threw her Minnie Mouse car at my head.

It hit me in the nose. I could feel a bump already forming. I bit my tongue (to stop from yelling Motherf!!!!) so hard it bled.

Seriously. Who does that?

I went from bliss to rage in about a millisecond.  Blind, vein popping rage. Chloe screamed. I stuck her in time out. She threw more things. I fumed. Then after two minutes (1 minute per year of life, right?!), we regrouped. I super-nannied her with eye contact, explanations and of course, a hug.

Everything was fine, again. Our mats were right where we left them. Waiting for us, like always. And we returned to our practice.

Our whole lives are exactly like this. Long moments of bliss. Days of content. Months of happiness. Years of joy. But there are those blimps in between--those long pauses of discord. Those years of strife. Months of worry. Days of anxiety. We struggle through. Like my yoga practice today, our lives are constantly interrupted.

And then, like magic, we go right back where we were before--to the contentment, to the good stuff. We always go back--because that is our true nature--to be at peace.  This time on earth--it is about the practice.

We practice perfection and bliss. Then we are interrupted by challenges. Then we practice again. As I sit at my desk--Chloe is drawing on the walls (sobeit), Henry is chewing a marker (oh well), and I am rubbing the new bump on my nose. It is all good. Our mats are always waiting. There is still more practice to be done.

Because he is the sh!t: Happy Birthday to Mike

I have always enjoyed joking that Mike was a meconium baby. (if you don't know what this is, Google it. I, for one, hate talking about poop in detail).

What does meconium have to do with my husband? Well, it would seem that since Mike was born he has been, quite literally, the sh!t.

He also waded in his fair share of do-do (typically because of me).

We've been partners-in-crime since 1994. Affiliating oneself with me, is not for the faint of heart. As you can imagine, there have been hot messes, really hot messes and messes that I can down only disclose because my father is dead.

Like when Mike hid in my bedroom closet, terrified my Dad would kill him (he would have). Or that time we clogged the toilet at his parents house with hair dye and toilet paper, sending dye colored water through the ceiling and into the living room (Mike's parents are still alive, sorry). Or when we got caught by the police making out in the backseat of his Cutless (so glad my mother is not on the internet).

And while he weathered all these little dramas with his trademark humor and occasional panic attack--the real life stuff is where my Mike has found his time to shine.

Like when we found out that I had preeclampsia and Mike was about to become a father--via emergency c-section. We had not even taken one birth class. We were not ready to be parents. But Mike became a father with 3 hours notice and held me up when my body was failing. I'll never forget watching the video tape of Lily's breathing. I was confined to a hospital bed and Mike made sure I could be a mother even when I could not get to Lily's side. He learned with me how to breastfeed, researched breast pumps and joined me in my insane breast milk production competition in the NICU (no one else was aware. I won. Mike threw the parade).

He did the same with Chloe--rushing out to get me memory foam pillows and protein shakes when I was on bed rest. Using his lunch hour to kangaroo-care Chloe--holding her close to his heart.

And of course, during our biggest, scariest challenge, Mike was my hero. He prayed with me. He sang to Lily. He held my hand. He let me rage. And he still holds my hand. He still lets me cry in his arms when I remember the dark days. And then he makes me stop and pushes me forward.

He is the kind of son that helps his father-in-law to the toilet and gives his disabled brother-in-law a shave. He is the neighbor who lends his tools and time without reserve. Mike is the guy who stays loyal to his Temple Owls through wins and losses. Mike can build anything. He can fix anything. He is the man who will do anything and support those he loves because he believes in dreams.

Mike is the kind of guy who can weather any storm--but still come out laughing and joking on the other side.

He is the sh!t.

So to you, my sweet, handsome, meconium-baby, dream-loving husband: Happy Birthday. Wishing you many, many years of hot messes. And hoping you are always the only sh!t in the room. We love you. Even though you smell like cabbage.

xoxo





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