The early morning hours are my favorite.  The house is quiet.  The day is new.  I sip that first cup of coffee and check
email with eager anticipation of what lies ahead.  Next, I practice yoga to MC Yogi Radio on
Pandora in an incense filled room, followed by a meditation session to quiet my mind and prepare me for
the rest of the day.

It has been said that meditation
is like crack.                                                        

It must be, because I never want to get out of meditation,
those quiet moments compiled with nothing but the sound of my breath and a
calmness that I have created by reducing the fluctuations of my thoughts.

It is so much like crack, that I have allowed the kids to
oversleep, and I am now fifteen minutes behind schedule.

 “Guys, wake up,” I
yell from the bottom of the stairs, “It’s a school day!”

I quickly grab three backpacks from the front hallway and
toss them onto the floor of the kitchen, while I try to figure out what I’ll
pack for school lunches.  As I pull
yogurts and cold cuts and fruit out of the refrigerator, my son comes down the
stairs wearing shorts.

“Buddy, it’s cold outside.” 

“I know mama but I like shorts.”

“It’s winter, dude,” I say a firmly.  

He sighs and angrily walks back up the stairs.

The little one plops down on the couch. 

“What do you want for breakfast, baby?”

“What do you have?”

 “Toast, Cheerios, or
eggs.”

“What else do you have?”

“Toast, Cheerios, or eggs.”

“No!!!!!!”  She wails,
going into her first tailspin of the morning.

I listen to her meltdown from the kitchen as I walk over
baskets of unfolded laundry (and try to remember if these baskets are the clean
or the dirty???)  and the cat, who is
looking for food, to get the waters and fruit into the backpacks.

 

“Fine!  Toast,” she
says, as she huffs into the kitchen.

I put bread in the toaster and spinach in the blender, as I
start to make the green smoothie that I bring to work every morning.

Except, when I press the start button on the blender, nothing
happens. 

I unplug the blender and plug it into another outlet.   Still, nothing.  Which has me bummed, since green smoothies
are like crack. 

I call up the stairs for my oldest daughter, who is still
sleeping.  She doesn’t budge.

I run back to the kitchen to get the toast out of the
toaster.

I plop breakfast onto the table for my little one and run up
the stairs to wake up Miss F.

“Come on honey,” I nudge her lightly.  “You’re going to miss the bus.”  She groans and I run back down the stairs to finish
making lunches.   

I search through the cabinets for something I can bring to
work to eat and find nothing…except a bag of quinoa hidden in the corner of a
shelf.

I glance at the clock. 
It’s going on 7:30 and the cooking of the quinoa will have to be
intricately timed with my getting into the shower, getting out of the shower,
and getting the kids onto the bus. 

I decide to take my chances.

I throw the quinoa onto the stove and run back upstairs to
Miss F., who is still fast asleep .

I gently shake her.   

“Baby, what do you want for breakfast?”

“What do you have?”

“Toast, Cheerios, or eggs.”

“Bagel?”

“I’m out.”

“French Toast?”

Honey there’s no time.

She sighs. “What else do you have?”

“Toast, Cheerios, or eggs.”

“Fine,” she sulks, “Cheerios.”

I run back down stairs.

It’s 7:40.  The kids
get on the bus at 8:20 and I still have to get in the shower.  I put the boiling quinoa on simmer and throw
Cheerios in a bowl for Miss F.

I race down the hall to the bathroom. As I get into the
shower, I try to remember the last time I washed my hair.

My hair, which falls well below my shoulders, has become
a part time job, between getting shampoo and conditioner through it and then trying
to beat it into submission with a myriad of styling products.  

The bummer part is that no matter what I do,
my hair rarely comes out the way I want it to. 
It’s either too poofy or too straight, and there is this one spot in the
back of my head that never gets any volume.  

I can’t remember the last time I washed it which means I’d
better wash it. 

As I lather up my hair, I head the kids screaming from the
other room.

Followed by a bang.

Someone is pounding on the bathroom door.

I quickly rinse out my hair, throw on a towel, and run out
from the bathroom to break up the fight.

Over a crayon.

I resist the urge to yell, because now that it is almost
8:00, I don’t have time to yell.  I run
upstairs to get ready for work.

As I turn on the blow dryer, I immediately I hear another “bang”
and some yelling from downstairs but ignore it, with the hope that if it’s
serious, someone will run up and get me.   

Ten minutes later, my hair is dry and miraculously, it looks
great.  Really great.   Great,
like first date hair.  Great like cute
mom shampoo ad hair. It’s long and shiny with volume on top in that spot that
is always as flat as a pancake.

This is possibly the best hair day I’ve ever had.

I am loving my hair in the mirror, tossing it over my
shoulder and shaking it out, and momentarily getting caught up in my cute mom
shampoo ad fantasy.  

When I hear the sound of my daughter’s voice.

“Ma, I think the quinoa’s burning.”  

I run to the kitchen and there is indeed, smoke coming out
of the pot that was cooking the quinoa.

As I scrape burnt quinoa out of the pot and into the
garbage, I wonder what made this morning go so awry.  And then I realize I didn’t perform a
headstand with my yoga practice.

Could not have inverting myself caused all of this mishap?

Because anyone who practices yoga knows that headstands are
like crack. 

Five minutes later, I’m waving at the kids as the school bus
pulls away from the curb, and smile.

Because no matter what goes on behind the scenes, any morning
that they actually make the bus is a good morning.

I’m not sure what the moral to this story is.  Clearly, I treat a lot of things in my life
like crack, and maybe I need to look at that.

How was your
morning????