Breathe

The other evening Gabriel kicked and screamed on our hardwood floor, frustrated because his Thomas the Tank underpants had gotten twisted when he tried to put them on.

I tried speakly in a gentle, cajoling voice to calm him.

I tried reasoning with him.

I held up the underpants.

You can try to put them on again, baby.

Nothing worked.

Apparently I didn't understand the gravity of the situation.

Gabriel kicked and kicked, and screamed, and screamed.

Finally, in exasperation, I said, "Gabriel, breathe! Just breathe if you're frustrated!" and I took a deep breath, showing him what I meant.

Suddenly, the room quieted. I heard a rasping breath as he filled his little lungs with air.

"I breathed, Mommy!"

I was amazed. Recently, I have been trying to meditate as a way to reduce stress, imagining a lotus flower opening with the in-breath, and closing with the out-breath. But I never imagined that at two, a kid could start focusing on his breath to reduce anxiety. The child-mind of Zen held a whole new meaning.

The next morning, I drove Gabriel to his daycare. It had taken two hours just to get out of the house. I was late to work, and stressed out. I opened the car door and unbuckled Gabriel from his car seat, and he climbed out into the parking lot. Then I opened the front door and he grabbed a plastic bag that his lunch was in and immediately dumped out a cheese stick, an orange, and a hummus sandwich.

"Rrrrghhh!" I growled.

"Mommy," said Gabriel, looking at me as if I were a child.

"You have to breathe!"