Heath, Where's Your Blowhole?

It felt great to run this morning, despite the cold. Sure beats running in the rain. Not to mention the fact that I was pushing only one baby. Stella is a light load.

We're working a new technique to help Heath in his more overwhelmed moments. It consists of little more than getting him to focus on his breath.

I'll do it out of my blowhole, he said, rubbing the top of his head.

I told him that would be fine.

So, this evening, after another no-nap day, we had ample opportunity to say, Heath, where's your breath?

In the middle of a Stella toy-takeover, both kids screaming, I said, Heath, where's your breath? He took a big gulp of air, puffed his cheeks, blew it back out with great force. Then resumed the hostile invasion. I said it again. Heath, where's your breath? He gulped his air. Finally on the third breath-blowing question, he made it into a calmer space.

Meanwhile, during the Heath-breath trial, Stella is running (yes, her shuffle has become a quick-step run) through the kitchen, puffing out her own cheeks, saying, Pfff, pfff, pfff.

Mark said, Stella, where's your breath?

She stopped, hiked up her dress and patted her baby belly.

Netflix came today. More Six Feet Under tonight.