Overheard: "Back away, buddy!" Daniel talking to Stephen, who was interfering with Daniel's racetrack setup.

Grateful for: Airtight (and apparently bug-tight) Tupperware food storage containers.

Breathing Exercise

My driving-related panic attacks seem to be subsiding. I remembered a technique that I'd read about in one of Dr. Andrew Weil's books, a breathing exercise that I've started practicing regularly. I found the technique minimizes the attacks, or even prevents them altogether, if I remember to do it before I encounter a triggering situation.

When I first read about the breathing exercise, I was skeptical, recalling my experience with Lamaze and what little use it turned out to be during a 23-hour labor. But then I reasoned that for centuries Yogis and other mystics have been using controlled breathing to achieve altered states of consciousness. So why can't I?

The technique is deceptively easy but very effective. Place the tip of the tongue on the roof of the mouth directly behind the upper front teeth. Inhale through the nose for the count of four. Hold the breath for seven counts. Exhale through the mouth for eight counts. The units of time don't matter, just the relative ratios of 4:7:8. I'm not sure of the reason for the tongue position. Weil speaks vaguely of Yoga philosophy and "nerve currents." Whatever. I find that the calming effect comes from that long, controlled exhale. I feel the tensions of my body drain away with the release of the breath.

When I first started having panic attacks last week, Tab wanted me to see my doctor, something I'm reluctant to do. I hope this breathing exercise continues to work for me.

"What are you doing, Mama?"

"Rolling out the dough for pizza."

"Oh. Cool!" exclaims Matthew, watching as I wield my rolling pin, flattening and shaping the mound of elastic dough into a thick disc-shape.

"Now what are you doing?"

"Putting cornmeal on the pizza pan so it won't stick," I answer, sprinkling the meal. I carefully arrange the rolled-out pizza dough on the prepared pan.

Matthew leans over the open Tupperware plastic storage container. "What are those ants doing there?" he asks.

"Huh? Oh, yuck!"

I'm staring in horror at dozens of tiny, wriggling black things in the cornmeal. Weevils? Whatever they are, I'm thoroughly disgusted.

I peel away the dough from the pan. I can't see any of the pests on the pan or in the dough itself, but it doesn't matter. I can't eat it now. Plunk. Into the garbage can with it.

With trepidation I check my other containers of flours and meals. No vermin, thank heavens. The cornmeal must have been infested with eggs when I bought it, but thankfully the little buggers were not able to spread through the pantry.

I can't help shuddering, though, when I think of the batches of polenta and cornbread I baked with that cornmeal before I discovered the infestation. "Don't worry," Tab reassures me. "The high temperatures killed off anything."

Yeah, but still.

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