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can-you-say-twat-fartSince I have been home, my life has slowed down, resides at a crawl, ok- maybe it’s stopped. I just cannot adjust. Reentry has come at a cost. My kids have all gone back to their routine and their friends. My husband has never been busier, interviewing and networking for his next professional endeavor.  Me, I am left holding my hand on my a@#. I tell people reentry is like traveling the Mojave Desert in search of water and finally finding a natural spring. You fill your glass and then, just as you start satiating your thirst, someone rips the glass out of your hand and says “sorry wrong daydream” and the spring disappears.

To say that I have been blue is an understatement. I think it was all triggered when my 75 boxes were delivered from the UK. Seventy-five boxes was my life, and most of it was toothpaste and tampons. Once I began unpacking, all the memories and emotions began spilling out and permeating my 135 pound frame- thank you cards, pictures, mugs describing friends I had been given as gifts, receipts from Prague and Budapest, future travel plans, and an itinerary to visit Turkey.

Once everything arrived back in Connecticut, I decided that my best plan of attack was to get the boxes unloaded and put away as quickly and efficiently as possible, thus removing anything that could cause an emotional breakdown. Six hours and 60 sixty boxes later, I was nearly complete -sin dinner for my family. They had enough bulk to last them until the next day. The last thing that night that I needed to complete was eliminating all traces of packing materials and previous UK fun on the floor. With only a vac with a broken handle to tackle the task, I shrunk myself to midget size and furiously attacked the carpet. If I had bothered to open my eyes in my conquest for clean, I would have noticed the other midget standing next to me, my eight year old son. In his hand was a Mac charger, which while twirling riveted off the connection and nailed me in the skull at a speed that rivals a Mack Two jet fighter. I buckled to my knees and began screaming that I was sure my eye was gone. My daughter who heard the reverberation off my brow bone, was right next to me running around in circles trying to figure out whether she should A) try to revive me or B) kill my eight year old first. My eight year old ran for paper towels expecting the blood to start spurting out of my head. Needless to say, it was a long night and I still had boxes to tackle.

The next morning with a mound above my eyebrow and a pounding headache, I began finishing my mission. My first project was to organize the pantry to fit more items. I got my footstool and started with b, the baking goods corner. When the doorbell rang for the cable guy, I came off the stool and knocked over a bottle of balsamic vinegar, the one that one of my kids left on the pantry floor, and fell right into the shards of balsamic glass, shoeless, and at that moment, almost toeless. It just wasn’t working out. The blood was gushing and I needed two things; #1) to get to the hospital and #2) to raise my I admit I cannot control my life flag.

Later that evening when my girls came home (age 17 and 16) I folded my black eye into my hands, held up my stitched foot and sobbed “You cannot do this to me. You are both going to college and will leave me here in a town with one road in and one road out. “

My family decided that yoga was in my future.  I needed a life, any life. They needed a calm functioning mother, which leads me to my twat farts and my 5-day yoga retreat, which starts this week.

In preparation for my outing, today I went to my local weekly class, proudly announcing that I, Wendy McGee, would be attending a yoga immersion class. Bad move. This inspired my yoga teacher to twist us into more pretzels than Bachman stores in their giant cello bag. There is this one particular twist in down dog position with your leg held up in the air and then folded sideways (if you can imagine) and I knew I was in trouble. In the space of 15 seconds I could feel my uterus, which once housed 4 children, filling with air.  To release the pose and in my case the air, we had to come down in this pose standing upright with our legs bent in warrior position. I instantly knew there would be 10 warriors to my right and ten warriors to my left, when that uterus let loose.

“Wendy” the teacher announced as she made her way to my side.

“You need to crouch down lower and.”

Oh No…oh No please don’t move my waist backwards forcing my knees to bend.

RIIIIIIPPPPP.  Out it came.

“I swear,” I yelled out.

“It was a twat fart, not a real one.” 

Thank goodness there was only one man in the room, and he was my husband. At least I had an audience that appreciated my humor.

“It’s ok she announced” as I buckled over with laughter.

“It’s all part of life’s process.”

…and what a process it is.

For more stories about my life back in the USA, please visit LifeWithWendy.

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