Breathe Mark, breathe! It used to hurt my feelings when I heard it, and I heard it at least a thousand times before I was twelve years old. My dad was the one who first crafted the phrase, but my mom and my older brother used it on me as well. If I ever got distracted, or forgot to do something I would hear, “Breathe Mark, breathe.” Nowadays, I would probably have been labeled ADD, but I came along about forty years before ADD became a diagnosis. I wasn’t really hyperactive (most of the time), but simply had a problem of “paying attention.” And it wasn’t the kind of thing that resulted in bad grades. I just “forgot” things easily.
Mom might say, “Mark go brush your teeth and hop into bed; it’s bed time.” I would dutifully head toward the bathroom with every obedient intention, but would almost always get distracted by something like– the old antique trunk in the hallway. In a split second, that old trunk would become a pirate’s treasure chest containing gold coins and jewels beyond my wildest dreams. It would steal away all of my attention. Then the next thing I knew Mom would be pinching the fire out of me, demanding why I didn’t obey her. I was stunned that she would think I wanted to disobey! My answer? “Mom, I just forgot.”
