Monthly Archive for January, 2009

We Should All Be the Pregnant Lady in Yoga Class Sometimes

Sometimes, you decide you must do something that is against your better judgment.

Ideally, these circumstances should not include going to yoga class.  Not because it’s never a bad idea to go to yoga class — although that is the first thought that comes to my mind, even when, as now, I’m writing about why going to yoga class no matter what doesn’t always show the best judgment.  No, the wiser part of me chides, if you are really practicing yoga throughout your life, you will recognize when you are just not up to an asana practice.

Say, for example, you are seven-and-a-half-months pregnant, your adductor muscles are killing you from the past three days of not-prenatal yoga, you have a cold that makes it impossible to breathe through your nose in downward facing dog, and you happen to be really, really, really tired because your two-year-old has a cold that seems to make it impossible for him to sleep through the night without awakening you so he can cough in your bed for the remaining four hours you were planning to sleep.

In these circumstances, a sane person might decide to take advantage of an unseasonably warm and sunny afternoon to take the dog for a walk.  I, on the other hand, chose to jerk myself out of a well deserved nap at 3:30 and groggily stumble about finding a tank top that pretends to cover my belly before making it to the 4:00 yoga class at 4:05.

As I spread out my yoga mat in the one open space right in the front row, I noticed that it was hot.  Often yoga class is hot.  Often I enjoy a warm room.  But I didn’t want to be hot on Friday at 4:05.  And I didn’t particularly want to be modifying yoga pose after yoga pose because my belly is not only growing outward but to the sides as well.  You try forward folding when no matter how far apart you place your legs you feel as if you are smooshing one of those gel-filled office stress toys, only from the inside.

In fact, the more I had to modify the poses and the more I felt disconnected because I was doing a whole lot of mouth-breathing, the more annoyed I became.  Plainly, I decided, I had some kind of heretofore hidden plan to punish myself.  And plainly I needed to be punished — for feeling the need to kick ass in yoga instead of relishing the very rare opportunity to gain weight and turn soft and round without feeling guilty about it.

Sinking steadily into a Jamie Lee Curtis-in-Perfect (1985, tagline:  “John Travolta and Jamie Lee Curtis work up a sweat together!” http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0089798/), punishing aerobics routine, I made one last attempt to salvage my yoga practice.  I acknowledged my limitations.  Grumpily, yes.  As if shouting to the people behind me, “I’m pregnant!  I can’t do a twisted arm balance!  I can’t do any pose that involves lying on my belly, lying on my side, or turning upside down!  I can’t do much in the way of core work!  Or forward folds!  Or just about anything the teacher is asking us to do at the moment!” — yes, indeed.

But, still, grumpy and aggressive or not, I did recognize that there were things my body couldn’t do.

And this, I slowly reminded myself, is part of yoga too.  A part I am often loathe to acknowledge, especially during the two years I have spent trying to recover the glory days of my practice before my first pregnancy.  But one that is, in fact, far, far more important than mastering the Level III poses.  The same way there are things — your child, perhaps — that are more important than making up for the promotion you didn’t get because you took maternity leave.

Yoga is about accepting our limitations and seeing where they lead us, not about overcoming them.

Maybe, I surmised some time as the blessed end of class approached and this realization dawned, we should all be lucky enough to be the pregnant lady in yoga class sometimes so we have a really good excuse to excuse ourselves.

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Can I Make My Child (or Anyone Else for that Matter) Happy?

Jake has just discovered the concept of righteous indignation.

As in, “How dare you comb my hair for me!”  Only expressed in howls of unhappiness perfectly calibrated to get on my last nerve.

Or, “Don’t you dare fill up that bathtub!  Don’t even mention the word ‘tub’ to me!  And certainly don’t ask me why I am so upset about the prospect of taking a bath!”  Which he says, not in so many words, but by frantically running away from me crying, “No bath!  No bath!” even as I try to coax him into a pair of Dora the Explorer swim diapers.  (Frankly, I find them no less embarrassing for him — bright pink flowers and all — than the gender-specific Spiderman swim diapers modeled by a boy in the picture on the packaging that I plainly was supposed to purchase instead.)

Then there’s the one that precipitated my final breakdown last night: “What do you mean you’re trying to cook dinner and can’t pick me up?”  Very expeditiously communicated by standing at the front door wailing, “DAAAAADYDAAAAAADY!”

It was at this point that I crumpled into a corner of the bathroom and decided that I have never, ever been capable of making any other human being happy and that I was plainly, sadly wrong when I thought my son was my salvation and that by saturating him with my love I could make up for all the crippled emotions I have picked up over a lifetime that have somehow convinced me I am incapable of making anyone else happy.

Finding Jake staring up at me in shock did not shake me out of it, though one might expect such dramatic effect if I were writing a novel.  Since I am writing about true life, however, what it did was make me feel even worse for inflicting this traumatic moment on my child.

Especially when he quietly said, “I’m happy, Mommy.”

I swept him into my arms, leaving the garlic un-minced, and held him to me on the couch.  “You are a wonderful person,” I assured him.  “You haven’t done anything wrong.  It’s not your job to make me happy.  You make me very, very, very happy.”  And other words designed to reassure me as much as him.

Which they kind of did.  Until an hour or so later when he started wailing about the fact that I put aloe cream on his weather-reddened cheeks while getting him ready for bed and I walked out on him and told him we could read books when he was done with his tantrum while trying not to have another one myself.

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How Much Influence Do I Have on My Toddler’s Tantrums — and the Tantrums of Others?

It was only after the fact — as I recounted the incident to Jake’s preschool teachers this morning — that I saw the humor in it.

There I was, seven-plus months pregnant and clad in a thick black winter coat bulging at the zipper, crouched in the back seat of my CRV as I straddled my struggling toddler and he piked out of his car seat while I held him down and huffed through clenched teeth, “I’m pregnant and I’m tired and I’ve had enough.”

It’s true that I had had more than enough.  It had been an emotional morning:  The bellowing, outraged tears when I insisted on changing Jake’s diaper before washing his hands.  The same welling up of true hurt when Lilah the basset hound happened to wander by his chair as he was eating breakfast.  And don’t even get me started on the performance he put on at the top of the stairs when his father left for work.

There was a big part of me that just didn’t have the reserves to deal calmly with toddler tantrums.  I have been completely depleted since yesterday afternoon, when I was looking forward to my first few hours alone in the house in the three weeks there have been workmen sharing it with me (weatherproofing, thank goodness, so I shouldn’t complain too much.  But, then, I am.).  Instead of a cozy hour in front of the new season of Damages folding the multitudes of laundry that gather seemingly daily, I found myself huddled over my laptop at the dining room table, clad in my winter coat and sweaty yoga clothes, as the guys put a big, noisy blower in the back door and ran around the house for a couple of hours finding all the places it still leaks.  I, in the meantime, found that there is only so much one can do when one is not allowed to close any doors (say, to the bathroom where I was longing to take a shower) and doesn’t really have full access to the kitchen and is slowly losing one’s mind due to the constant HUMMMMMMMMM of the blower.

Certainly, the overwhelming sense of displacement that suddenly hit me goes a long way to explaining the fact that I yelled at Jake — I didn’t raise my voice; I YELLED — when he pulled the I’m-not-sitting-in-my-carseat stunt in the preschool parking lot when I picked him up from school at the end of my trying afternoon. And my ability to ignore his cries of despair as I washed his hair with him standing in the bathtub — the closest I’ve managed to get him to water since another poop-in-the-tub incident last week.  (Mike and I handled the most recent one with such calm that I can only imagine how much our first reaction must have traumatized him to find us back to coaxing him into a tub in his swim diaper.)

But somehow, this morning, it got even harder.  Because each time he built himself into an orgy of sadness I could feel the same emotion building up in me.  I could remember what it feels like to cry with the jagged urgency of being all alone, rejected, denied, unloved.  And it just plain killed me to hear him that way.

While, at the same time, it killed me to have to listen to it yet again.

Hence, my moment of straddling my crying child in the car this morning as I cried too and kept crying right through his two-year-old’s recovery, ignoring his comments about what we saw as we drove past, and, oh so cruelly, informing him upon his query that, “Yes, Mommy is going to work after I drop you off.  And not a moment too soon.”

Oh, yeah, he understood just what I was saying, poor guy.

Continue reading ‘How Much Influence Do I Have on My Toddler’s Tantrums — and the Tantrums of Others?’

Trusting the Nostalgia (Even When You Should Be Embarrassed by the Songs You Are Listening to on the Radio)

I am awash in nostalgia these days.

Certainly it has something to do with the impending transformation of my status into “mother of two.” One child, Mike and I agree, is an accessory. Two children is an adult family. Who can approach such a spectre without a slightly longing glance back at the days when I was a member of the target audience for romantic comedies?

But in large part I blame the demographics of Asheville.  There must be an awful lot of early-40’s, dreaming of their youth types like me here.  How else to explain the fact that the radio station I used to not be embarrassed to listen to emerged from several weeks of annoying Christmas music into a playlist of catchy, roll-up-the-windows-so-no-one-hears-you-singing songs of the 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s?  Every single one of them is guaranteed to jerk me immediately to some indelible moment of my youth — speeding down Olympic Boulevard at 2 a.m. in the Dodge Omni I drove through high school even though it stalled out every time I stopped for a light (”Girls Just Want to Have Fun”); dancing on the porch of Sigma Chi during Spring Weekend (”Mony Mony”); making my way down the unremittingly sad sweep of road to my townhouse in Williamsburg (”Long December”).

And it doesn’t stop with my dreamy driving moments of remembering what it felt like to believe I was on a trajectory toward something.  There’s the Facebook fever that causes me to search for long lost (boy)friends and to scroll through my high school classmates without ever once contacting one because, well, that would suggest that I’m still interested in being the person I was in high school when I emphatically — for reasons obvious to anyone who knew me then — am not. I remember old friends, I get in touch with some of them, and I feel a blast of energy and satisfaction at how far I’ve come and how much I’ve come through in shaking some of the craziness of the days when I first knew them.

But even if I’m happy to have moved beyond the girl who had an anxiety attack if her every moment wasn’t filled with activity, who felt always a little short of where and who she thought she should be, and who frankly didn’t know how to love herself, I still miss being young.  Not just the unlined face (though the amount of money I spend trying to slow down the inexorable track of crows feet would probably go a long way toward economic recovery).  Not just the body parts that did not yet have a beef with gravity.

No, what I miss is the sense of possibility.

Remember when you dreamed of something big for yourself?  I’m not saying it isn’t far, far healthier to enjoy where and who you are now than to keep trying to attain something that exists only in your mind.  I’m just saying that it’s fun to dream.  It’s fun to imagine what life might bring you — who you might end up married to, what you might end up doing when you grow up, where you will live and how cool you will be.

Now I know all these things.  And it’s all good.  But, still.  I know.

More to the point, I have a kid.  I’m about to have another.  I find it hard to believe my life is moving anywhere unexpected any time soon.  And where’s the fun in that?

Continue reading ‘Trusting the Nostalgia (Even When You Should Be Embarrassed by the Songs You Are Listening to on the Radio)’

Why It’s a Blessing to Find Out the Path Is Bumpier than You Expected

Jake started crying before I so much as moved toward the door to leave him at school this morning.

Real tears. Not the almost-obligatory yells of faux abandonment he would throw my way when I dropped him off at his old pre-preschool.  No, these were the kind of tears that a parent feels right where her own tears start, a reminder of just how distressed her child is to be in a new place and feeling overwhelmed and without his mother to hold him.

In other words, the kind of tears that make me want to start crying all over again right now.  As I have been doing intermittently in the half hour since blindly making my way to my car and numbly steering it toward home as I tried to decide what a good mother would have done.

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My Toddler Teaches Me When to Say “I’m Sorry”

Jake has picked up a rather impressive and useful new habit.  He now frequently says, “I’m sorry.”

The thing is, I’m not entirely certain whether he’s saying it when he’s the one who has something to be sorry for.  More often, I fear, he’s merely pointing out my own lack of social graces.

When, for example, I inadvertently elbow him in the head as I’m folding laundry.  Does his, “I’m sorry, Mommy” mean he’s sorry he got his head in the way of my elbow?  Or am I the party who should be apologizing, since my elbow feels just fine, thanks, and I generally do avoid using it to clock my son in the head?

Or what about yesterday, when Jake said, “I’m sorry,” as we were enjoying a warm, sunny day by tossing his football at the park?  In particular, what about the moment I tossed it right into his forehead?  Was his apology an acknowledgement of his still burgeoning coordination (assuming he ever possesses such a thing, being my child, after all)?  Or of his mother’s own uncoordinated reasons for generally not throwing footballs at living creatures?

The heartbreaker came some time between midnight and two last night, as he began yelling for me to remove him from his crib to my bed for the third night in a row.  “I’m not happy,” I said grimly as I lifted him into my arms.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a small, scared voice.

No tired, angry lectures from me followed.  And, in fact, when I later put him back in his crib, he slept through the night without bothering me again.

I should feel really good about this.  I should be proud of my son for understanding that it upsets me to be awakened in the middle of the night and for his quite apt apology.

Instead, however, I feel a bit like maybe I was the one who should be apologizing.

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“Mommy, Go Work.”

“Mommy, go work.”

Jake said these words gently, with a firm hand on my knee as if to steady me for the blow of his very first (but, oh, I know, definitely not his last) leave-me-alone-already.

We were in his new classroom, on his first day at the “big kids” preschool across the street from his former pre-preschool.  I had been in the room with him for something over an hour, slowly but surely coaxing him away from my lap, suggesting he interact with the other kids, gently edging my way toward the door.  Proving, in other words, what a great mom I am to anyone who might be watching.  Which was, approximately, no one.

Except Jake.  Who, after a while, felt he had to coax me out of his hair with a gentle “Mommy, go work,” that assured me he was, indeed, okay without me.

I was thrilled.

I mean this in a pure, completely thrilled, not the least bit traumatized by my son’s step toward adulthood way.  After all, I had been far more nervous about his transition to the new school than he was.  He had already visited several times and knew there was a gym with basketball hoops, which is about all he really needs in life.  I, on the other hand, had been struggling with a random comment from a parent I recently met whose son had been through the same class; the teacher, he told me, “is tough.”

Tough on the kids or tough the parents? I wondered nervously.

I had no worries about Jake.  He doesn’t bite or push and apparently follows his teachers’ directions consistently even if he sometimes has something better to do than following his parents’.  In other words, he had nothing to fear from a take-no-nonsense teacher.

No, I was worried about me.  In particular, I spent most of the long drive home from our holidays in St. Louis imagining scenarios in which his new teacher would chew me out for unconscious infractions of the many, many rules a North Carolina preschool apparently must follow to receive state accreditation.  Was I, in fact, worthy of sending my child to preschool?

My hour with Jake in his new class assured me that I was.  His teacher, in fact, was quite kind, and not nearly as tough as some of the ones who had trained me at the pre-preschool.  And so, finally, I found myself able to return my attention to Jake’s well being.  And felt nothing but pleasure when he told me his being was more than just well, thanks very much, and he preferred I leave him to do what two-year-olds do in school.

I should have known it was too easy to last.

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