Archive for the 'yoga class' Category

Imagine How Pushy I’ll Be By the Time Jake’s in College

I thought I had it under control.

A couple of years ago I had that breakdown over Jake’s fifteen-month evaluation at preschool — the kind where they determine whether said fifteen-month-old can say anything more than “Mama” and “Dada” and pick up a Cheerio with his fingers.  And that breakdown, I felt, brought me to a place where I could let go of needing to make sure everyone in the world knows that my child is a genius.  Let it go, I told myself, and everyone will figure out he’s in line to win a Nobel Prize one day without you pointing it out to them.

Since then, I’ve become firmly convinced that I’m not one of those mothers who pushes.  He’s in preschool, for goodness sakes, where mostly what he’s learning is that it’s not okay to hit your friend in the head with a bucket (especially when you are on the receiving end) and that “poopyhead” is a potty word that will make your friends crack up and will make adults frown and tell you not to say it before they crack up too.

Plus, I tell anyone who will listen that Jake won’t be starting kindergarten until he’s nearly six because I’d rather he be older than the other kids than younger.  Subtext:  Even if he is a genius, I recognize it will not hurt him to spend that extra year in preschool.  Or a good Montessori school where he’ll probably learn so much he’ll end up skipping first grade anyhow.

And so it was that I was truly pleasantly surprised when the head of Jake’s school told me that he would be moving up to the next class.

Until this weekend, when I found out he’s not moving up quite as quickly as he was supposed to.  And, behold, the pushy mom popped out of my relaxed mom facade like the creature in Alien who, it turns out, was only biding her time, incubating until she could erupt with maximum, frightening force.

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When a Fresh Perspective Requires a Fresh Perspective (Don’t Look at Your Butt Redux)

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson when I looked at my butt in a mirror at my sister-in-law’s house while four months pregnant.

You would, in fact, not be expecting too much to think after that shock I would be smart enough not to look at my butt in a changing room mirror at a Nordstrom in Charlotte when I am ten months postpartum.  When I am forty-three years old.  Or ever, for that matter.

Some explanation is required.

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Lily Goes Full-Time

Today is Lily’s first day of full-time daycare.

Just writing it is making me cry again.  (As is wandering past my bedroom and the empty bed on which she is not napping and knowing that I will not have that unspeakably joyful moment of my day when she first wakes up from her nap and grins at me and I lie next to her pulling her still-sleepy body against me and kiss every part of it I can find.)

It is, I know, time.

I have been spending months injecting little veins of longing to return to the things I have put on hold in my life into the warmth of our mornings together, like the marbles of fat that add richness to those pieces of red meat I have eschewed for the majority of my life.  Maybe that’s why it’s not taking — because I don’t eat red meat the bits of fat that are my longing just aren’t sticking in my gullet.  Instead, they hover out there as a concept that I don’t feel right now.  Time for my own life?  Pshaw.  Who needs it?

And yet I soldier on in a direction I know in my core is right even if my surface emotions — the ones that made me start wailing when I put away a carton of formula this morning in a house empty of her — can’t bring themselves to agree.

I dress her before breakfast.  I pack up lunches for both her and Jake.  I unload on Jake’s teacher in a babble of still-postpartum hormones how I am freaking out about her starting full time.  (”You have to do it,” she says kindly.)  Even when Jake begins to scream and grab onto my leg, even as I walk stoically down the hall away from him abandoning my older child as I prepare to abandon my younger one, I stay on plan.

I drop Lily off with a smile spread across her pudgy cheeks.  When it is time for me to leave, she looks at me for a moment as if she is going to cry, then turns around and gives a shriek of pleasure to the line of doll people her teacher has set up for her and never looks back.  I have to turn off the radio on the drive home because my mind is feeling cluttered and unhinged.  “Just make it home,” I tell myself.  “Write about this.  Start that legal project you’ve been putting off.  Go to a yoga class.”

Now I’m home and I’m writing.  And — I can see the humor in this, like a mediocre romantic comedy — I am still running from my desk to grab a box of tissues, the muscles in my jaw pulling the corners of my mouth into a clown frown as I cry in a hyena-like warble and whine to no one in particular, “I miss my baby!”

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High Winds with a Likelihood of Anxiety

There are those (my husband) who will think me a little bit nutty for saying this, but windy days breed anxiety.

One might suggest that I am simply looking for something other than my mother to blame my anxiety on.  And that may be the case.  But I have it on good authority — my acupuncturist, no less — that I am on to something.  Windy days make us feel ungrounded, scattered, and, yes, for someone prone to anxiety like me, anxious.

If I require more proof — which I don’t — I need look no further than yesterday morning, when the wind rattled the maple trees in our front yard and rained bits of debris on the tin roof while I held my puzzled, hungry baby in my arms sobbing, “It’s not your fault!  It’s not your fault!”

Anxious.  Crazy.  Indeed

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Turn, Turn, Turn … or Not: What I Learned at Six Months

“Yep,” Mike confirmed the other day.  “Lily’s acting like a normal baby.”

He said this after our first sunny fall day in the park.  After Lily and I arrived with her pouting in her stroller because I decided that much as she was demanding it I was simply not up to the task of walking to the park with her in the Ergo.  After yet another night of our power struggle over when she got to wake me up to nurse (as opposed to just waking me up) and how many times.  And after I summarily dumped her in Mike’s arms and walked away to chat with some other adults.

There is, of course, nothing wrong with acting like a normal baby when you are, pretty much, a normal baby.  You get to fuss.  You get to yell at your mother for not holding you enough, not nursing you enough, having the audacity to put you down on the floor so she can, say, put on her sweater for a walk to the park.  And you definitely get to refuse to sleep through the night and not care that the books say by six and a half months you probably should be doing so.

I know there is nothing wrong with all of this.  I know — I think I know, I tell myself I know — that just because Lily can be a little grumpy with me now and then it does not mean that she will come to hate me in thirteen or so years.  She will hate me then regardless of what I do right now.

What I’m having some trouble wrapping my mind around, however, is the notion that there is nothing wrong with me responding to her grumpiness with less than perfect equanimity and nurturing sweetness.  There is nothing wrong with telling a baby at one o’clock in the morning that you want to sleep and she should stop crying at you.  Especially if you are offering a tone of voice and a back rub that are a great deal more gentle than the words you are saying because you know she can’t understand them anyhow.

In short, I spent the past several days beating myself up because Lily’s crankiness made me cranky as well.

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Full of Firsts — And Not a Parent in Sight

I thought — mistakenly, as it turned out — that it was pretty momentous to be witnessing Lily’s first props-assisted rollover yesterday.

We were about midway through our hour-long drop-off at daycare.  I was pretending not to notice the time I was supposed to be using for myself slipping away as I clung to my girl.  After all, I couldn’t be expected to just put her down while the infant caregiver was busy feeding one of Lily’s classmates.  And when Veronica set up a play mat to allow me to do just that, well, in my experience Lily doesn’t like play mats, so I was really doing everyone a favor by hanging out to rescue her when she complained about being stuck like a helpless little turtle on her back, unable to look away from the looming forms of stuffed horses and pigs with black and white checks on their bellies hanging overhead.

This particular play mat, however, had one thing our rejected-by-both-babies one at home does not:  a small, crescent-shaped pillow sewn into it.  Designed, I knew, even though Jake was never much of a tummy time guy, for helping infants appreciate tummy time by giving them a little lift.  Imagine, if you will, lying sprawled face down in a sea of whimsical shapes you neither recognize nor find particularly attractive while trying to lift a head that feels as if it is saddled with a thick, granite helmet.  You get a lift or two for a second or two and then crash nose-first back into the whimsy.

Now consider the benefits of a little crescent pillow that supports your chest and creates a gentle slope of your spine, allowing far easier head support.  Not that it doesn’t crash to the ground frequently, but at least you have time to appreciate the view before it does.

Quickly surmising that Lily was horrified by the animals Veronica helpfully hunted down and I obediently attached to the overhead arches of the play mat — something about her crying at the sight of them — I decided we should try out that pillow thing.  In the past week Lily’s been giving the lying on her tummy and lifting her chest and head routine a try, so I figured she’d be happy for a little prop to help her along.

She expressed a moment of initial surprise as Veronica and I arranged her.

“What do you think?” I chirped in a voice meant to suggest she should think this was just the best darned thing in the world.

She responded by rolling onto her back.

This was not the first time Lily has tried to roll over.  She’s tried more than a few times.  But has always been stymied by the bottom arm getting in the way, a common baby complaint.

This time, however, the pillow provided just enough clearance for her arm to magically move right through and — ta da! — she was on her back, crashed into one of the arches of the play mat and not particularly happy about it.

Still, it was an auspicious moment to recount to Mike half an hour later when I had rocked her to sleep so I could finally put her down and leave.

My big, euphoric bubble deflated more than a little bit, however, when I arrived to pick her up.  Lily, I was informed, had rolled over on flat ground that afternoon, a far more monumental achievement than doing so with props.  And, of course, she achieved this milestone when I wasn’t around to witness it.

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What Happened to My Yoga Practice?: Lamentations of a Postpartum Mom

I was initially kind of excited when I sat down to breakfast this morning and discovered an article in the New York Times Style section about a yoga class I attended a few times.

It felt like a brush with celebrity, an acknowledgment of a past life maybe not steeped in but occasionally brushing up against glamour.  “I know uber-teacher Vinnie Marino,” I pictured myself saying to someone who cared.  “And that’s the waiting area at the Main Street YogaWorks,” I smiled knowingly as I scanned the accompanying photo for a familiar face.

There were no familiar faces.  Perhaps because it’s been at least four years since I attended a class at the Main Street studio.  And I’m pretty certain Heather Graham was not in it with me, even though the article reports that she is now a regular.

In fact, the more I read, the longer ago it all seemed.  And the longer ago it all seemed, the sadder I felt.  It’s not that I was ever a regular in that class or that I wasn’t a regular in a local class right up until the day before I gave birth.  Rather, as I read the article’s description of the mad rush for a spot, the mats placed perilously close to each other, the intimidating poses, I knew that if I were to show up for the class now I would be kind of frightened.

Four years ago I wouldn’t have been frightened.

Four years ago I would have confidently spread out my mat.  I would have had at least a bit of a grasp on any pose Vinnie threw my way and a healthy sense of confidence if it was one still beyond me.  I wouldn’t have been the tiniest bit intimidated by the other practitioners.  I would, in short, have belonged.

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The Most Natural Thing in the World

What’s the most natural thing in the world?  Breastfeeding?  The naked human body?  Worms and cockroaches and creepy crawlies?  A little flatulence after a satisfying dinner of rice and beans?

Any one of them.  Except for breastfeeding.

This declaration, I know, sounds a bit aggressive, wounded perhaps, certainly not in keeping with the spirit of someone who believes that everything can be cured by yoga.  Everything, it turns out in my own personal experience, except breastfeeding.

Because no matter how many people might tell you otherwise, it is not the most natural thing in the world.  At least for those of us whose children would end up wolf food were it not for utterly unnatural things like the medication I take to induce lactation.  A medication whose dosage I am slowly reducing, slowly reducing my milk supply along with it.

I am also, not incidentally, watching my sanity level slowly reduce as well as I fruitlessly wish I just knew for sure when I should stop.

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What I Learned in My First Mommy and Me Yoga Class

I’ve had this day marked on my calendar for weeks.  My first Mommy and Me yoga class.

It’s been just two days since Lily officially reached the Age Where I Can Take Her Into Public Places, and the prospect of the class was even more exciting to me than Monday’s foray into Target.  Purchasing diapers and Z Bars I could live without for another month if I had to; the only thing keeping me from Mommy and Me yoga this past month were those pesky flu viruses still floating around Asheville on the chill winds finally chasing winter away.

What I was looking forward to wasn’t so much a practice for myself.  I can manage those at home if need be — and did for all of six sun salutes and five rounds of navasana yesterday before Miss Lily intervened.  What Mommy and Me yoga offered that I hadn’t before experienced was a practice for the two of us, a time to share something beyond our daily routine of eating, holding, taking the occasional walk, and greeting Jake’s boisterous evening arrival with joy (me) and cries of annoyance (Lily).  And, of course, I was very  much looking forward to the company of adults who speak in real sentences, even if most of them are devoted to talking about their babies.

What I found, however, was something different, a lesson I haven’t yet approached in quite the same way in all the YogaMamaMe time I’ve devoted to the relationship between me and my children and my Self.  What I found — as, if I’m being honest, I so rarely find — was forgiveness.

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Alice in Motherland, or Just How Hard It Is

Yesterday afternoon, I was like the Cheshire Cat, grinning and purring contentedly about how smoothly the first four weeks of Lily’s life have slid by.

Yesterday evening, I was Alice herself, “shedding gallons of tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four inches deep, and reaching half down the hall.”  Unlike Alice, who was understandably crying because she had suddenly grown to about nine feet high, I was less understandably sobbing about what a terrible mother I am and how bleak the prospect of my being any better at it over the next many months appears.

Primarily, I was crying because my girl wouldn’t stop crying.  And I wasn’t trying to stop her, which merely led to more heart-rending screams on her part (and maybe on mine — no one else was around to witness them, so I can’t be entirely sure).  Her screams led me to remember all the times I let Jake cry the same way when he was an infant.   Which made me cry more instead of reassuring me that good mothers sometimes can’t deal with their babies’ crying and those babies turn out just fine anyhow.

Worst of all, I was feeling — how could any mother feel, much less admit, this? — resentful that Lily wanted to use my breast as a pacifier.  (Perhaps, I discovered later, because the nail on my pinkie finger was just a sliver too long and likely slicing the top of the poor girl’s mouth when I offered her a finger pacifier as a substitute.  Which thought makes me want to cry a little bit now.)

All this crying in front of my impressionable young infant made me — what else? — cry some more.  Even though I knew, despite my state of utter unreasonableness, that she will not remember her mother crying hysterically in front of her.  Didn’t matter.  Surely I was damaging her delicate new psyche in permanent and insidious ways.

In short, in the space of a few hours, I went from thinking I had finally put all the pieces of my life into place to being quite certain I could not manage life or motherhood, especially the next two to four years of it.

And I realized that It Is Hard.  Even when you find a place where it doesn’t feel like it.

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