Wednesday, April 25, 2012

since Bing Crosby tap danced...

Our little man is here! We survived the birth and those first few weeks when the lines between day and night blur like sidewalk chalk in the rain. Phew. Ethan is down to one nighttime feeding and sanity is slowly starting to return. So long sweatpants! Everyone in the house, including mommy, is discovering a new equilibrium.

Posts may be short for a while. Having a toddler, a newborn and four dogs doesn't leave for a lot of quiet time. Most days this place is like a three ring circus: something exciting and potentially dangerous in every act. Like a good ringmaster, my job is to keep my eye on all three at once. I've officially grown the pair of eyes in the back of my head my mother was always telling me about. It's tiring work but, not to sound super cliched here, very fulfilling. There's nothing like a spontaneous hug and kiss from your sassy 17 month old to remind you that this is the best job in the world.

From a yogic perspective, what I've learned lately is how to stay peaceful amidst the chaos. Our house is loud. Really loud. At any given moment there's barking, newborn "feed me" crying and toddler "pay attention to me" caterwauling--and usually all at once. Add the phone ringing and Sesame Street on the TV and you've got yourself the setup for a full scale mommy meltdown. And yet, I'm learning to both stay aware and tune out at the same time. To practice a little bit of pratyahara, or sense withdrawal, so that I can efficiently deal with everyone's needs and maintain a sense of calm while doing it. This I learn first on the mat. Postures like supta kurmasana have become my refuge, a place where I can just shut out everything and listen to my breath. Because I need that serenity more than ever. My daughter is watching my every move. My son is a little sponge, the neurons in his brain synapsing at an exponential rate. It's on me to mold these babies into well-adjusted adults. And that doesn't start with screaming expletives and tearing my hair out. Me without yoga is like Clark Griswold in a Santa suit. Holy shit, where's the Tylenol. So yeah, I'll keep practicing, and maybe we'll all come out of this in one piece.