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.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Once upon a time, I worked in a San Francisco flower shop. Valentine's Day was the biggest event of the year. It's like the Christmas season for most retailers, except that all the excitement is crammed into one day instead of six weeks. I can remember cleaning roses, dozen after dozen of them: stripping the stems of the thorns, plucking excessive leaves so the water wouldn't get clogged and prematurely cloudy, arranging, wrapping, delivering...you get the idea. My favorite part were the messages we transcribed on the little cards that come with the flowers. The content varied from romantic to sweet to funny to downright creepy. Sometimes two dozen went out to two different women, charged to a single credit card. Whatever. Not. My. Business. You could send flowers to your pet goat and I didn't care, long as I was making time and a half and your Visa went through.

So yes, Valentine's Day is overly commercial. Just like every other holiday in America. I admit, I've been a direct participant in the holiday profit-making machine. But it's still a wonderful day. Today couples will declare their affections for one another, maybe for the first time, maybe for the fiftieth. Boys and girls will receive those little valentines with Snoopy or Garfield or whatever the kids are into these days, and the first sparks of romantic attraction will ignite in their hearts. Even the status of having no valentine can be a holiday--a chance to go out with other, unattached hearts and celebrate one's freedom from the obstacle course of love. (Sometimes these are more fun anyway!)

I think it's fantastic that there is a day devoted to the expression of romantic love. Yes, this day is not without its pitfalls. I can remember the first Valentine's Day I celebrated with my now-husband. It was two weeks after our first date. Oh, the consternation! Do I get him something? Do I even acknowledge the day? Will he? What if he doesn't? The sweet agony of a newborn relationship. Makes me kind of miss those pins-and-needles days.

Whatever the day brings, I'm going to try to be my own valentine this year. I'm going to be sweet to myself in some small way. Make time for practice. Take myself out for Starbucks. Spend a few minutes just breathing in the cold, crisp February air. All day today, I plan to stop and appreciate this moment, today, now. It's too easy to get caught up in the daily grind, the endless cycle of chores and obligations. It's so easy to focus on what we want over what we have, what's not working versus what is. Sure, I'm as big as a house and spend most hours in some form of relative discomfort and crankiness. But still. I can breathe. I can move. I can take in the world around me and appreciate the little pleasures the day has to offer. I can even seek them out, and take a relatively routine Tuesday and elevate it to something really special. That is, if I can stop complaining for five minutes to really take a deep breath and see this moment for what it is. An opportunity for transformation.

And while I'm at it, I'll probably stuff my face with some Valentine's Day chocolate. To enhance the experience, of course.

Happy Valentine's Day!

coming clean

I've been ignoring you, my little blog. I admit it. The last few weeks of pregnancy have been rough. For me, there are few things more painful then waiting for a new phase of your life to begin. I remember feeling this way in the endless stretch between medical school and internship. For several months I languished in that undefinable, formless limbo as I waited for the day to arrive when my life would radically change. I had heaps of anxiety about it and wanted nothing more than to just get started and get on with it, but I could not artificially push the date forward no matter how hard I tried. Same with waiting for Siobhan to arrive, although in that case I was too excited and happy and, to put it bluntly, ignorant, to know what was coming down the pike. This time I know all too well what having a newborn baby means. What I don't know is how in God's name I'm going to do it and still give my sweet 14 month old baby girl all the love and mama time she needs.

Add another wrinkle to the plan: I just found out I'm having a c-section. This was always a possibility, since I had a fairly serious shoulder dystocia with my girl and she was only a modest 7 and 1/2 pounds. This little man is estimated to be at least a pound larger than she was. Thanks to the genetic quirk of being built somewhat like an adolescent boy in the hips department, I probably would be more suited to birthing lemurs rather than human beings. I didn't help myself by making babies with a six-foot-two man, either. So these are my choices: roll the dice and risk another harrowing vaginal delivery, or take the safe bet with the longer, more painful recovery. Guess I'll just have to suck it up.

So how does that lead me to my neglect of this blog? Well, I just didn't feel like writing, I suppose. Felt like I had nothing to say. Sort of a period of intellectual and creative pouting, as it were. Now for the five people who do read this, I'm sure you don't care all that much. You all have lives more exciting than mine which I presume you are living with joy and gusto. But this blog is good for me, helps me get the cobwebs out, and so I'm the one that's been suffering. My apologies to myself. The waiting is painful but not intolerable. There are plenty of juicy moments to savor. And plenty of ones that will be really funny in the future. Like this morning, when Steve and I were trying to assemble the new play yard and after an hour of laboring over this piece of crap (promised to assemble in under a minute), we lost all composure and had a Clark Griswold in the Santa suit meltdown. The play yard is now snapped in several pieces and sitting in our driveway. I'm pretty sure our daughter will have to be in therapy now. But hey. At least we went to Crazytown together, and we're already laughing.

It will make a good story to tell her during family week at rehab.

just the way you are

I have a confession to make: I am secretly obsessed with Botox. Over the last few years I've noticed forehead lines, three of them, rearing their ugly little heads. I suppose this is from years of laughing, frowning, conveying surprise, dismay and just having feelings in general. Reacting to life on life's terms. I have, what in medical terms would be called hyper mobile facial muscles. Or something like that.

Funny, the fancy language doesn't make me like them any more.

I've been quite religious about staying out of the sun and wearing sunscreen since my early twenties. I feel like the crows' feet and sun damage are quite under control, thank you very much. But these forehead lines? There's nothing I can do about them, unless I find a way to blunt my emotional response to life's events--which, if you know me, you know is asking the impossible. I'm demonstrative. I huff and puff and if I'm in a really bad mood I'll try to blow your house down. Just kidding. But seriously, I can't stop being me. Enter Botox.

A little shot here, a little there and voila! No more hyper mobile facial muscles. No more deep furrows that make me look years older than my actual age. Just a perfectly calm, serene, unlined face. I think about it all the time, how much better I'd look. Maybe then I'd stop critiquing my appearance in the mirror and just be happy with my reflection. Maybe I'd see what's pretty about my face instead of honing in on the imperfections. Maybe, I think, then my critical ego-mind would stop giving me that seductively poisonous line: "you'd be so pretty, if only..."

The fact that my husband is an opthalmic surgeon trained in Botox injection probably makes this possibility seem more attractive. And attainable. After all, I can skip the trip to the dermatologist and the hefty fee. All he'd have to do is bring a little bit home and fix me up at our kitchen table. So even though I'm months away from actually being able to use the stuff (you can't be pregnant or nursing), I've started working on him.

Strange thing is, my husband has not responded to any of my pleading. It's like he can't hear me or something, or at least, he pretends not to. Now, I've been married to him long enough to know that he's a) not deaf and b) has an opinion on everything, so I know he has something to say, he's just not saying it. Which usually means he hasn't formulated the words for it quite yet. So I wait. And repeat myself. Again and again. Still nothing.

This morning I started in about the Botox once more, but then I thought, maybe it's time to probe this resistance a bit. Find out why he's mum. "Do you not want me to do Botox, baby? Is that why you don't say anything when I talk about it?"

"You look the way God made you to look," he said softly. "I don't want that to change."

Enough said.

If only we could see ourselves through the eyes of those who love us. We are already beautiful. Already perfect. Botox might, and probably would, change my face. And he doesn't want it to change. He doesn't want it to be less expressive or demonstrative or in any way less, well, me.

So from now on, when I look in the mirror, I'm going to try and see myself the way he sees me. Pretty, without the "if only." Beautiful, without the "but."

At least until my fortieth birthday.

Unadulterated, un-self-conscious joy

the joy of rest

Upon my discharge from OB triage yesterday, I was given the instruction to rest. Hmmm. Not so easy for somebody like me. Fortunately, I am good at doing what I'm told. (Yes, I'm a first-born type A spazz, in case you were wondering.) So that's what I did today. I rested. Two, yes, two naps. When my daughter slept, I slept. Sure, we played together, she ate, got a bath, etc. But I drew the line at practice, dog walking, cleaning, heavy lifting or anything else I would normally do. And luckily, the contractions have subsided. So I suppose I'll just have to take it slow.

Have I mentioned one of my biggest fears is getting put on bed rest?

But you know something? It was a really nice day. There's something about being TOLD to rest that turns off my internal taskmaster that normally runs my life. I was doing what I was supposed to do, so two naps didn't feel indulgent. It felt down right healthy.

Lately I've been working on this internal taskmaster, i.e. slavedriver, that lives in my head. I'm talking back to her, questioning her demands, asking myself "is that really true? Do I HAVE to do all of those things today?"

The essentials were all accomplished. The baby and I had a fantastic day. I did a load of laundry. I made soup. The dogs were fed and loved (even if one got trapped in the garage for a couple of hours because I thought she was outside working on a bone). I even got a little crochet done and talked to my mom and dad on the phone. So yeah. It was a productive day. Maybe not by normal, "mom-Nazi" standards (a term of endearment coined by my loving husband) but productive none the less.

I'm going to try and internalize those discharge instructions. Rest. Put your feet up. Take it easy. I don't have to worry about becoming a total sloth. It's not in my nature. Even if I was on bed rest I'd find ways to do chores sitting up (ever seen those tools that pick things up for you at a footlong distance?) I once read that the best way to change an extreme aspect of yourself is to take a headlong step in the opposite direction. So that's my plan. Chop the to do list in half. Do less. Rest.

I mean seriously. These are the moments that matter.

She'll be packing for college before we know it.

false labor and the art of surrender

Yesterday afternoon the contractions started. Maybe it was the new moon approaching, maybe it was the jumpbacks (which I often skip this late in pregnancy). Maybe it was just another mysterious quirk I'll never be able to unravel. All I know is that they came on and they stayed, all day and all through the night. It didn't feel like labor exactly, more like super-intense Braxton Hicks. One of the benefits of this not being my first baby is having first hand experience of what a true-labor, cervix-dilating contraction feels like. This was not it. Still, they did not abate, and when I called my OB this morning, she instructed me to go to the hospital to be checked out. My mother-in-law came right over and picked up the baby--who, by the way, won't really be the baby for very much longer--and was kind enough to keep her for the day. Thank you Mimi!

Fortunately, it appears that labor is not imminent. I was sent home with clear instructions to return if the contractions intensified, which, so far they have not. Here's hoping little man stays in the oven a little bit longer. At least long enough to get a carseat for him.

One thing I've always liked about obstetrics is the mystery of it all. All medicine is as much art as science; nowhere is this more true that the business of delivering babies. You just never know what they might do. One minute you're five centimeters and waiting for your epidural, two minutes later you start feeling like you have to push and a minute after that the baby's head is out before the doctor is even in the room. Surprises happen. Thank God for all the doctors and nurses and midwives who work in L and D. I can say from experience that their job is difficult, taxing, and not always rewarding. So this is my shout out to all of you, thanks for what you do!

One thing I've learned, or been reminded of at least, is how a situation like this demands the practice of surrender. I don't get to decide what day this baby comes any more than I get to decide the weather tomorrow. All I can do is prepare as best I can and give the rest over to God and pray for a good outcome. This is not my strong suit, surrender. In AA we call it "turning it over." Call it what you will, I've found that one of the most difficult things I have to do is to trust that all will be well. Or at least, all will unfold according to the Divine Plan.

For now, I'm home tonight and waiting and seeing what happens next...

(almost) Big Sister and Dad on our first snow day of winter 2012

spending time in silence

Lately I've been noticing how much I come to rely on noise in my life. It's all around me: from the singing toys to the barking dogs to Siobhan's newfound love for high-pitched, top-of-her-lungs squealing. And that's just in the house. I don't mind the cacophony that is our home, it's a fun kind of chaos. But what happens when we turn the volume down? I find I'm reliant on the noise to block out the running inner dialogue. Sometimes, like the other night when our TV volume control wasn't working, I find myself in a slight panic at the prospect of a quiet moment. I sometimes feel fearful without that reassuring symphony of sound, mostly because it leaves me alone with my thoughts. But that fear is almost always momentary. If I can resist the temptation to alleviate my discomfort by turning on the TV, radio or some other auditory distraction, what comes next is a feeling of sweet relief. It feels so good just to enjoy the quiet, once I get over that initial apprehension. If I surrender to the silence, what often follows is an experience of deeper presence and enjoyment of whatever it is I'm doing. 

I think that's why I love the Mysore-style practice so much. Yes, it's a little uncomfortable at first, practicing yoga with only the sound of the breath to inspire me. It's so much easier to put on Pandora or a good mix and rock out on the mat. But I also find that I get more out of a silent practice. To me a good practice is determined by the calmness and serenity and presence of mind I feel in meditation and relaxation. With music playing, I find I'm still just a little distracted. A little less here and now. It's subtle, but the more years I show up on the mat, the more the subtleties emerge. Small things like whether or not I've got Led Zeppelin blasting at eleven start to make a difference. 

Then again, sometimes you gotta get the Led out.

Just ask Siobhan, who uses salad utensils as drumsticks.