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.

slowing down

As the end of this pregnancy draws near (5 and 1/2 weeks and counting), I find myself slowing down in my practice. Part of this is circumstantial; I have fewer postures to work with as my growing size makes certain ones impossible. I have more time. But something larger is at work. I've noticed that with both pregnancies, I innately give myself permission to take life a little easier. I nap more. I worry less about getting it all done in one day. In my practice, I commit myself more to experiencing the deeper aspects of the poses I do have to practice, rather than rushing through them in order to fit in my "full" practice in a reasonable amount of time. 


I've learned a lot from deliberately shifting into a lower gear. On the mat, I savor my practice so much more. I am remembering what drew me to yoga in the first place. I am discovering a new sense of ease and steadiness in keeping with Patanjali's prescription for asana practice:


2.46 The posture (asana) for Yoga meditation should be steady, stable, and motionless, as well as comfortable, and this is the third of the eight rungs of Yoga.
(sthira sukham asanam)


What's really remarkable, however, is how this translates to life off the mat. Like so many other areas of growth and development in this yogic life, it all begins in practice. Take today for example, which by no means was a slow day. I spent most of the day in the car, shuffling back and forth from various places with my daughter, mom and four dogs (not all at the same time!) Such hustle and bustle would normally exhaust me both mentally and physically. But I was able to take the day an hour at a time and enjoy each piece of it. The day unfolded gracefully and without tension. 


I found myself NOT worrying about the next three or four things I had to do ahead of me. Instead I just focused on the one task in front of me at that moment. If I found myself getting impatient and stressed because of the thought "I have so much more to do today, let's hurry this up!" I was able to take a deep breath and return to a place of equanimity. What's more, everything got done in a timely fashion. I am home now, enjoying the last few minutes with my daughter before her bedtime, and I am NOT the frazzled, harried woman on the brink of a meltdown that I normally would be without this crucial mental shift. 


Sometimes it's a simple mind adjustment that makes all the difference in our day. I am not very good at implementing a concept like "slowing down" all by myself, however. I can't seem to just decide to slow down and then do it. For me, change seems to initiate in the physical body, on the yoga mat, and percolates up to the mind and heart from there. 


Tonight the dishes will stay in the sink. The bed will remain unmade. I will rock my baby to sleep and then I will snuggle with my husband and our puppies in front of a roaring fire. The dishes can wait. This moment of togetherness, on the other hand, cannot.


Oh, and I want to show you the other thing I've been doing lately: crocheting a "baby" for my daughter. His name is Roosevelt and I have to give a shout out to Craftsy.com for the pattern:

why I teach yoga

Today I had the privilege of spending time with an old friend and fellow yoga instructor. We were talking about the process of becoming an instructor, from making the transition from student to student/teacher (after all, we are always students first and forever). It made me ponder the question: why teach?

I can't answer this for everyone, only myself. As far as I know there are no guidelines, no aptitude tests, no real ways to decipher whether or not one should teach yoga. I think the one thing most of us have in common is a deep and abiding love for the practice and a burning desire to share that love with others.

Yoga completely transformed my life. Before recovery, before peace, there was yoga. Back when I was a hard-partying college grad living in a strange city, I would go to yoga hungover and exhausted after being up all night. I went to yoga when I was on the brink of emotional collapse, and I can remember lying in savasana, sobbing. I felt a connection to something or someone greater than myself. I felt something divine reaching out to me, brought on by this strange and new thing I was doing with my body and breath.I often say in my classes that I'm not smart enough to understand the magic of yoga. I don't know how or why it works, I just know that it does. I have heard so many stories over the years with a common theme: living in dysfunction, yoga was the light that led so many of us out of our own personal darkness.  

I don't think of it as teaching so much as sharing my practice with others. What people do with the knowledge and how it affects their lives is essentially none of my business. I try to get myself out of the way and let the yoga do what it is designed to do. If I can be a clear conduit for the transmission of this ancient wisdom, I'm doing my job. I'm not the most talented teacher and I certainly am not the most experienced. I still hope people show up and like me. When someone stops coming to class, I wonder if it was something I said or did to turn them off. I have good days and bad days. I'm human. But something about yoga, either teaching or practicing, elevates my spirit and makes me feel closer to God. I think everyone deserves the opportunity to acquaint themselves with the divine spark that lives within each of us. Yoga doesn't do that for everyone, but it does it for me. And if it does for you too, I want there to be a place you can go to make that connection. So I'll be there every week. Same time, same place...

a cut so deep: adventures in parenting

The day began peacefully enough; I went to the shala and had a lovely practice. I moved through the postures with ease and presence. The mind chatter was at a minimum. The breath steady and smooth. I finished and drove home with a pleasant sense of well-being. Life seemed manageable. My state of mind, down right evolved. Then I got home.

My husband left to play tennis and it was just me and the baby in the house. I took her upstairs with me to do a few chores and to play with her toys there. As I was straightening up, I gathered a few items in a laundry basket that I meant to take downstairs--one of those items being a USC coffee mug. Now, I try to be an attentive parent. I keep the knives and flame throwers tucked away in high cabinets. I lock up the lethal poisons. But the coffee mug, a breakable item capable of producing sharp shards if broken, I admit I did not foresee. Predictably, my ever-curious 13 month old picked up the coffee mug. Within seconds she dropped it on to the hardwood floor. That's where I found her, standing amidst the broken pieces of the handle, giggling hysterically. I tried to pick her up and move her (and her bare feet) away from the rubble. She struggled to get away from me and flopped on to the floor belly first. Then the crying started. I thought she was just mad that I took her away from the fun. It wasn't until minutes later I saw the blood on her t-shirt. 

Panic washed over me as I searched for the source. It didn't take me long to find it. A long, thin, scimitar-shaped cut on her left forearm. I think she must have somehow fallen on a small piece of broken mug. It continued to bleed, though by this point her cries had stopped. She was absolutely fine, but now I was a mess. I couldn't get a good look at the wound without her protests, and so all I could do was try to hold pressure with a washcloth as she wriggled away from me. In the other hand I dialed the number to the tennis house and asked the girl to please get my husband from the court.

Now I'm no amateur when it comes to lacerations. I did several months of ER as a student and a full year of emergency medicine residency, not to mention a number of urgent care shifts in family medicine. I've sutured a LOT of lacerations, many of them on children as young as Siobhan. Most of them much, much worse. In fact, if a mom walked in to the ER on my watch with a cut like the one I was looking at now, I'd probably hand her a couple of gauze pads and some band-aids and maybe a packet of bacitracin. No stitches needed. Hell, this thing didn't even need Dermabond. But did I remain calm and rational? Did I remember one iota of my prior training as a doctor? Not a chance. The sight of my own kid's blood rendered my mind completely blank, save for one thought: You are a bad mom.

I should have been watching her more closely. I should never have been making the bed while she played. How could I have left a coffee mug within her reach? Why didn't I stop her when I saw her playing in the basket? How could I be so careless? Did I even love my own daughter? Bad mom, bad mom, bad mom.

My husband got home and helped me clean the wound (by putting her in the tub and letting her play with her bath toys--genius) so we could get a better look at it. With a better look we could both see it was too superficial to require anything more than local wound care. Relief and shame overcame me. Once the crisis was under control the tears started to flow. I couldn't seem to stop the thought that I had failed her, that I was failing currently, as a mom. 

Thankfully I have a co-pilot in this parenting adventure who was able to talk me down. He said to me all the things I would say to him had this happened on his watch--accidents happen, she's at the age where she's going to have some bumps and bruises, no harm done, you did the right thing. Most of all, you are a great mom. 

The reassurance was what I needed to get a hold of the self-talk that threatened to send me into a downward spiral. I am a good mom. These things do happen. I am learning, and from now on I'll be more mindful of the things I leave within her reach. I'm a good mom. Yes. 

Then I started thinking--why is it so easy for me to beat myself up? How is it that I can be so understanding and compassionate toward others' foibles and so brutal to myself? Why is it that after all these years of mindful practice and self-inquiry that my knee-jerk reaction in a crisis is to self-flagellate?

I don't have the answers. Maybe I'm just hard wired to be critical of myself. All I do is try to catch the thoughts before they take me down the well worn path of disparagement. I'm learning, however slowly, to pay attention to way I talk to myself. Recognizing the messages are the first step to changing them...at least that's the hope. 

yogaś-citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ

The restraint of the modifications of the mind-stuff is Yoga.

I am far from samhadi. A million miles from enlightenment. But the practice is making a dent in my samskaras, the negative patterns of thought and action that once dominated my life. I am learning, however slowly, to embrace these moments as learning opportunities. I am even learning to (gasp) have a sense of humor about them. That is tremendous progress, made one day, one practice at a time.

In the end, this experience did turn out to be a victory. Before my baby was even out of the tub, I was smiling. She was smiling. I didn't let the incident take over the day. I was able to, with a little help from my best friend, right the ship within just a few minutes. Baby girl never even seemed to notice. She was as smiley and fun-loving as ever. And me? I'm a good mom. Green, yes, but good all the same. 

better than a dozen roses

This morning I went to the shala to practice. This is a great treat to be able to go during the week and it's thanks to my husband that I could practice alongside my friends and in the presence of my teacher. I go very early so that I can be home by 7 am, when the baby often (but by no means reliably) wakes up. So when I pulled into our driveway at 7:15 and saw both our bedroom light and the baby's room light off, I believed I had made it home before anyone was awake. When I walked upstairs, however, I found little girl wide awake and smiling, standing next to her dad, who was half asleep in the rocking chair with a bunch of toys laying on his chest. Apparently she'd been up since six and he'd been entertaining her for the last hour. My husband works hard and has a full day of patients to see today. He needs all the sleep he can get. He knows he can call me to come home in a situation like this. I keep my phone next to me in the practice room, just in case. Yet he didn't call. He took one for the team at his own personal sacrifice. He did this, I think, because he knows just how much my practice and my yoga community means to me. He did this because he loves me. And that is why I know I married the most wonderful man in the world.

santosha: a recovering yogi's thoughts

2.42 From an attitude of contentment (santosha), unexcelled happiness, mental comfort, joy, and satisfaction is obtained.
(santosha anuttamah sukha labhah)


I was talking today with another yoga teacher about the idea of contentment, or santosha, as it's described in the niyamas. To me, contentment is all about gratitude. In my life today I find it easy to be grateful. But it wasn't always this way. I can remember being 22 years old and living in San Francisco. I was struggling with my addictions and spent most days feeling sad, lonely and lost. I had started going to 12 step meetings out of desperation, and miraculously (or so it seemed to me at the time), I was beginning to feel better. I stopped drinking, got a sponsor, made some coffee and a few friends. Most of the day I was still mired in my own self-created suffering, but hanging around a bunch of sober people in church basements lightened the load, if only for an hour or two.

I remember one of the things my sponsor instructed me to do was to write down every day three things I was grateful for. I can remember thinking "what the *#(*$ do I have to be grateful for!" She never explained to me why I should do it, she just told me to do it. She was tough, and I was scared to disappoint her, so I did it. I discovered the reasons "why" for myself (thanks, Jill!) Shifting my mindset to the proverbial "attitude of gratitude" made me feel better. Feeling grateful made it easier to get out of bed in the morning, to shower and get to a meeting and then go out and look for a job. It made it easier to conceptualize a life without mind-numbing substances. Feeling grateful for what I had in that moment created hope for even more great things in the future. But it started with finding some contentment for the things I had already.

I once heard some one say that "good things happen to good people who stay in a good mood." I like this very much. Sure, that's not to say that we won't get our share of challenges in life. Pain and loss are part of the human experience. But it's not so much what happens to us in our daily lives so much as what we think about what happens to us, for as Hamlet says: "there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."

I'm not much of a philosopher. I don't do well in the abstract. I like practical, measurable results. Cultivating gratitude, quite simply, makes my day better. That's my motivation for doing it. I like feeling good. I love altered states of consciousness. I'm still a hedonist at heart, I've just found new ways to feel good that don't involve blackouts and barfing. Eleven years ago I had none of the things I have now, even though I desperately wanted them. But I did have a place to live, my health, a working mind and the ability to take suggestions and to do, as we say in the program, "the next right thing." The days have added up and turned into years, and now, into a decade. I still have a very long way to go. I still have days where I'm full of piss and vinegar and all I want to do is complain about what's wrong about my life. But I haven't forgotten my basic training. I sit down, take a deep breath and start my list.

the tail that wags the dog

Over the course of our pre-baby years together, my husband and I adopted four dogs. I rescued a beagle just weeks before we met (Shanti), we adopted a Siberian husky puppy several months into dating (Montana). Later, during our engagement we rescued an adult beagle from the pound on the day of her slated termination (Madison) and shortly after our marriage, rescued a little cattle dog mix puppy (Sunshine). Then we went about the business of having kids. In many ways, having dogs prepared us for children--we are accustomed to working as a team to care for them, and we long ago gave up the luxury of staying out late on weekend nights. So the demands of parenting were in some ways less of a shock to our system than if we had not had our menagerie.

They are a pack of sweet, affectionate animals. They are loving and gentle with our daughter, who likes to pull their tails and slap them on the rump. In all ways they are good natured, tolerant and wonderful with her. I unabashedly adore our dogs. Still, I'd be lying if I said that having four animals living in my home is a cakewalk. The hair. The barking. The occasional accident. The feeding, grooming, dog poo cleanup (you cannot imagine the upkeep in that department) and the need for exercise. Which brings me to my point today...dog walking.

Giving four dogs the exercise they need isn't easy. Especially when at least one (Madison) is a recalcitrant barker. Walks can, and have, gone from calm and pleasant experiences to unadulterated chaos in a matter of minutes. I've used every possible combination of leash and harness, and experimented with every combination of dogs. Walking all four is impossible. Walking two at a time is doable with the right combination of equipment and dog pairing. I won't go into the details and bore you. Suffice it to say, I don't always enjoy walking them, even though I know they need it and fresh air is good for everybody. Some days when I think about what it takes to get out the door I give up before I even start.

But it's a new year, and I'm trying to reframe things in my mind. Instead of "should-ing" myself about taking them, and beating myself for being a bad doggie mom when I don't, I've decided to look at things a bit differently. Yes, walking them is a pain, mostly because of the extensive preparation needed to get out the door. But I've done this enough times to know there is a systematic way to get the baby and myself dressed, the stroller prepped and the dogs, two at a time, leashed and ready to go (the other two get a treat which keeps them from rushing me at the door while I'm trying to get out). I have started to focus on the ways in which the walk benefits the baby and me in addition to the dogs. If I can focus even a little on what I'm getting out of the deal, I find it easier to do. Fresh air helps me sleep at night, and the motion lulls the baby to sleep. Taking us all for a walk guarantees her an afternoon nap, and we avoid the crying and hysterics that often accompany that ritual. Plus, she gets to see and interact with the natural world and the passing seasons. At the end of it, we all feel better. Add a dash of unseasonably warm January weather, and what is normally an unpleasant chore becomes a joyful way to spend part of an afternoon. With a little reframing, I think I may even want to do it again tomorrow.

I think our yoga practice is quite similar. Maybe we psych ourselves out of going to class or unrolling our mat on the living room floor. Maybe we tell ourselves we're too tired, or it's just too much work, or it hurts, or costs too much money or time or whatever. It's so easy to do this. I don't know about you, but I can talk myself out of anything. Especially things I know to be good for me (funny, it's not as effective with Oreo cookies, diet Coke or really bad television...). And letting my inner taskmaster berate me for not going never got me off the couch either. Positive motivation, like thinking about how good I'll feel afterwards, seems to work much better. And amazingly, if I can just get my feet on the mat and take a few deep breaths, the motivation to practice appears. Like magic.

As I sit here writing this, all four of my dogs are enjoying their post-walk sleep and my well rested daughter is playing quietly next to me. All thanks to a little change of heart and mind. Small shifts can make a world of difference.

seventh series? sounds about right.

Before I had children, I'm sure I echoed the platitudes about how difficult it is to be a parent, how much work it is, etc. Of course back then I had no idea what I was talking about. I was just parroting what other people said because intellectually it made good sense. Of course raising children is hard! Now that I am living the experience, however, I can honestly say I had no idea how hard it would be.

I'm not a patient gal by nature. Far from it. I like things to go my way and I'm not very accepting or serene when they don't. Like most people, I enjoy things like consistency and routine. On a more basic level, I enjoy sleeping through the night without interruption. For that matter, I enjoy being able to do anything for more than, like, one minute without interruption.

Since becoming a mom, I have none of these things. I am forced, as the cliche says, to go with the flow of the day. For example: last night my daughter was awake and screaming at 12, 4 and 6 am. By six thirty she is sleeping in my arms at the kitchen table, so after much cajoling, I manage to get her back in her crib by 7 am for at least an hour more of sleep. I come back downstairs to feed and water the dogs (who are whining at this point) when I discover, much to my chagrin, that one of them has had GI distress in the night, leaving two piles of emesis and two piles of poo scattered throughout the living room. (This is why we have hardwood floors without rugs and fleece blankets draped over the slipcovers which are draped over the couches). A lovely surprise.

The biggest bummer of all in my mind? My baby's inconsistent sleep schedule means that at least for the time being, I cannot practice at the shala during the week. I used to be able to get up at 4 am, get to the shala by 5, practice until 630 and be home by 7, when my husband would be getting up to go to work. Her propensity for waking up between the hours of 430 and 7 am mean that my husband has to be the one to soothe her back to sleep, and considering he puts in a full day seeing 60-70 patients or operating (unimaginably stressful, for anyone who thinks this doctor biz is an easy life)...I just can't do that to him. So until she's more consistently sleeping, it's Shala Sunday and that's it.

It's not a sacrifice unless what you're giving up really means something, right? I mean, I had no trouble giving up residency for this job, after all, my heart was here at home, not at the hospital. My practice and my time with my teacher and my friends, however, that's considerably harder for me to release. I know, I know, it's temporary, soon enough you'll have both babies sleeping well and before you know it they're in school and count your blessings and don't' wish your life away and...all true statements. But the child in me, the childless woman in me, the self I was before I was a mom, says BUT I WANT IT NOW WHAT ABOUT ME????

There. I said it. I'm not Mother Theresa over here. I'm just a 33 year old girl trying to come to terms with this whole other person I'm becoming. Yes, I'm growing. I'm learning the deeper, more elusive lessons of yoga. Non-attachment. Non-grasping. Devotion. Service. Selflessness. Fulfilling one's sacred duty. These are the real lessons of the practice, not holding my ankles in a backbend. This is what counts. 

These days won't last forever. She will grow up, kids always do. In the meantime, this little girl is making a woman out of me. Kids. Amazing. Just like they said. 

moon day fun

It's a moon day, which means rest and relaxation for ashtangis, aka no practice. I slept in this morning but did manage to sneak in a few minutes of meditation (New Year's Resolution #2) before baby girl woke up. Today we are playing with all of her musical toys and making a joyful noise doing it. We have Elmo Rocks guitar and Cookie Monster keyboard, and laid out on the floor is her BIG piano. We also have lots of pillows for jumping into. No laundry, no grocery shopping, no cleaning today, just fun. We are taking moon day literally, I suppose, and resting our taskmaster minds as well as our bodies. So today this post is short. Enjoy everybody!

Moon Day Fun

resolutions

Home practice today...picked up a nasty little cold on the last day of vacation and I don't want to give it to anybody at the shala. Just as soon as my little one goes down for her morning nap, I'll hit the practice room in our house, which is really our back room, Florida room, kids play room...many names, many functions. Space heaters have been firing since 830 so it should be good and toasty by now! 

My practice room at home

Yes, at times my drishti wanders to the Fisher Price Jungle toy by the window...

It's a new year, and so that means time for some new resolutions...mostly they are just continuations of what I've already been doing, for example, continue a daily ashtanga vinyasa practice. That's my biggest one and the inspiration behind starting this blog. 

Two new resolutions I'm taking on this year are 1. give up processed sugar 2. start a formal sitting meditation practice. Add one thing, take one thing away. 

The sugar thing is something I've struggled with for a long time. I'm totally addicted, and being pregnant can be a license to eat whatever I want. Ethan will be here soon and I want to lose the baby weight quickly, and sugar is a source of empty calories I can do without. Better to be in the swing of it before he gets here rather than starting when he's already here and I'm sleep deprived and desperate. So here goes, starting today, my first full day without it. I'm not going to tell my family or make a big deal out of it, and before I hear the "moderation is best" comments, know that I am an abstainer by nature--it's just easier for me to make a hard and fast rule about not eating it, ever. It's how I've managed to quit smoking, drinking and drugs (11 years this April, God willing) and for me I know it works. That is, once my mind is made up. And because I want to feel good and look good more than I want to eat sweets, I think I'm truly ready. One day at a time.

Starting a sitting practice is also something I've wanted to do for some time. In my former life this was never possible due to time constraints, but these days I am free to make my own schedule. I'm thinking of starting slow, say 15 minutes at night before bed and 15 minutes in the morning. I suppose it can always grow from there...

As for living in today, my sweet baby is about ready for her mid-morning snack and her nap, so off I go!

let the sun shine in

Welcome 2012...we just returned from a family vacation to Grand Cayman. One week of warm weather, palm trees and surf beating rhythmically upon the sand. I used to dream all year long of a week off of work, mostly because I hated to go back. The hours, the drudgery, the call, the never-ending grind. This was the first vacation in years I can remember when I was actually looking forward to coming home. Today I thought: yeah home! Shivy can sleep in her own bed, I get to snuggle with the puppies, practice at the shala, see my friends and finish that baby afghan I've been working on. I guess you know you love your life when you are excited to come home, even if it is Detroit in January!

The practice space in our condo was somewhat small, and often times I practiced while my daughter napped, as it was a guaranteed place of undisturbed quiet in the middle of the day. Sometimes she woke up early and I had to cut my practice short, but most days I was able to do primary series in full (or should I say, fully-modified for third trimester pregnancy).

With 7 weeks left to go (or less!) I'm losing a fair number of postures to my size and the best interest of the baby. Most recently, this week I stopped doing the full finishing series and have started doing baddha padmasana, padmasana, uplithihi and savansana as my finishing. Even still, it's a crossed legged seat instead of a lotus these days, no heels in the abdomen. And just as it was with my daughter, I can no longer do savasana on my back because I get short of breath, so I'm now laying on my left side for corpse pose. This photo of Shivy and I on the beach says it all in terms of my ever expanding size...

It's hard to believe that in just a few weeks Siobhan will have a brother! Big changes are coming and soon! I'm always a little ambivalent about the required 3 month full-practice hiatus, but as my teacher Matthew Darling reminds me, it will always be there waiting for me...