Zora Travels

Just one "downward dog," please?

Nora is ALWAYS crystal clear about her likes and dislikes.  Here is today's list:

Her likes:

Mama

Mama's left boob

Mama's right boob

Mama's arms

Fresh air while in Mama's arms

 

Her dislikes:

"Mommy & Me" yoga

infant massage

baths

diaper changing

changing clothes

car seats

detaching from Mama

 

Now, all of these above were easily predicted; however, I had hoped (hoped beyond hope) that she would relish our "Mommy & Me" yoga class this afternoon.  I talked to her openly and passionately (with a musical accompaniment) about how wondrous the class would be.  We discussed how Lauren had been my pre-natal yoga teacher, our doula, and one of our first visitors.  That the studio would be bathed in vibrant colors with Hindi Gods brightly captured on cloth hangings.  Peace flags draping the doorways.  Mellow music flowing and fellow yogic-mamas and babies blissfully downward dogging while mild incense wafted around us.

Noodle seemed to listen.

She nursed eagerly on the bench outside of the class.

I placed her atop a two-blanket pad at the top of my mat.  The baby lotion was pumped into my hand and warmed.  A gentle massage commenced with her sweet pink feet.  Lauren guided me up her squishy thighs.

Somewhere after the clockwise tummy rub and the baring of the arms...Nora lost it.

And I mean LOST IT.  And no amount of nursing, bouncing, happy jiggle-walking outside on the balcony, running of water in the bathroom, more nursing, patting, soothing, or Patsy Cline crooning could calm her down.

I calmly packed up our things, lotion, baby blanket, pacifier, water bottle, and yoga mat.  Murmured a quick and quiet, "Sorry everyone" to the child-posing mothers.  Stuck my keys in between my boobs, slung Nora over my shoulder, and hustled to the car.  I discussed with Nora that we could try another time and that she could settle down before I buckled her back into the "torture seat."  She screamed, "No," and I buckled her in.

It wasn't until Cher's, "Do you believe in life after love?" had been playing for several minutes that I heard her say, "I just wasn't ready, Mama.  Be patient with me," and then her head slumped awkwardly forward and she fell asleep.

 

 

 

 

***This is the closest I've come to capturing her smile on camera.  Right after she wakes up in the morning, as I talk to her and sing silly songs, she offers her biggest grins of the day.

 

 

Monkey Mind

Apparently this love-laced insomnia is quite "normal."  As are the sore breasts, sporadic weeping, and carpel-tunnel issues.  But just because something is "normal" doesn't mean it's easy to embrace.  I try to apply the same yoga breathing techniques into these physical manifestations of hormonal changes; however, find myself fixated on the irritation of the symptom and not the serenity of the moment.  A former yoga teacher called this "monkey mind" when you just can't settle into the present.  The term fits so snugly.

But although there are parts of my body that feel completely thrashed, it's the insomnia that is really starting to take its toll.   For three nights now I have not rested more than a few hours.  And this is not a result of Nora's insatiable appetite or fussiness - SHE is sleeping for repeated 3-4 glorious, wondrous, luxurious hour at a time chunks - it is ME that lies in bed, eyes wide open, trying to inhale/exhale deeply, letting thoughts float away in puffy clouds.  Usually after an hour, I feel like I could be more productive and so I come out into the living room to mess with things...this computer being my favorite "thing" with which to mess.  And yes, I know, I know, "computer light bad for insomnia"...

But as I sit here and listen to the clock ticking and feel Max & Sophie's tails swish past my legs (I'm sure both relieved that the squawking creature is no where to be seen), I realize that these wee hours of morning's silence are the only times of late in which my body and my time are my own.  I can move freely (not saddled into the Brestfriend), I can eat snacks without inhaling, and I am not making polite conversation with visitors (of which, okay, I admit, perhaps we've had too many...19 over the past nine days).

Well, at least Nora (as shown below) and Daniel are well rested.  And another bonus today, her pinkie toe is shaping up to be quite the ET-like pudgy stub with only a sliver of a nail...and that's my DNA 100%. Here I am last night giving her her first manicure.

What about any of you other parents out there?  Anyone else feel the "Monkey Mind" of new parenthood?  How did you navigate the insomnia that came with this radical shift in your daily life?

  .

Whole Again

I am always telling my students to avoid cliches. I ask them to think beyond the overused to something more creative...yet, I sit here about to wax metaphorically about the birth of my child making me whole (yep, two were in that last sentence).

But this "making me whole again" captures in simplicity the entire journey for me from pregnancy to childbirth.

At nine I lost control of my body; I divorced my mental and physical realms long before my parents would divorce several years later.  Certainly there are various familial details to that ninth year that helped to create a desire to divide these two within myself but in adulthood I was fully responsible for continuing the madness.  But at that young age, I split into two enemy states - a mind that felt that the body betrayed...and a body that felt that the mind was weak...and at this point my flesh began to expand.  I gained weight in small and mighty leaps over the years.  Each year finding me just a bit more chubby, double-chinned, and self-conscious about it.

There are many people who have spoken heroically and passionately about loving their fleshy bodies.  Relishing the generous portions and ample offerings of a large vessel to carry their souls to and fro.  I was not one of these people.  I was an elementary school girl who heard boys make loud creaking sounds whenever I sat in the school desks (even now, I tear up instantly)...the middle school girl, who during javelin lessons in PE class, had Eddie Laferney (yeah, I put his real punk-ass name on here) chase me with a javelin making wild boar sounds, the high school girl, who on walking home from school, had boys jammed into a car slow down to match my pace, roll down their windows, and make pig noises as they cruised slowly alongside for several blocks as I cried.  

And I've tried diets, books, therapy, blah, blah, blahity, bloo-boo...but the fact remained that until recently there were still two firm encampments within me.  A mind that believed that I had an ugly grotesque huge body and a body that flew a flag with a motto that I had a weak mind, no will power, no strength, no possibility of success in a physical scenario.

And then came pregnancy.  From the moment that the plus sign materialized on that stick, the generals of these two armies started flying their respective white flags.  I began to intertwine the mental and physical journey of pregnancy for the sake of the little one who would after 40 weeks and 4 days of nourishment within me, enter the world and become the daughter that I again sustain yet again through nursing today.

Peace was made.  There was no need for an official treaty.  It has been since that joyous "dip stick" day that I've made an almost instantaneous and fluid conversion to harboring two parts of myself in harmony.  I sipped in pre-natal yoga classes and swam with all my might in water aerobics.  I followed the gestational diabetes diet and didn't even blink an eye.  I have forgiven my body for so long struggling to eat for nourishment's sake.  I have forgiven my mind for so long struggling to push emotions out of the way for another quesadilla.

And it isn't without reserve that I pronounce I am whole again; I know that people with food issues can sometimes cycle back.  Yet, in the present moment, a place that I try evermore to reside with more tranquility and acceptance, I am fully whole.

My body labored for 18 hours (oh, yeah, baby from 4:18am until 8:13pm) without a single medical intervention or drug and I pushed a baby out through focus, concentration, heavy breathing, and a fiercely dedicated mind.  The armies marched under the same flag, trumpets blared, my daughter was born, and I am simply whole.

 

6 minutes

Doctors have always intimidated me.  Months ago, when we started our appointments with our ob/gyn, I knew immediately that Dr. C was not my cup of tea...but I scheduled the next appointment anyway.  At first, the advice, necessary tests, and warnings were all pretty minor...not much to say to someone only eight weeks pregnant.  However, now that I see her on a weekly basis, I am keenly aware of just how much I don't like her.  And if the Ina May books are accurate, this intimidation factor and the fact that I totally clam up in her presence, may affect my ability to feel "open" (in all senses of the word) when the time comes.

6 long minutes.  "Just 6 quick minutes" - the amount of time my mom (a labor & delivery nurse for over 25 years) says that I will probably have to deal with Dr. C.  I can certainly handle 6 minutes of her whirling around my bed.  Sure, she lacks bedside manner, tends to be abrupt, cuts me off, thinks my questions are silly, seems baffled and slightly annoyed by any sort of "alternative" or "green" parenting approaches or preferences, and is definitely not a fan of me having a doula...but I can do anything for six minutes.

And in case you're wondering, "Why on earth would someone need/want a doula with a mom who has helped give birth to 1000's of babies for over 25 years?"...the answer is that on that day, I just want my mom.  Not the mom that with a joyful heart and hipster scrubs aids women every day with their birthing journeys...but just my mom.  The one that runs her fingers through my hair in a way that no one...and I mean NO ONE can even come close to replicating (sorry, Daniel...but he doesn't read this blog anyway).  The one whose tickle-bumps down my arms or soft thumb between my brows still calms me as much today as they have since my memories of childhood begin.  The one whose cooking, whose smell, whose voice, whose energy have long since splashed upon the canvas of my vision of the "birth" day.  My mom has always been a part of this day - even before Daniel or Nuglett existed. 

Our doula Lauren, on the other hand, is who I shall turn to for relaxation, massage techniques, guided imagery, yoga poses, coaching advice for Daniel, meditation, special music, aromatherapy, and an alternative view on many of the automatic pre/post-natal practices in the hospital.  She centers me, focuses Daniel, and her voice has brought me into and out of savasana at pre-natal yoga since my 18th week of pregnancy.  My body melts to the reassuring cadence of her soft tones.

So, 6 minutes, I can handle.  Dr. C is, after all, just a highly-educated person in a white coat.

The secret in my bra

I tuck an antacid inside my bra every time I go to pre-natal yoga.  Yup, right inside the underwire rests a little pastel tablet.  Due to Nuglett's long legs and vigorous poking, I have constant heartburn.  I've tried the "honey-nonspicy-sittingup-goingonawalk-sleepingwithmanypillows" approach but nothing cures the zesty fire like my beloved tropical antacid tablets.  Sometimes I imagine their salvation glowing within the cupboard.  I insist, for some bizarre reason, on tucking them stealthily away in the bathroom cabinet after every dose.  I suppose under the auspices that perhaps the NEXT meal won't cause any burn.

I wondered today - what do I look like with my enormous belly stretching the olive-green tank top, reaching into my bra with two deft fingers while in downward dog?  Furtively seeking my chalky friend, slipping it into my mouth, and crunching ever-so-quietly as I fold into child's pose.

Within moments, the swells of fire churn less...and by the time I'm in pigeon pose...my heart feels again only the tranquil gold of yoga - not the burn.

Today is the first day of school for many of my dearest friends.  I thought of each of them as I checked my email and watched the minutes tick closer to 8:00am.  My own maternity-leave substitute teacher (armed with my syllabus, my summer-reading packet, and my lesson plans...and probably not using ANY of it) also endeavored to guide my freshman today on a literary adventure.  An adventure, that although the backbone is sculpted by my literary choices and curricular maps, is still in the hands of a man who has never taught a day of English.  Never coaxed 180 fourteen year olds through a dry text with various figurative language devices under inspection.  I find myself; however, letting go more and more each day.  I am a serious teacher.  By "serious," I mean that I consider my lessons, my selections of literature, my projects, my essay prompts for hours (and hours and hours)  It can be a little too much sometimes.  I've been known to need sleeping pills on those first few nights of school...just to keep my mind from spinning through each minute of my PowerPoint and my activities.  Changing clipart in the dawn hours of morning...running copies all over again because I forgot the Name/Period/Date lines at the top of the handout.

But this year there are so many other priorities:

• the tiny feet that protrude regularly below my ribs
• the hiccups that quip below my bellybutton
• the labor, the swells, the slide into life that now floats on my horizon
• the calming poses and affirmations of my doula that soothe and satiate
• the husband that massages my swollen sausage feet at night 
• the mother that helps me sew curtains for the baby/guest room (seen on right)
• the vision of a life around the corner that is shrouded in cloudy, golden light
• the friends below who speak of motherhood with such velvet tongues that my spirit soars with anticipation

How many more weekends of sleeping in until 10:00am, savoring the newspaper, walking to Coffee Cup, dressing up for luxurious dinners and wine-tasting with friends, dancing with Daniel across the wood floor at Haydar's, and finishing the night in the wee hours of the morning by chasing reluctant cats for a goodnight snuggle?

I suppose four weekends would be the max...at some point the doctor will induce.  So somewhere between no weekends and four weekends left before I become a mama.

And what will become of this blog?  Will I turn to it more as I'm tethered (albeit affectionately) to my caramel babe and their smacking lips?  Will I find even less time to tippety-tap on these keys?

I am going to try---from today on---to blog each day until "go time."  The brilliance will be lacking, brevity assured; yet, to have an online record of how I soaked in the final days before Nuglett's arrival might be fun one day.  It may serve as some subtle reminder of the luminous waves that I was so anxiously awaiting.

So, here's to a daily post.

Horizon looks bright

Although my temptation was to pretend this haircut never happened, I know one day I'll laugh.  When I remember my 24 hours of feeling like I was wearing the hair of someone else, someone with a gigantic personality, who walks into a room, owns it, gives strangers the stink eye or a high five, and eventually gets covered in tattoos.

My evening ended as it had the night before...in Joseph's chair.  He said he wasn't surprised to see me, although I was surprised to have called him.  I had never before asked for a hair "re-do" but he simply smiled and chopped, making everything pixie, and even...slashing the silly tails and swoops.

I danced a little Irish jig yesterday after leaving Number Nine.  I had dropped off my fancy "food service" resume and ended up chatting with Peter for a few minutes.  He's a fellow worker bee at the noodle house with a derby hat, salt-and-pepper beard and a mega-watt smile.  He said that Marta, the owner with blond hair piled high like Marilyn Monroe and ruby red lips, asked him to put stars all over the resumes of people he liked.  He put stars on top of mine.  We shook hands, I struggled with the door, heart beating, excitement surging....and jig dancing as I bounced off the curb.  We'll see what happens!  My real interview may be within a few days.  I want this job.  I want to wake up, saunter 10 minutes down the street in a funky little outfit, hair waxed, dark lipstick, and serve people bowls of pho and noodle salads.  I want to ask, "Would you like regular or jasmine-lychee iced tea?"   

Another unexpected bonus yesterday...my substitute teaching account was easily reactivated in Long Beach.  I then spoke with a good friend who is a vice-principal and will email out my pin number to all of her colleagues for their "preferred sub" lists.

So, although my current job yields no pay since the end of August...my horizon looks bright.  This weekend shall host myriad adventures with kayaking class, musical baby showers, meditation/yoga workshops, and a hunt for our Spanish adventure...and perhaps an interview that lands me the job at the hipster noodle joint.  Things are looking up around here!

The Love Seat in Hell

I just hobbled off a tiny love seat in a smoking corner of hell...oh, I mean...I just finished my last personal training session with Darryl.  This large menacing man put me through a month-long gauntlet of weights, cardio, and agility ladders (click here to see me in action).  In some respects it seems quite silly to pay someone to run me, badger me into crunches, bark "Keep your head up!" and inquire "Where is your focus?"  And yet, this morning, as I finished my 50 solid minutes of running, stair climbing, and cycling my guts out...I knew that the sessions had paid off.  Sometimes it takes someone else to point out just how strong you can be. 

Alone, I would never hold plank; jog up 10 sets of beach stairs; or run between 6.0 - 7.0 on the treadmill for 20 minutes.  Yet, next week, as I travel to Washington, I will set aside all of my classes, my trainers, my equipment, my yoga guru's, my Weight Watchers meetings, and simply be alone.  Self-motivation, resolve, focus, and desire will thumb wrestle against kiddie snacks, cable-tv, soft recliners, and sleeping in.  This is the clearest and most driven that my mind has ever been, and yet, I'm a little nervous.  My goals and the reality of achieving them are within reach.

Where is the little girl who sought refuge and comfort in food?  The 5th grader, who in front of the entire class in Lake Chelan, watched the teacher move the notch on the scale and announce that I was the "first at 100 pounds."  The 6th grader who was told by the P.E. teacher to just hang on the knotted rope until the end of class if I couldn't climb it.  The 7th grader in the bright pink shirt who was followed 3 blocks down 6th street by Wilson High boys in a car oinking at the "little pink pig."  The 9th grader who Eddie chased around the field in P.E. class with a javelin and taunts of wild boar sightings. 

I don't know where this little girl is but today I thought of her.  As I stared at the mirror's intense gaze, I remembered these stories above that highlighted the cruelty in others and my own weaknesses.  Sitting here at home still drenched in the after burn of cardio-hell, I dusted and shined these memories, my eyes filled with tears, and I decided to display them in this forum.  My way of forgiving them and myself.

I've grown up, shaped up, never wear pink and would kick Eddie's ass at the gym.

The Cobra Blues

The Summer Special at Yoga World is unlimited classes for two weeks for $30.  I have been lusciously gobbling up classes almost daily.  One of my favorite postures is cobra.  It feels like such a gentle release and although my chest barely lifts off the floor....it's getting easier.

There is another COBRA that arrived yesterday in the mail.  This one did not provide release and instead injected much anxiety into my day.  Daniel, as always, takes it all in stride, simply smiles and says, "It will be okay."  I stress out and need to immediately return for another yoga class.  Much to our amazement and confusion Daniel's health insurance has been cancelled.  And due to the wonders of current politics and policy, it ended on June 30th and the piles of paperwork arrived on Saturday.

So, what can you do?  I can get angry, depressed, and mope around bitterly cursing at the Dotted HR people who didn't properly process or explain the policy.  I can get resentful and then guilty of being resentful that insurance costs us so much and is so vital with his pre-existing condition.  How can they charge so much for one person, a healthy person, to just want some peace of mind?  How is it fair that when a sickness comes you are forever burdened and punished by your past in the minds of all of the insurance companies?  Why is it that the HR people don't slow down and truly understand the ramifications of their hustled emails and explanations when you inquire about the future?  Why can't we be like the French where the "sicker you are, the less you pay."

It seems like everything right now in my life is in flux.  I know that I should celebrate change, take comfort in the horizon of an unknown sky; however, a little lump stirs in my chest.  It is anxiety, uncertainty, and discomfort...ever so slowly gathering its form and shape to rumble around my chest.  Starting this November, nothing is certain.  I can sit calmly next to Daniel with maps of South America, read about another couple's adventure walking in the markets of Bolivia, and discuss our possible route through the continent but when I go to refill my iced tea...my breath snags on anxiety...and then the mail arrives. 

Despite having a plan, we are venturing into a year accented with question marks.  Will I be able to sub enough in November and December? Where will we go January through June?  How will we get insurance?  What will we do with the cars? Which school will accept Daniel?  Will we be moving to Michigan, New York, just up to Berkeley?  What type of work or graduate school should I pursue?  Do I want to teach 3rd grade or get a Master's in German and teach at a junior college?  The possibilities seem endless and that is unsettling. 

When is another yoga class?

Tonight at 5:30pm with Ramona.

Happy Baby Pose

Sometimes in yoga, after a particularly brutal challenging pose (yet breathing, yes, inhale with the whisper....I am not breathing, she's so flexible, I wish my arse looked like that, her mat is so cool with those toe-grabbing dots...."I am here, I am here", exhale gently), we are invited to do "happy baby" pose or Ananda Balasana (aka in my mind as yet another "sana tadananana).  I lie there, straining for my toes, finally grabbing the little suckers, and wonder, "Am I a happy baby?" "Was I a happy baby?"

I suppose only my mother can truly answer that question; however, my best friend Courtney (since the 5th grade) has a happy baby. Abram's 1st birthday photo inspired this post.  You can see in his face pure unadulterated joy.  He is not considering consolidating his student loans, questioning "mit wem kann Ich mein Deutsch ueben?," contemplating coffee or tea and if either is a little too close to yoga class.

If I drive over to my mother's house right this now, wriggle into John's orange kayak, and ask my Momma for a glass of milk (non-fat lactose free or soy), could my smile possibly beam this brightly?