A Good Day

This may come as a surprise to someone who hasn’t read my last 15 posts, but I’ve been a bit crabby lately. Yesterday I finally got a clue that perhaps it’s due to lack of nutrients (the gall bladder diet is great for the thighs but not so good for the brain cells), a kid who was sick for well over a month, and raging lady hormones. It’s a dangerous mix, my friends, and I have somehow been loath to own the grouchiness that is me recently.

But last night SRH and I went out on a date (dinner followed by trip to Target, a perfect evening!), and I decided to give voice to the ill-temper.

Me: I’m just crabby right now. I have been for the past few days. I kept thinking that it’s going to getter better, but it’s not. And I’m beginning to think it’s me. I mean, for a minute I thought it was you, or the stupid occupational therapist that Zane saw this week, or that woman who made me ingest a barium solution AND gave me an IV today. But it isn’t. It’s me. I’m crabby just because, and it’s probably not going to change until…heck…I don’t know. It MAY NEVER change, SRH. It may never change.

SRH (pauses before speaking because you can’t just respond any old way to the previous): I think you should go to yoga tomorrow.

Me: Yeah. But I don’t think it will help.

But somehow just speaking the words that identified my acrimonious attitude made it a little bit better.

And then today I had a really good day. No, really. I did. It was quite nice actually.

And since I have been sharing my many bad days recently, I thought I’d share some of the good stuff that happened.

Yoga Class – I went to a yoga class first thing this morning. It was taught by my favorite teacher, and it completely kicked my butt. Like I’m-too-sweaty-to-be-crabby kind of kicked my butt.

Bath and Kitchen Emporium – SRH and I are going to re-do the bathroom this spring because we seriously have one of the ugliest bathrooms this side of the Mason-Dixon. Truly, people cringe when we show it to them.

So SRH and I visited a local kitchen and bath showroom to look at bathtubs. Turns out that we’re not going to buy a new bathtub this year because the only thing we would gain would be, um, a deeper tub. And that really doesn’t justify the cost. And no new tub = no new flooring = easier renovation = fewer headaches AND less ducats out of our pocket.

Cool.

Lunch – I had lunch today with an old friend with whom I had lost touch. (Look at that grammar. Eh, eh? Seems that crabbiness doesn’t affect the entire noggin. I can still rock the correct object of a preposition.) Anyway, she’s the kind of friend that reminds you that you are a good mother, a good partner, and a fairly decent human being. And it’s not because she stinks at those things so you feel better by comparison. It’s because she makes you believe that your best is good enough.

Must make sure to hang out with her more often.

Scrubbed floor – When I got home from lunch, SRH was on his hands and knees scrubbing our kitchen floor - just because he felt like it needed it.

He almost got lucky then and there.

Dinner – After scrubbing my disgusting kitchen floor, SRH proceeded to make one of my favorite dinners while I sat on the couch cuddling with Zane.

And I didn’t feel guilty about it for one moment.

Hot Tub – After dinner, I was feeling a little chilled so I decided to spend some time in the hot tub. Which you might think I’d do all the time since it’s 5 feet from my back door, but I don’t really. SRH doesn’t like the hot tub, and I don’t care to do it alone.

But today was different. It was perfect being out there alone. In fact, I had a moment of panic when Zane appeared at the back door.

Zane: What you doing?

Me: I’m in the hot tub, baby. It’s like a big bath tub. Do you want to come in with me? Please, please, say no, kid. I’m having such a good time out here alone.

Zane: Nope. I don’t like it.

Me: Oh, okay. Next time then, buddy. Whew!

It’s now 8:30pm. Zane’s in bed. SRH is talking about cleaning the bathroom – because he just can’t stand it anymore! - And I’m on the couch watching TV and contemplating making myself a smoothie.

Oh yes, it’s been a very good day.

I think the lesson for me here is to own my crabbiness. Apparently, it makes good things happen.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, my fellow Irish people!

I'm a Yoga Teacher

You didn’t know that, did you?

Well, I suppose some of you knew that, but to those who only know me from this blog, this might be a bit of news.

Funny, you say, you don’t seem like a yoga teacher. You’re… well… a bit neurotic frankly and you NEVER talk about deep cleansing breaths or anything. And honestly, it seems like you’d be a little more centered if you were a real yoga teacher.

It’s true. That’s how you guys talk to me in my head.

But back to the topic at hand – I am a yoga teacher. I teach using the Ashtanga vinyasa system of yoga which synchronizes the breath and postures for a moving meditation.

Or more accurately, I was a yoga teacher teaching 1-2 classes a week– until I was fired last year by the craziest yogi in the universe.

And lest you think that I am being a bit unfair in my characterization of Crazy Yogi (hereafter referred to as CY), I should tell you that I went through yoga teacher training with 17 other people – and CY has fired 16 of the 17 so far.

CY fired me for having to get an emergency sub two times in 2 ½ years – even though I paid her $100 for the privilege each time I had to do it. She fired Mary for teaching the wrong sequence of postures one day. She fired Jay for teaching a class at another studio. She fired Cris for gaining weight.

I’m not kidding. These are all true, though names have been changed to protect the yogis who were broken upon her wrath.

Indeed, I was one of the last yogis standing, but eventually CY had to let me go.

And as you might guess for an awkward overachiever like myself, the firing was a blow. No matter that my fellow yoginis congratulated me on my liberation or that SRH heaved a gargantuan sigh of relief when he heard the news – I was appalled. I have never been fired in my life. It’s a lingering shame, really.

Well, perhaps that’s a bit of an overstatement. It’s a lingering slight embarrassment.

So, I was a bit taken aback today after yoga class when the owner of my new yoga studio (I never went back to CY’s studio) asked me if I’d be willing to do some substitute teaching.

No pressure, she said. Just think about it. There’s no hurry.

And while I’m totally not used to a supportive yoga boss and therefore had no idea how to respond, I am thinking about it. I figure I might be a whole lot poorer in a short amount of time if I decide to quit my job, and while substitute yoga teaching won’t pay the mortgage, at least I’ll get free yoga.

Could We Please Talk About Something Else?

So where’s the “funny” in my life right now?

Good question. I’ve been pondering this lately, and it’s why I haven’t been blogging much. Because whining doesn’t suit me (not to mention the fact that it’s off-putting), and I am not a “naked” blogger – one who shares every feeling that comes to mind, no matter how morose or self-pitying.

But I’m struggling to come up with an “angle” or interesting way to discuss a childcare crisis, gallbladder pain and impending surgery, and the fact that I left my $80 yoga mat in the rental car I used last week.

I tried the limerick route. Then it was onto the list of what crazy (and mean) things my hungry self is willing to do. Then, I dressed Zane up for a pep squad – because when feeling bad, it’s always best to torture small children. But now I’m fresh out of ideas.

So I guess I’ll just lay it out.

1. Childcare. SRH and I have been cobbling together care for the past two weeks while Zane’s care providers have been ill. They’ll get better – but not better enough. They’re getting older, and their health is poor. It’s a really sad reality, but it’s time to move on.

Solution A: Find new childcare.

So this one seems self-explanatory – call area care providers, do interviews, and pick one. EXCEPT most childcare centers in our neighborhood don’t provide part-time care, and any in-home provider we use can’t have cats, dogs, or carpet. Either option must be comfortable caring for a child with multiple food allergies and severe asthma. Like way-severe asthma. Like massive amounts of medication asthma. And I must be comfortable that they can do it.

Surprisingly, I’m not getting very far on that front.

Solution B: Quit my job and provide my own g.d. childcare.

So, this one is looking better and better except for one fact: I’ve lived in poverty, and I don’t much care for it.

We’ll leave that one on the table for now.

Solution C: Continue to cobble together care.

This has worked for two weeks; perhaps I should carry on for a while. Of course, it’s downright ugly in our house right now – I’m flexing my work schedule, SRH is flexing his work schedule, I’m at the computer working during every spare moment, and I’m constantly feeling guilty for not doing enough at work or home. On the other hand, it keeps me from breaking Grandma D and Grandpa R’s heart by telling them that we’re moving on. There’s some benefit there. (I am such a wuss).

2. Gallbladder. I can’t get into the surgeon until Feb. 12^th. So I’m on an extremely low-fat diet until then. SRH reports that this makes me both tired and grumpy, but I’m quite sure that I’m only tired and grumpy because I’m the only one doing anything around here! (I’m also quite sure that the preceding is a completely accurate statement and is not at all influenced by a lack of fuel to the brain).

Solution A: Continue to eat a bunch of nothing for the next month. Oh sure it makes me grumpy, but I’m slowly figuring out how to walk that tightrope between eating enough to live and avoiding severe pain.

As a bonus, I see that old pencil skirt from Banana Republic rotating back into the wardrobe.

Solution B: Go balls to the wall – eat a scrumptious dinner and chase it with a trip to the ER. However the question lingers in my mind: Will they really be willing to take it out that night or will I have to be in burning agony for 2-3 days before the offensive gland is taken from me?

I’m still not sure which way to jump on this one. Right now, I’m going the safer, hungrier route.

3. Yoga Mat. For the second time in a year, I have managed to lose my too expensive yoga mat. (For details of the first time, see here).

Solution A: Harass and harangue the folks who fixed my hail-damaged car last week (those folks who so generously loaned me a 15-year-old rental car) until they get my yoga mat back.

Or I suppose I could ask nicely, but people who are famished tend more toward making demands rather than reasonable requests in sotto voce.

Solution B: Go to the yoga studio, and take someone else’s mat. Hey, it’s not my style, but someone clearly did it with my first mat. I’m simply suggesting that I use a proven strategy for obtaining a yoga mat at low-cost.

Ode to Yoga Pants

Well, it’s officially Fall here in central Ohio. I don’t mean “officially” in the way of we just passed the autumnal equinox, or that the leaves are turning to gorgeous shades of oranges or reds, or even that we had a frost advisory last week. No, I mean that I have finally donned my autumn outfit de rigueur - black yoga pants and a long-sleeve white shirt.

I know it doesn’t sound very original or exciting. In fact, it sounds like an outfit to serve food in, but I somehow feel simple and classy in these clothes - although they are without a bit of color. (Don’t think I don’t hear Stacy and Quentin’s voice in my head saying, You think it’s classy? Wrong. It’s boring. You aren’t waiting tables here, lady. You’re taking your kid to preschool and the park! Let’s ACT like we have some class and buy an outfit that you can’t exercise in- maybe one that has some structure for that bottom half of yours.)

In my humble defense, these aren’t just any old yoga pants. They are the supreme yoga pants of all time – the Athleta All That Capri Pant. Lest I get carried away in hyperbole, take a look for yourself.

And since I’m not sure that the picture is clear, I will add that these pants are not gauchos. You know, gauchos - those ubiquitous pants worn by every single woman under the age of 25 right now. Gauchos - the pants that make even the thinnest women look like their behind is made from cottage cheese and their thighs are thunderous.

Oh no, these yoga pants are the boon companion of the slightly pear-shaped mama. They are forgiving of a little extra junk in the trunk and flow nicely over legs that have never been the same since pregnancy and childbirth.

I have three pair – all in black. I would buy another, but SRH might throw me out of the house. I have considered buying them in other colors, but I can’t seem to make myself do it. There’s that saying about not fixing something that isn’t broken.

A-hem…

Joyful, joyful, I adore thee,
Oh, sweet fitting yoga pants;
Drawstring waist and material flow-y,
Hail Thee as my favorite pair.
Melt the clouds of sloth and big legs,
Drive the extra pounds away;
Giver of immortal svelteness,
Wearing you lights up my day!

Okay, I think this post may have just crossed a line here – even for a blog.

Any of your clothes make you want to burst into inappropriate song?

Making Animal Noises in a Public Place

I feel that I should begin this post by saying that I am not a novice yogi. I may not be an advanced practitioner, but I am not a beginner. (For an overly detailed description of just how long I’ve been doing yoga and the strange reason that I’m compelled to grab my crotch in public, please see this post).

And while I am primarily practice ashtanga yoga or other vinyasa-based systems, I am absolutely open to new styles of yoga. Hence, I have done anusara yoga and yin yoga as well as more generic hatha yoga classes. (I’d also like to aspire to karmic yoga in my everyday life, but really I’ve got a long way to go…)

Anyway, I do this long introduction to over-explain that I walked into a new yoga class this week with a completely open mind. Really, and truly. I was totally up for it.

The first sign of trouble came when another woman – let’s call her Thong-Wearing Yogi - said to the teacher, Do we just use our mats like typical?

To explain, this is a new class for my studio so we were all a little unsure of what to expect. The teacher looked at her like a frightened rabbit and said, Um, sure…but you don’t really need a mat for this class.

Huh? I’ve never actually done a yoga class without a mat. Plus geez, I just paid $80 for a new one, at least let me use it. Anyhow, I was a little surprised, but Thong-Wearing-Yogi looked like she’d just been asked to change one of Zane’s diapers when he had rotovirus – in short, horrified.

But, okay. Whatever. I can go with the flow. I’m easy like Sunday morning.

The class starts, and it’s a little different – for example, the teacher and her mentor were both clothed all in white, with accompanying head covering – but that's okay by me. They didn’t tell me that I had to wear white or cover my head, so live and let live.

And then, and here I just want to reiterate that I am not yoga-phobic, it started to get bizarre.

Bizarre Posture #1
(This will be the only posture that comes accompanied by a picture because the rest are just too humiliating.)

I’m not sure of the name of this pose, but the teacher called it the “ego buster” – which just tells me that some psycho who was torturing his step-kids came up with it – and we had to hold this pose for two full minutes while doing a strange kind of breathing which shook our whole body.

Yep, two full minutes of holding our arms up at a 60-degree angle while clenching our fingers into the pads of our hands and pumping our guts in and out as hard and fast as we could. (Go ahead and try it. It’s completely doable; you’ll just wonder why you did it.)

Bizarre Posture #2
No picture here, so you’ll just have to do it along with my description to get the full impact.

Okay, stand up straight. Now bend over and grab your ankles. If you can’t grab your ankles, grab someplace along your shins or knees. Now, without releasing your ankles, walk around the room in as big of circles as you can. Don’t stop. Do this for three straight minutes. Don’t stop!

It was at this point that I started to think that SRH had called the yoga studio and set up an elaborate prank and that he was in a closet somewhere videotaping me. At least, that’s what I hoped was happening because I could find no other reasonable explanation for this foolishness.

Bizarre Posture #3
This wasn’t so much a posture as an exercise in just-how-far-will
-you-go-for-a-new-experience-Zany-Mama type of thing?

Okay, I’ll just say it: We started roaring like lions. Not so much lion’s pose – a cleansing exhalation of breath that is accompanied by a vocalization – but rather, we just roared like idiots…er…lions. Yep, just like I do with Zane everyday when we make animal sounds, well, except that I did it for three minutes straight with a room full of other adults.

And when it was finally over and I was almost out of there, they had a “special” yogi tea made for us. At this point, I just went with it. I don’t particularly like tea, and I really just wanted to beat feet to get home, but I figured in for a penny, in for a pound.

So, I drank a cup of soymilk flavored with cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, and pepper. Yes, indeed, it was as dreadful as it sounds – the whole experience.

The Things We Do For Love

Hello friends, it’s me Cranky. That’s right – I got a case of the cranks today, and I’m not afraid to post about it. (Actually, I do feel a little bad subjecting you to the bad moodiness that is me right now, but since I promised myself I’d post today and being grouchy is what’s on my mind, there you have it. I will at least try to spare you the whininess. But really, I can’t promise even that).

To get a few things out of the way – I am not upset, despairing, or in a general state of depression. I’m just irritable - and most likely irritating - but there are no major things wrong in my life.

Zane is healthy. SRH and I both have jobs that are relatively stable. We have a roof over our heads, and none of our friends or family is in crisis right now – that we’re aware of.

In general, things are pretty good around here. So why the cranky?, you say.

Well, thanks for asking.

I think it’s because I really started the day out all wrong. My mom took Zane to the zoo (Ducks! Geese!), and SRH stayed in bed all morning as he didn’t feel well. So, I had about 20 minutes before my yoga class to spend time ALONE *sigh* and read a novel.

While reading, I had the thought, Oh my gosh. When does this ever happen? I’m alone. No child. No husband. Nobody wanting anything from me. I should just sit here for the next hour or so and read.

But then I thought, Come on Zany Mama. You only do yoga two days a week, and this is one of your days. You’re never going to get rid of that junk in your trunk if you don’t have a little discipline. And since you are very antisocial at yoga, it’s still really alone time. Get moving, lady.

And so I grabbed my yoga mat and stepped out the door to Crabby Town.

I will spare you an overly-detailed description of my day, but here are the highlights.

Today my yoga class focused on back bending. (Insert expletive
here, preferably the one that begins with “f”). Not so good for
someone with a back injury (see here). So now my back is killing
me. I have been taking ibuprofen and sitting on the heating pad
as much as possible today in a vain attempt to ease the pain. But
my main point is that it doesn’t bode well for the rest of the day
when you leave your morning yoga class hurting and pissed off.

Also, in case you were curious, spunky toddlers could really care less about how your back feels. Oh, I suppose they care in their little narcissistic pick-me-up-anyway-mama kind of way, but really, that isn’t very helpful.

Potty Training Day 1 was not a complete failure, but we certainly can’t call it a success. (More on this later. I’m sure it will all seem funny on another day).

Since SRH and I have neglected to go to the grocery store this week and I am determined not to spend all our money on eating out, I had plain pasta for dinner. Plain pasta with butter and salt on it. Crud. What am I – in college? Next, I’ll be eating ramen noodles as a snack.

After being gone for about a week, Zane’s face rash is back with a vengeance. The poor kid is looking rough - and I’m still no closer to figuring out what is causing the stupid thing. Lots of mama guilt there.

So as you see, these are not major problems, just really annoying mosquito-bite-like irritations. I’m sure I’ll be better tomorrow.

But in the meantime, I’m going to do what most people do when they’ve had a bad day: I’m going to take it out on my partner.

I am about to go to the video store. There, I’m going to rent a movie which has the line, “Great date movie!” somewhere on the packaging. I’m going to make SRH sit down with me and watch the entire movie while we cuddle. I’m going to make a huge batch of popcorn, because apparently, popcorn – as opposed to pasta – is good with just butter and salt on it. And while I will insist on snuggling throughout the movie, I do not plan to put out afterward.

Yep, that should just about do it.

LOST

What? a yoga mat – in particular, a black yoga mat

Where? Last seen during a yoga practice which was taking place on said mat.

May have fallen out of owner’s car, but really, the thing weighs 6.5 pounds, I probably would have noticed that. OR May have been left at the studio – in which case, there is a thieving yogi that I’m now out for.

When? Probably on Tuesday of last week since I don’t remember having it after that. Saturday, when I showed up for practice, it was gone. Some of you dedicated yogis or other similarly obsessed exercisers might be doing the mental math right now and realizing that this means that I hadn’t practiced for THREE DAYS STRAIGHT, but you’re probably one of those mat-stealing types, so me and my flabby thighs are not concerned with your judgment. (Well, the flabby thighs might be a little concerned, but my intellect and a peanut buster parfait will soon overrule them).

How? That’s what I really can’t figure out. How could I misplace or mislay a big, black, bulky mat – one that won’t fit in a typical yoga bag or roll up neatly due to its gargantuan size? I have carried that stupid mat with me for five years. Is my mama brain now so fried that I’d just forget where I put it? I mean, I’ve had that mat longer than I’ve had my child. The implications for my parenting aren’t good on this one.

So, if you have any ideas where I could have put my mat – or any yogis you’d like to accuse of theft - drop me a comment. Or if you just want to commiserate and let me know the dumbest thing you’ve ever lost, I’d take that, too.

The Right Answer

I have recently started practicing at a new yoga studio – which is a long, yucky story, which I’m sure I’ll share at some point – and as I’m getting to know folks there, I am often asked the question, “So, how long have you been doing yoga?”

I think this is a reasonable question, but I tend to have a terrible time answering it. I think it’s because people want “the short answer”, and I am fairly reluctant to give it. But okay, here it is:

The Short Answer: 6 ½ years.

The Not-So-Short Answer: I’ve been practicing for over six years, but I took a long break when I had my son, so I’ve really been back to practicing for about 6 months.

The-Not-Short-At-All-Answer: Well, I started practicing about 6 ½ years ago, and for about three years, I practiced regularly. Then, I went through yoga teacher training and really developed a consistent, six-day-a-week practice. I was feeling great about my body and my practice, and then I got knocked up.

So during my first trimester, I didn’t practice at all. In fact, I could barely walk across a room without needing a nap. But I practiced during my second trimester…and then not so much in my third. You know how it goes, no one wants to bend and twist with 35 extra pounds hanging out around the midriff.

Well, then my labor was horrific – which, again, is a story for another day – and I couldn’t walk for a while. No really, I couldn’t walk. Came-home-with-a-walker, not-allowed-to-be-alone-with-my-baby-in-
case-there-was-a-fire-because-I-wouldn’t-be-able-to-get-us-out couldn’t walk. So it took some time to heal from that - about 2 ½ years.

Then, I finally got some relief for the chronic back and hip pain caused by the labor and delivery, although I do still have the arthritis, but there doesn’t seem to be anything much to be done about the separation in my pubic symphysis – another labor injury.

To explain, the pubic symphysis is the joint between the pubic bones in the front of the pelvis. (For a visual, and a strange comparison to rat anatomy, click here). Apparently, my particular symphysis was stretched all out of whack resulting in the bones separating from each other on a more permanent basis.

From ivillage, “Pubic symphysis separation is a
recognized complication of pregnancy with incidence
estimates ranging from one in 300 to one in 30,000
(lucky me). Characteristic symptoms of symphyseal
separation include suprapubic pain and tenderness
with radiation to the back of legs (it hurts), difficulty
ambulating (can’t move much) and, occasionally,
bladder dysfunction (incontinence).

Well, check, check, and check for me on those – especially during the first few weeks postpartum. The incontinence thing has, fortunately, resolved.

So, what that means now is that where my pelvic bones come together in the front of my body – my crotch – is structurally unstable and a wee bit hurty. You might guess that this can be quite distressing during a yoga class where many times the goal is to stretch your legs as far apart as possible. But really, it’s the poses that require that you shift your hips from facing forward to opening up to the side (shifting from Warrior A to Warrior B, for example) that make me want to scream, Cheese and Rice, Can We Stop This Torture Now?

But it’s getting better every day, I suppose. I think perhaps the worst part is that when something on one’s body hurts and feels loose or unstable, one’s natural inclination is to hold it – both to stop the pain and to “shore it up” so to speak. Unfortunately, folks tend to look at me funny when I grab my crotch in public, no matter how fervently I explain it’s a legitimate injury.

Oh…sorry…right…you just wanted to know how long I’ve been practicing, and here I’ve been talking all about my hoo-ha and my need to hold it in public.

So, anyway, the short answer is 6 ½ years.