By Rhonda Bocock Franz
Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be bent out of shape.
~Author Unknown
Almost a year after the birth of my first child, it's high time for some fitness. Relaxing one evening with my husband and ten-month-old son, I push the channel button on our television remote and discover, to my delight, the prelude to a yoga program. I quickly fetch the required mat, dutifully put on my most yoga-like workout clothes, and prepare to engage in a few moments of peaceful meditation and physical exertion.
Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be bent out of shape.
~Author Unknown
Almost a year after the birth of my first child, it's high time for some fitness. Relaxing one evening with my husband and ten-month-old son, I push the channel button on our television remote and discover, to my delight, the prelude to a yoga program. I quickly fetch the required mat, dutifully put on my most yoga-like workout clothes, and prepare to engage in a few moments of peaceful meditation and physical exertion.
Curiously watching the scene, my boy crawls over with eyebrows lifted and mouth agape, while my husband assures me he will help if our little man gets in the way. Closing my eyes, I listen to the calming flute music, take a deep breath, and attempt to block out distractions.
A sultry, breathy voice guides me through each position: cat pose, warrior, mountain. During a standing pose, I become aware of a sensation making its way up my leg.
"Mamamama."
Opening one eye, I peer down to see the grinning face of my son looking up at me as he grasps my pants and pulls on my leg.
"Ignore it -- continue moving -- get through this workout," I say quietly.
As I lower to a sitting position, he circles around twice and plants himself beside me. I resume deep breathing and, in the middle of a stretch, throw my head back in a pleading attempt to catch my husband's attention -- the husband whose eyes are fixed on his computer screen. He glances over. Without speaking, so as not to interrupt my focused state of relaxation, I put on my most serious but sweet can-you-just-watch-him-for-the-next-twenty-minutes-so-I-can-do-something-for-myself look. It works. Daddy saves me as I change positions.
"I've got him," he says.
One minute passes. Stretch out slowly, breathe evenly. Looking up at the ceiling with my back suspended, I sense a presence under me and get the feeling I'd better hold that pose longer than Ms. Sexy Voice instructs.
"Oops," says my husband, trying to coax the baby to come toward him.
My son does, crawling right over my stomach on the way. Each time a new position requires me to create a space between myself and the floor, he comes whizzing by, looking at me while smiling and trying to slide underneath my torso or clamber over my legs. Hold your pose. Push up with your arms. Relax. The sounds of the flute soften. As I move into the downward facing dog, he rolls over onto his back and lies face up, staring at me as I attempt to look back at my ankles as instructed. Irritated, I check to see if my husband is still around. He is -- and grinning broadly at both of us while fumbling with the camera.
I smile in an attempt to remain relaxed and try one more time to block out distractions. It does not work. My boy still looks up at me in innocent, but desperate bids for acknowledgement. Losing my concentration, I start laughing and collapse to the floor. At this stage in motherhood, there is no point in getting frustrated. Who am I kidding? Do I really think I can complete a routine of this sort without interference? I look over at my son just in time to watch him perfectly imitate a yoga position, and I realize this is one great photo op.
Though the benefits of yoga are numerous, I really don't need to spend much time finding my center; an extra ten pounds of it is wrapped around what used to be my waist. Meditation? I am regularly in meditation for this child, the kind that always involves prayer and occasionally involves rocking back and forth.
Making time to exercise without the presence of my little workout partner will be a challenge. But heeding the advice of those who have gone before me, I decide not to sweat the small stuff.
There's enough sweating during the yoga.
A sultry, breathy voice guides me through each position: cat pose, warrior, mountain. During a standing pose, I become aware of a sensation making its way up my leg.
"Mamamama."
Opening one eye, I peer down to see the grinning face of my son looking up at me as he grasps my pants and pulls on my leg.
"Ignore it -- continue moving -- get through this workout," I say quietly.
As I lower to a sitting position, he circles around twice and plants himself beside me. I resume deep breathing and, in the middle of a stretch, throw my head back in a pleading attempt to catch my husband's attention -- the husband whose eyes are fixed on his computer screen. He glances over. Without speaking, so as not to interrupt my focused state of relaxation, I put on my most serious but sweet can-you-just-watch-him-for-the-next-twenty-minutes-so-I-can-do-something-for-myself look. It works. Daddy saves me as I change positions.
"I've got him," he says.
One minute passes. Stretch out slowly, breathe evenly. Looking up at the ceiling with my back suspended, I sense a presence under me and get the feeling I'd better hold that pose longer than Ms. Sexy Voice instructs.
"Oops," says my husband, trying to coax the baby to come toward him.
My son does, crawling right over my stomach on the way. Each time a new position requires me to create a space between myself and the floor, he comes whizzing by, looking at me while smiling and trying to slide underneath my torso or clamber over my legs. Hold your pose. Push up with your arms. Relax. The sounds of the flute soften. As I move into the downward facing dog, he rolls over onto his back and lies face up, staring at me as I attempt to look back at my ankles as instructed. Irritated, I check to see if my husband is still around. He is -- and grinning broadly at both of us while fumbling with the camera.
I smile in an attempt to remain relaxed and try one more time to block out distractions. It does not work. My boy still looks up at me in innocent, but desperate bids for acknowledgement. Losing my concentration, I start laughing and collapse to the floor. At this stage in motherhood, there is no point in getting frustrated. Who am I kidding? Do I really think I can complete a routine of this sort without interference? I look over at my son just in time to watch him perfectly imitate a yoga position, and I realize this is one great photo op.
Though the benefits of yoga are numerous, I really don't need to spend much time finding my center; an extra ten pounds of it is wrapped around what used to be my waist. Meditation? I am regularly in meditation for this child, the kind that always involves prayer and occasionally involves rocking back and forth.
Making time to exercise without the presence of my little workout partner will be a challenge. But heeding the advice of those who have gone before me, I decide not to sweat the small stuff.
There's enough sweating during the yoga.
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