Baby Got Bakasana

Last night in my yoga class, I finally was able to do what I've been calling my "nemesis pose": bakasana, or crow/crane pose.

[That's bakasana, but that's not me in the picture — not by a long shot. I borrowed it from here.]

Referring to one of the asanas as my "nemesis" is not yogic (new word!) in any way. What matters is that I saw bakasana, thought it looked super-cool and wanted to do it, too.

But, the thing was, I couldn't. Not for months. I'd try and try almost every day, even laying piles of pillows in front of me in the event I fell on my face (which I did, several times). I watched videos of people doing it on YouTube. They made it look so easy, which further annoyed me that I couldn't do it.

And then one day, I just stopped trying. I didn't give up, exactly, but I just stopped trying. I am not a proponent of anyone quitting anything, but I do think that we need to step back from things and reassess sometimes. I figured that someday I would be able to do it, just like I can do wheel and plow and side plank pose, which I definitely could not do when I first started practicing yoga last spring.

But last night, I did it. I could tell we were moving toward bakasana when the instructor, Lisa, had us squat down into garland pose and place our palms on the mat in front of us. "Here it comes," I thought to myself. She walked us through step by step until we got to the big moment: lifting both feet off the ground. I let my eyes flit around for a moment to see who could do it, and then I reminded myself that if everyone else in the class or no one else in the class could do it, that had no bearing on my bakasana.

I planted my palms again. I nestled the backs of my arms into my knees. I tucked my body and rounded my back. I lifted up onto my tiptoes and walked my feet slowly toward each other. I took a deep breath and leaned forward. I picked one foot up and then put it down. I picked the other foot up and then put it down. I exhaled and picked up both feet. For one glorious second, I was flying.

Yoga has taught me so much, and one difficult lesson is that I cannot, in fact, do it all — not always exactly when and how I want to, anyway. I was raised to believe that if I worked hard enough, I could do anything, but that I needed to do so with honor and kindness and dignity. There have been times in my life when I have not acted that way, that when I look back, I think, "My mother would not have been happy with me for doing/saying that." I believed that I could have a child and work full-time as a professor and write and cook and bake and decorate and host parties and volunteer and read and make crafts and garden — all while maintaining a spotless house, a perfectly behaved child, a flawless marriage, and my sanity, naturally — and do whatever else my silly little heart desired whenever it wanted simply because I was working hard enough.

One of the hardest pills I have ever had to swallow was this: I can't. Perhaps others can — it seems others do it much better than I do when I read their posts on Facebook [snicker, snicker] — but I can't. Not all of it, not at one time, not right now.

My quest since my son was born has been to find balance, but I have stacked the scales against myself. When your life is too full, when your time is too limited, when you are hustling all of the time, when there are no moments of quiet or peace, when you spend too little time having fun with your partner, your friends and yourself, balance can't happen.

I am trying to let the quiet in. I am trying to stop always looking for the next project. I'm trying to let life — the life I actually have, not the life I think I want — happen. Maybe by letting go, I will have a better shot.

My frequent intention in yoga is "gratitude." This is an important one for me: to remember to say thank you but to also be grateful for what I have in my life. When we are grateful, we peer inward and think of the good things we do have, rather than looking outward and focusing on what we don't have. When I am grateful for the body that has carried my son and been free from major illness or injury all my life and is strong enough to raise up into bakasana for even one second, I am not thinking about how I still have stretch marks and how — let's face it — the boobs and belly will never, ever look the same.

When I am grateful for my home and all of the laughter and great meals and parties that have been had here, I mind its Brady Bunch–era "charm" a little less. I pay less attention to the Pottery Barn catalogs and the blogs that showcase styled corners of beautifully photographed homes that are inevitably cleaner and cooler than mine. When I am grateful for my job, I find myself more excited to take on the challenges of educating future journalists and less affected by the bureaucracy and politics and endless meetings that come with it.

These are important lessons for me — ones that I have to remind myself of over and over again. I am not a religious person (that's another post for another time), but these intentions, whether they be "gratitude" or "peace" or "patience" or "kindness" or "joy," get pretty close for me.

Bird by Bird (and Pumpkins)

Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write. [I]t was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, "Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird."

— from Bird by Bird: Instructions for Writing and Life, by Anne Lamott

It has been a long time since I have posted. I blame this on the start of the fall semester, which occupies nearly every last minute of my time that is not already occupied by parenting and chores.

It is hard not to feel overwhelmed sometimes by the lessons to be prepared, the stacks and stacks of homework to be graded that never quite seem to go away, the meetings to attend, the e-mails to answer. And then there is the laundry, which I'm doing much more frequently since our foray into potty-training began in June (and we are definitely still training, as evidenced by my sweet boy's insistence on pooping in his Thomas the Tank Engine underpants). And grocery-shopping. And cooking. And cleaning. And maybe even some sleep once in a while.

I don't mean to whine. I read on Facebook this morning that a friend just got laid off from her job. I am thankful for my good job, my safe home, my healthy family. I am not unlike any other mom, because let's face it: Once we have a baby, we all work, all of time. It's just that some of us have to/get to leave and work elsewhere, depending on one's perspective.

Most days, I do instead of think. Thinking is what leads to me feeling overwhelmed. And when I begin to feel like the piles of paper and dirty clothes and unwashed dishes are getting a little too large, too tall, too precarious, I find myself returning to Anne Lamott's words. I hear myself thinking the words "Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird" in my head. And it works (mostly).

A little more than a year ago, when I turned 34, I made a list of 34 things I wanted to start doing in order to keep organized and keep sane. I still like to do as much as I can the night before—my ultimate lifesaver for busy mornings. I've been inconsistent with planning a weekly menu, and I'm sorry to report that my Crock-Pot hasn't gotten much use in the past year.

But what have I done? Yoga — finally! I started doing it in May, and I don't think it's an overstatement when I say that it's changed my life. For starters, the jiggly bits are a bit less jiggly. (Be gone, granny arms!) I'm definitely more flexible. My pregnancy back pain that hung around after the pregnancy was over is gone. I sleep better. And I'm a lot more calm. A. Lot.

There are lots of good life lessons to learn from yoga. Focus on the moment. Be compassionate with yourself. You are stronger than you think. Let your practice or pose meet you instead of the other way around. Stay balanced. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe again.

When I started taking classes, I felt guilty about flying out the door just minutes after Scott got home from work. I didn't like missing Benjamin's bedtime (and I still don't). It's a little selfish and indulgent of me to take yoga classes two or three times a week, but it's making me a better mother, a better wife, a better teacher, and an overall better me.

Bird by bird. One e-mail at a time. One paper at a time. One lesson at a time. One pose at a time. One breath in, one breath out. I can only do what I can do, as much or as little as that means for that moment.

I'm starting to feel OK with that.

And now, as promised, pumpkins. I took these shots during a rainy trip to our local pumpkin patch. Fall is my favorite season, and part of my ritual is bedecking the front porch and the insides of the house with pumpkins galore. This farm grows all different kinds of pumpkins, from itty-bitty baby pumpkins to gnarly Red Warty pumpkins. (Seriously, that's what they're called.) My favorites are the Fairy-Tale pumpkins, which are a strange pale orange mixed with some green and gray.

Between the rain and my son, who would not stay next to me as instructed (shocker!), I didn't get as many as I wanted (pumpkins or photographs). Until next time ...

A Fight for the Right to Potty

As you may have surmised from the title of this post, we are knee-deep in potty-training here at Chez Witmer. (Knee-deep? Up to our elbows? Neither seems right, and each seems gross.)

I'd purchased a potty for Benjamin months ago because I was at Target, saw one and knew he'd need one eventually. He showed little to no interest in the thing, except for a receptacle for his cars and trucks and as an occasional plastic helmet. He used it for its intended purpose exactly two times — and both, I think, happened because of sheer accidental good timing on our part.

The plastic frog potty. Sure, he looks happy enough ...Last month we went on vacation to Myrtle Beach in South Carolina, and I packed the little plastic frog potty to take with us. I wasn't sure why, but I suppose I didn't want to be caught off guard by a sudden interest in Big-Boy Toileting. When we got to our condo and unloaded our stuff, I told Scott to just leave it in the van, and that's where it stayed the entire trip.

But that evening at the condo, I took Benjamin into the bathroom with me to do my Big-Girl Toileting while Scott was in and out unloading the van. My son has seen me in the bathroom and in various states of undress a lot, and he usually just points to a random body part and asks, "Mommy, what's THAT?"

But on this night, he announced that he too would like to use the potty. The plastic frog potty was still in the car, so I pulled off his shorts and diaper and sat him on the real potty. And he peed! Then he peed again the next day, and the next, and the day after that, until he was going fairly regularly the entire vacation week. I was stunned, and he was so proud of himself. It was fun, a novelty, a new accomplishment. Once he started doing it, he was excited and determined to do it again. We'd plop him down, and he'd stare at his little wee-wee, concentrated and focused, until a teeny spurt of pee started to come out.

I had never pushed the potty before, so I was thrilled to see Benjamin taking the initiative. For one, I was anxious to banish diapers. But also, I'd been a little worried about when the timing would be right. Everyone said that I'd "know" when he was ready, but would I? Would it be obvious? What if I missed the signs, and the magic portal to The World of No Diapers closed for another few months (or years!)?

Turns out, for us, it was obvious. You can't get more obvious than a 2-year-old asking you to use the potty.

I could see progress when we got home, but we kept him in diapers anyway because he'd never really told us when he needed to go. He was still waking up from naps and bedtime with wet diapers. I'd bought some underwear for him to just sort of practice wearing, but I didn't think he was ready to go Full Underpants.

Until Last Friday, when one of his teachers at daycare asked me one morning during the drop-off, "Why don't you send him to school in underwear?"

"Um, I don't know," I stammered. "I guess I didn't think he was ready for that."

"He's ready," she said. "It's not a big deal if he has accidents. Just send extra clothes."

This woman knows much better than I do, I thought. Who knows how many kids she's potty-trained over the years? So last weekend we worked on it. At first he was excited to wear underwear, but then he started to resist using the potty altogether. It wasn't fun for him anymore. It was now something he had to do—and do a lot—and, more importantly, it was interrupting his play time. I was worried that having an accident would make him upset and less confident, so I found myself pushing him to go more frequently than I probably should have, which only made him resist more.

On Monday, he had a play day at my parents' house with his cousin Maia, who recently completed her potty-training quickly, easily and with minimal accidents. No accidents. Success!

On Tuesday morning, right before we were getting ready to leave the house to go to Storytime at the library, he stood right next to me in the living room and took a huge dump in his underwear not 30 seconds after I'd asked him if he needed to use the potty.

But he managed to make it through Storytime, a meeting with a client (mine, not his), and a trip to the grocery store without an accident, which I'm chalking up as a victory. But what concerns me is that he can use the potty, but he's putting up a fight nearly every time I put him on it.

Yesterday wasn't great, either. He had two accidents at his school, including one of the aforementioned giant morning poops, and his teachers said he wasn't happy to use the potty. And he followed those up by two more accidents at home.

I don't care that he has accidents. It's not particularly fun cleaning up after them, but neither are diapers. It really just comes down to tossing a few extra clothes in the laundry. Big deal. What I do not like is that he hasn't figured out yet and accepted that we've started to go down this road and that This. Is. Happening.

Am I doing the right thing? Should I pull back and let it go for a while? Is this just toddler resistance, and should I stand my ground? Will he eventually just accept his lot and acquiesce?

I've said it before, and I'll say it again and again: Just when I thought I knew what I was doing as a parent, I realize I don't.

The Thursday Effect

I love Thursdays.

Here's why:

1. I don't teach on Thursdays.

2. Because I don't teach on Thursdays, I don't usually have to be anywhere, except when I have a meeting or an appointment with a student. (Translation: I can wear yoga pants, a sweatshirt and slippers all day long.)

3. I can catch up on cleaning, errands, laundry, and other miscellaneous household chores I neglect during the rest of the week.

4. I can go to the gym, should I feel like putting on a bra and sneakers.

5. I can go to Target, should I feel like getting bathed and dressed afterward.

6. I can go to Starbucks, should I feel like getting bathed and dressed. (Even if I don't, there's still a drive-thru.)

7. I can write.

After some deep contemplation, we started sending Benjamin to daycare three days a week instead of two last month. We did this for a few reasons. First, I needed the time. I was staying up so late at night and falling behind on my grading and other work. Secondly, after speaking to his teachers, we determined that three consecutive days was actually better for Benjamin. It was a lot easier to ditch the second nap and push what was once his mid-morning nap into an early-afternoon nap at home because he was already doing it three days a week at school. He'll likely be potty-training soon, so the consistency will be better in that department, too.

Not only that, but he's at school for more parties and special events, and I don't always feel like a wayward mom who doesn't really know what's going on. And I realize this sounds insane, but I hated thinking that he maybe felt left out, too. At Thanksgiving, the kids all made handprint turkeys and pilgrim-hat collages out of construction paper, which were displayed on the wall outside the classroom — all of the kids but Benjamin, that is, because he wasn't at school that day.

But the biggest reason was the first one. I was feeling very overwhelmed by my life. I wasn't getting enough sleep, making me quite cranky. I felt suffocated by the stacks of papers I needed to grade and the figurative stacks of e-mails I needed to answer. And I wasn't feeling as if I was really present with Benjamin when I was with him because work was always, always in the back of my mind. You know it's bad when your not-quite-2-year-old tells you, "No phone, Mommy."

Everyone told me that Benjamin needed to go to daycare at least one more day — everyone. Deep down, I knew it, too. I felt like my life was that episode of "I Love Lucy" where Lucy and Ethel can't keep up with the chocolates on the conveyor belt so they start shoving them in their mouths and down their shirts — and not in a way that was at all comical, zany or in the least bit delicious.

But that doesn't mean that I don't feel like complete crap every single Thursday when I do it.

Take today, for example. On this particular Thursday, Benjamin had a crying fit when I dropped him off at school. A full-blown, red-faced, clinging-to-my-legs, screaming and crying Level 5 fit.

Ah, yes. There's nothing quite like hearing "MOOOOMMMMYYYYY!!!!" and your son's wailing as you're walking out the door to make you feel like a truly top-notch parent.

On this particular Thursday, I drove not to Starbucks immediately afterward as I normally do, but to THE GYM. Instead of drowning my guilt in a soy cinnamon latte (which I'm so obsessed with right now, I can't even tell you), I decided to sweat at the gym. I love the gym at this time of the morning. I'm the youngest person there by a long shot. Old ladies are riding the stationary bikes in pastel slacks at this time of the morning. The nice gentleman who opened the door for me actually touched the brim of his baseball cap to me. I mean, who does that anymore?! Between that gesture and my guilt over leaving Benjamin, I nearly burst into tears on the spot.

But like every Thursday, once I got into the day, I was fine — just as Benjamin is fine by the time I get to my car in the daycare parking lot. As I tick off items one by one from my to-do list, I feel more than fine. In fact, I feel pretty good. I call this the Thursday effect. Just one day allows me to get caught up enough and have some time for myself so that the rest of the week runs more smoothly and I feel less stressed. It's like pressing reset.

Thursdays make me feel like I've accomplished something, like I can actually do this insane working-parent thing without losing my whole damn mind.

Thursdays are a day on my own terms, which is refreshing, given that not much in my life is on my own terms anymore.

Thursdays are, as my son is unfortunately so fond of saying, mine.

But as much as I have come to love Thursdays, I still wish I didn't need them. I still wish I was better at balancing and juggling all of this. I still miss my son. It's still not a neat and tidy fix. For now, though, it will do.

And for your viewing pleasure: "Let 'er roll!"

P Is for Potty

Months and months ago — much sooner than necessary — I bought a little potty for Benjamin. It was on sale at Target and I knew he'd need one eventually, so I thought, "What the heck?" and bought it.

I've dreaded even thinking about potty-training. As much as I would love to live in a world free of diapers and the contents of said diapers, I'm not looking forward to Benjamin being old enough and big enough to go to the bathroom mostly on his own. For me, the potty is a symbol that my little baby isn't a baby at all anymore. If he can pee and poop by himself and won't need me to change him, that means he'll soon be able to pour himself a cup of milk and put his clothes on and take them off and read himself a story. And what will he need me for??

The other reason I've been dreading it is because that means the amount of potty talk will also increase. We already talk about that sort of business far too much in our house, in my opinion. Sometimes I long to live in a 1950s sitcom, like in the movie "Pleasantville," where everything was nice and clean and orderly and where even the sound of a flushing toilet was taboo. But I do not live on a 1950s TV set. I live in my house, with a husband, a toddler and a dog. There's a lot of poop talk.

And could the genius who invented the words "poop" and "pee-pee" have made them any more fun to say for an almost 19-month-old? I mean, really. Those words are practically begging to be repeated over and over and over again.

Last night while I was making dinner, Benjamin announced that he had to poop. (This is achieved by grunting and saying the word "poop" several times.) Scott dashed upstairs to fetch his potty to bring down to the living room (I'm not sure why), and with a combination of love and disgust, I overheard him from the kitchen pulling down Benjamin's pants, removing his diaper and then "teaching" him how to, well, go.

The exchange went a little something like this:

Scott: OK, now your diaper's off, so you can sit down on the potty.

Benjamin: Potty! Sit! Potty!

S: That's right. We sit on the potty. No, no, don't get up. Sit down on the potty.

B: Potty! Potty!

S: OK, now push your pee-pee down in so you can pee in the potty.

B: Pee-pee! My pee-pee!

S: That's right. That's your pee-pee. Do you have to poop?

B: Yes! Poop!

S: OK. You sit on the potty and then you go like this _________ [long, painful-sounding grunting noise follows].

B: [makes long, painful-sounding grunting noise just like Daddy]

S: Good! You have to push out the poop. Try it again. [grunts again]

B: [grunts again]

And it went on like this for a few more minutes. At this point, I was thoroughly amused and skeeved out, which I know I will need to get over. Had Benjamin produced the goods right there in the living room, I would have been insanely proud and this post would have been pretty different and mildly braggy. But there was no poop. There was never any poop.

OK, OK. I'm not being totally honest.

Yes, the grunt call-and-response did, in fact, go on for a few more minutes, but I failed to mention that I joined in.

After a couple minutes with Daddy, Benjamin appeared to be done, so Scott pulled up his pants, sans diaper. Ben came running into the kitchen to see what I was doing, and while I was peeling the carrots, he looked up at me and said, "Mommy, poop!"

So I put down the carrot and the peeler, and I did what every good mother does: I pulled down my son's pants, I sat his little bum on his potty, and I proceeded to make grunting noises to try to get him to poop.

For anyone who is reading this who does not have children, let me say again that there is no dignity in parenthood. Not to slight dads in any way, but this is particularly true of motherhood. All sense of modesty and human decency are chucked out the window during labor. (You'd like to shave my private area to prep me for surgery while a dozen people stand around and watch and take notes? Sure! By all means!) And don't even get me started on the unsexiness that is breastfeeding and pumping (at least for me). I'm not convinced that you ever really get that dignity back — not entirely, anyway.

But the lack of dignity and self-respect turns out to be very useful when you have children. It allows you to pretend tap-dance with abandon (my personal favorite tactic to make B laugh hysterically) and sing inane kids' songs and use silly voices when reading stories. It's all par for the course, and I'd be skeptical of any parents who weren't willing to make fools of themselves on a daily basis for their kids. Acting like a kid in order to connect with my kid is one of the best parts of parenting. And like the poop talk, there's much more of it to come.