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 ...

One Is the Loneliest Number

In the last couple of weeks, I have learned that not one, not two, but THREE of my closest girlfriends are pregnant and due at basically the exact same time. Likewise, another dear friend and my sister-in-law are due early this summer. It's safe to say that there's an epidemic of baby fever going around these parts.

All of them are pregnant with their second or third children, which is a concept I seriously cannot get my head around. In theory, I've always wanted more than just one kid. My husband hated growing up as an only child, and we both want Benjamin to have a sister or a brother someday.

Someday.

The fact is, I don't know when that "someday" is going to come. I have barely made it through this first year as a working mom with all of my faculties intact, and I think I have managed to not lose myself entirely in the process. Seeing how quickly my interests could be swallowed up or abandoned simply because I no longer have enough hours in the day to do everything has made me cling to them more tightly than I ever have.

My motherhood mantra has, since Day 1, been, "It's not always going to be like this. Sometimes it will be better, sometimes it will be worse, but it's not always going to be like this."

I am not all Pollyanna about being a mom: Sometimes it's amazing and fulfilling and The Best Thing Ever. And sometimes, it really sucks. Sometimes it can be tedious and thankless and frustrating. Throw a full-time job into the mix, and the battle for your time and energy ensues.

I know I haven't been able to give 100 percent as a teacher and a writer all the time, just like I haven't been able to give 100 percent as a mother or a wife or a friend or a sister or what have you, either. I think I've finally reached a point where I'm OK with that.

My kind of pie chartI was reading the new issue of Real Simple last night. It included an excerpt from a new book by the managing editor, Kristin van Ogtrop. In the essay, she laments letting her friendships take a backseat to parenthood and work. I'm paraphrasing a lot, but she wrote about doing an exercise in which you segment your life into a pie chart to figure out how you spend your time. She realized that her pie had just three big slices: work, kids and sleep. She wasn't happy about her pie. I think it's a good lesson.

I've always admired my mother for many things, but one was her desire to do her own thing, despite having three children. She got together with her good friends as much as she could over coffee or breakfast. She volunteered a lot. When we got older, she took a part-time job as a children's librarian. She and my dad took a trip usually once a year, even for just a weekend. She still reads a book a week. And she made dinner every night, cleaned the house, washed our clothes and came to all of our soccer games, plays, art shows and parent-teacher conferences.

So as my husband and I discuss having another baby, I am trying to figure out what I want and if it makes sense to wait or to just jump in. I've given myself until July to decide. Getting pregnant was a lot of work. First, it involved fertility drugs that gave me raging headaches and did not work. I spent hundreds of dollars in the months before I conceived on ovulation strips, a fertility monitor, herbs, books, you name it. I charted my temperature every morning for months.

I spent an entire spring and summer obsessed with getting pregnant. It was not fun, and I do not want to do that again. I'm scared that it will take that level of effort—maybe more—to get pregnant again. I'm not sure there's enough room in my pie chart—or in my head—right now for this.

But if I wait until I'm 35 instead of 34 to conceive again, will I be setting myself up for a rougher time? What about Scott and what he wants? And then there's my job … tenure around the corner, freelancing, teaching. And what about me? What about my interests? Will I ever be able to write the stories I want to or travel to the places I want to go? (And what about my cupcake truck/mobile coffeehouse/bookmobile I've been dreaming about?!) How much does that stuff really matter to me?

So many questions, but I suppose it's always a leap of faith, no matter what.

Readers, what would your pie chart look like? How do you spend most of your time? And are you happy about that? If you could design your perfect pie chart, what would you include?

Balancing Act

Where does the time go? First it was the holiday madness, which actually turned out to be less mad than I expected it to be—though the amount of baby-related paraphernalia at least doubled. (Damn you, generous grandparents!)

Next, it was the end of a glorious four weeks of break and a return to school. The spring semester started in mid-January, and it's all but consumed every bit of my mental and emotional space. Physically, I only need to be on campus three days a week—two to teach and one for office hours—but I spend the other days getting ready for those three days away from home, so it feels like a lot more.

One of my New Year's resolutions was to find and then subsequently add more balance in my life—more specifically, figuring out how to juggle being a mom, professor, writer, wife … and also just me.

[Sidenote: My New Year's resolutions always remind me of a line from my Favorite Movie Ever, "The Wizard of Oz." When Dorothy is in Munchkinland, she says, "My! People come and go so quickly here!" to a chorus a teeny Munchkin giggles.]

So, yes, we can now safely add this to the list of Stuff People Warned Me About Motherhood But I Didn't Actually Understand Until I Was a Mother. Boy, that list is getting long.

Before I go one step further, let me just say that I know I should not be complaining about my situation. I have a really good job, one that pays pretty well and requires me to be in the office only two to three days a week. There are a lot of people who have to go to work every day. There are also people who aren't fortunate enough to even have a job.

In my defense, I do work more than 40 hours a week. My nights and weekends are reserved for grading and prepping my lessons. I'm also required to do "scholarly work," which means I have to write and publish what I write. I just often do these things in my office at home while wearing sweatpants and watching "Law & Order" reruns.

My problem is this: I like teaching, but I like being with my son more. A lot more. Even when he's projectile-vomiting all over himself, his crib and me (which he did a few days ago), I still want to be with him more than anything.

In my mind, that's how it should be. I'm his mom. He's my son. We're supposed to have that sort of bond. He's supposed to be my priority, above all else. But I can't abandon every other part of my life, and I don't want to.

What I do want to do is to figure out a way to make it all copacetic, like in one of those iPhone commercials that promises to sync all of your stuff so it works well together. Newsflash: I have an iPhone. Yes, I can sync the electronic parts of my life, but I need something that syncs my actual life. Is there an app for that? Because that, Mr. Steve Jobs, would be impressive—certainly more impressive than the most poorly named gadget ever. (Seriously, is there not one woman who works at Apple?)

I digress. One thing that I need to do more regularly is write. Right now, writing for me feels delicious and almost naughty because I can do it only during time stolen here and there. More than that, though, it feels like me. And here we are.

Perhaps I have become a bit of a cliché—a working mom who's tired and stressed and can't find time to get everything done. I feel like a "Cathy" cartoon sometimes, a thought bubble over my head with the words "Aack! I'm sweating the small stuff! Someone pass the chocolate!" floating inside.

I don't want to be either of these things. I want to be the mom who resists getting a minivan just because it's a minivan—luxury, comfort and convenience be damned. I want to be the mom who listens to Cursive and The Pixies at top volume while driving in that non-minivan vehicle. I want to be a mom who still wears makeup and pants with non-elastic waists and fixes her hair and shaves her legs occasionally. I want to be a good mom, a good wife, a good teacher, a good writer, a good friend, a good sister, etc.

And I will be those things. I am those things. I just have to figure out how to keep all the parts together and not let them slip away, like one of Benjamin's many errant Cheerios.

I take comfort in knowing that (1) I'm not alone—every other mom I know is in the same boat—and (2) that really the only person who expects me to have everything figured out and working perfectly is me. It's all a work in progress—parenting, marriage, writing, teaching, all of it. And when I finally figure it out, and until I do, you can bet I'll be writing about it.