I hate yoga. Why? I dunno. I don’t breathe right. And I don’t like paying money to lie about on the floor and feel unflexible. Inflexible? NOT FLEXIBLE! And I don’t like hippie bullshit. Except recycling. That’s not bullshit. And coconut oil. That’s just delicious. And fresh eggs.
But I like prenatal yoga. Mostly…mostly…
At 7pm, I heeded the Doctor’s words. “Run. As fast as you can. Get out of here.” Booberry was crying and snotting everywhere and we don’t know why. He put her in the bath and she was TOTALLY FINE so I snuck out with my yoga mat, which has been unused since last pregnancy, wearing a hand-me-down maternity t-shirt that says “I love you already.” I figure prenatal yoga is the only place I can respectably wear that.
I walked into Om Base, which, yes, is a witty name for a yoga place and I like witty names for things (the best food cart name is “Fried Egg I’m in Love”) and was immediately chastised to take my shoes off before crossing the threshold into yoga land. After I, barefoot, padded up to the desk and paid the price of four delicious lattes (or two quesadillas) (or half a pedicure) for yoga, I chatted with the other moms until it was time to enter the sanctuary or whatever the crap you call the yoga place and find a good spot.
The room was warm and balmy from whatever crazy class was happening right before mine and the preggos complained about the heat. It was quickly remedied because no one likes an overheated preggo. Once everyone was settled, the teacher, who spoke with a very pronounced vocal fry, told us it was time to share.
Everyone shared how far along they were and if it was their first and what is going well and what wasn’t. It was a diverse group. Ok sure three people were 27 weeks and I think everyone was white, middle class, 30 something women (duh, women). But some people were…more bumpin’ than others. Yoga really brings you together because you realize how alike all of mankind (in this yoga class) really is.
I was glad that I got to share last. I think I forgot to mention how many weeks I was or anything about Smudge (new fetus’ fake name) but I did mention that I have a “passionate” toddler and that first trimester sucked and that I have a sinus thing and that my sciatica is already bothering me and that I feel big already and that I’m bad at being preggo. People offered advice about chiropractors and elderberry syrup and then we got to yogaing.
The significant difference between regular and prenatal yoga is that prenatal yoga is MUCH more low pressure. In regular yoga you’re supposed to get better and more flexible as you go along, but in prenatal, you just get worse and worse until all you can do is Shavasana (after three failed attempts at spelling that, I googled “when you lie there at the end of yoga.” Bingo). Anything you do is considered an amazing physical feat and if you don’t wanna do something you just “listen to your body” and do something easier.
After a triangle pose and some clam legs and lots of downward dogs, we made it to some gentle hip stretches against the wall and transitioned right into the sweetest of yoga poses, Shavasana, “when you lie there at the end of yoga” and try not to fall into a deep and impenetrable sleep (or fart or cough). The teacher offered to rub lavender oil on us and I politely declined (so allergic—later story) and tried not to hack up a lung from my sinus issue/lavender allergy/lying on an incline. Then we sat up and put a hand on our heart and a hand on our baby (oh you, forgot about you, second child) and did a little blessing.
And then it was over. Class was supposed to end at 8:45 but, with all the sharing, it was now 9:15 and the Doctor had sent me a concerned text, wondering if I’d run off to join an all women commune or something. After jealously quizzing my friend on her car (so many seats!) and driving home, I began to wonder, was it worth it? What did I get out of yoga today?
I don’t know. I mean my hip hurts less, which is COOL, and I spent an hour relaxing. An hour of relaxation that was probably completely marred by the night terror Booberry had two hours later. She thought her pacifier was in her tummy and was thrashing around completely crazed and inconsolable for a good twenty minutes. She might be confused about where babies come from…we can work on that later. And I maybe started to notice this thingy that lives inside of me as more than just a parasite who is in collusion with its sister to kill me through sleep and food deprivation. And I maybe decided I need a vehicle with three rows. And I got to wear my cheesy maternity shirt.
Smudge, I love you already. Let’s Shavasana again sometime.