It didn't seem much of a stretch to enroll Milo, the home birthed in San Francisco baby, into a yoga class. A now long-lost-friend laughed at me in this version of my life (we met as grad students) and said "really you have no choice." So off to toddler yoga we go. Animal poses and songs, repetition and lions breath.
Each moment, we step closer towards the kind of people I hope for us to be, and another chance to practice who we are. Without detail or divulging the real truth, you could imagine my child and I as better versions of us. But really, okay here comes honesty, it's me who always seems to forget to shave or change my nail polish before others have to see me. And Milo is the kid who runs around the studio. He might do one pose or maybe three on a good day but really he runs sometime shrieks and yes, even bites on occasion. But his laughter is infectious and he's bright and calls out pose names and loves doing spider and we all make the best of it.
I take on the role of mother who gets sympathy or relief from the other women who were glad their child is still and quiet. They're relieved to be cleaner and more held together and I will gladly give them the victory. But as much as this calm, zen like place, where I construct versions that barely reflects the truth, seems like an exercise I should either abandon or get better at. Maybe more structure at home, more time together listening to instructions, or don't you think I could remember to shave my legs?
Last night as Milo snuggled in Papa's crook Pooh stories at the ready and all the animals lined up, ready to allow him to sleep, Milo asked "Mama can you please do lavender for us"? This means rub your hands together and then fan it over my face like teacher Michelle does at the end of class when we are floating on clouds. Yes, I say, of course and I follow Milo's instructions as he closes his eyes and takes on the floating pose.
How can I remember this… that everything is going in. This tiny person who's lived by my side for more moments than anyone else ever has, is learning all of it and using what is important for him. Now he knows about calming lavender. If I didn't find ways to climb over the doubt or uncertainty that so many moments of parenting bring, I wouldn't have a chance to feel his tiny hands waving over my face or hear his deep breaths.
How can I remember that this person who was on my hip, at my leg, in my bed, on my chest, bouncing, racing, shrieking is also going to grow beyond that. Someday we'll be elsewhere together. Someday our lives will get outside of talking about big feelings and we'll be finding out about different versions of each other. It only seems possible when looking backwards at photos or memories or moments. Then I can see that every frailty or weakness or doubt is another place where this fine boy can sprout leaves in between cracks and push down roots. Someday he'll be the man that ends up holding us each upright.