Hump Day Random

Oh, beautiful sliced cheese variety. How you torture me with your fatty delicious goodness permeating through the glass case of the deli cheese counter. If there was any way to avoid the deli cheese display on my grocery store route, I would do it. Unfortunately though, it's housed in the same area code as the piles and piles of deli meat that are a staple in the Hines household diet. Jude still gets to eat cheese and I'm jealous. In fact, I have to fight and bribe and all but beg him to eat anything but cheese. I wonder sometimes how my kid even goes number two with all the cheese he consumes, and I have to carefully make sure to regulate how much he puts down. 

Some days it's not so hard for me to not eat cheese. Some days just the mere word "cheese" makes me want to ditch this whole Paleo diet nonsense and inhale a gigantic stuffed crust 4-cheese pizza dipped in queso and garnished with pepper jack and swiss cheese squares. But, then I remind myself that I must keep on keepin' on. Only 7 lbs. to go till my pre-pregnancy weight and I like how I'm feeling these days. My arteries and colon are thanking me.

Speaking of cheese, my husband can't take a serious picture when we've been out for a grown up night of dinner and drinks with friends. Here we are at Cafe Nova, which started out as innocently enough as an evening of dinner and cocktails then turned into late night cocktails and dance time (that's what we get for going to eat at a restaurant that turns into a club after hours). What fun! How refreshing to be reminded that mommies and daddies can still go out and have this kind of fun from time to time. With the every day every day, it's easy to lose sight of this. I'm working on being diligent about penciling "Fun Time" on my calendar throughout the month. Next to hot yoga and writing, it's "mother's little helper."

Jude channeling his inner Jon Bonham or Keith Moon. Taylor noted, "I think he'd be a great drummer someday." Ehhhh. Having grown up with a father who is a rock and roll musician, I'm thrilled with the idea of having a son who plays rock and roll. I have musician envy. I never played rock and roll, but I've always been a huge fan of it (I played the violin in junior high but didn't have the discipline... plus, already having been in martial arts, I figured one Asian cliche was enough for my tortured adolescent soul to endure). I am also aware of the persona that is often that of a drummer. Wild. Crazy. Trouble. Think Animal from the Muppets, not to mention the hours of drum practice that would rattle the windows of my house. I love rock and roll, but I'm thinking I'd like Jude to be more of the elusive guitar player with mystique... 

...Or the moody, soul searching harmonica toting kind of guy. He found a harmonica that my mom got him awhile back and has taken interest in playing it. Now that he's figured out how to make music with it, he is often found roaming the house "playing the blues" as we call it. The "Pookie Blues." The "I didn't get my way again and I'm going to whine a little tune for my cruel mommy Blues."

Baby Viv had her 4 month appointment Monday. We waited for almost 2 hours to get in, which in infant time is an f'ing eternity when you are sitting in a waiting room with a bunch of coughing toddlers and crying new babies. There was a gigantic teenager in there too, which struck me as odd at first. I forget that teenagers can still see pediatricians. With a haircut like Justin Bieber's, trendily dressed, glued to his iPhone and rolling his eyes at everything his trim and stylishly dressed mother said to him, he was all pimply and greasy and overweight and sweaty. I can think of a host of things that must have been ailing that poor boy and I immediately checked off a list of things I now vow to do to keep my son from ever presenting himself in the way that this teenager did. 

A chick with a baby, a toddler and a Kindergarten age little boy sat directly behind Viv and I. The little boy was hacking his guts out and kept turning around wanting to talk to Viv, who was perched up looking over my shoulder. Really, chick with the obviously sick child? Of all the empty seats in this waiting room, you sit your coughing kid in the direct line of fire to my infant?

I got up and walked Viv around for a minute, then slowly pulled my stroller over across the way to sit in another seat, far away from Germ Boy and his inconsiderate mom.

Other than those mental distractions, my little butterball is doing fantastic. I love her in this photo, as do many friends and family. I think she looks like a little bitty geisha doll and I am over the moon by the fact that she has taken after my Asian half. Every time I look at her, I see my tiny little Okinawan grandmother, my beautiful mother and my beautiful aunts. I know that someday, when none of them are here anymore, I will see their faces in the face of my baby girl. How priceless. I wonder sometimes how it's possible that she looks even more Asian than I do, when she's only a quarter and I'm half? 

Either way, HIGH FIVE FOR LITTLE FAT ASIAN BABIES! 

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes... Turn and face the strange

Today is Jude's first day at Montessori School and my house is as an interesting kind of quiet... as settling as it is unsettling and a totally different kind of quiet than it is on a Mother's Day Out day. I think this is because there is an element of inevitable change in the air and I'm being haunted by images of my little boy at different stages of infancy throughout the rooms of my house.

I know he's still only 2 and a half- still quite the little bitty boy. It's not like he's left home for college yet or anything. But I'm starting to come to grips with the fact that that day will come and this first day of actual pre-school is the beginning of something much bigger- for all of us here at the Hines house.

Plus, I'm a nostalgia whore, what can I say? The baby and I got home from dropping him off and the silence when we walked in the door was just WEIRD. I made a cup of "who am I trying to kid this isn't real coffee" decaf coffee, laid Viv out on the big quilt on the living room floor and propped myself up next to her. It felt like five seconds ago I was on the same quilt in the same room with baby Jude, chatting baby talk and working on tummy time and wiping off the leaky faucet that is an infant's mouth dribbling drool everywhere.

How can it be that it's already just me and my second child while the oldest is at school? My mind is blown once again.

I'm imagining that most stay-at-home moms go through this when their oldest starts pre-school. After having this child by my side since the day he was born, adjusting to having him gone for the better half of the day all week makes a part of my heart feel a little like an ice cream scooper just dug a big chunk out of it.

When Taylor and I decided that I would quit my job to be at home to care for our children (one impending at the time, more planned for the future), I thought that I would keep them here with me until kindergarten. What was the point of sending a toddler off to school when he has me at home to hang out with him?

But now I'm discovering that Jude's personality needs more than what I can provide for him. He's hungry to learn and be around other children more often. Our mommy and child dynamic makes for mostly playtime, care taking time and whiney time (whiney time for mostly Jude, but often me too)- not the kind of learning time that Taylor and I want for him, despite my clueless attempts at it. Despite all of the education I've acquired, my college degree doesn't mean that I know jack about teaching children.

I've done my best on my own. He knows his ABCs. He can count to 20. Colors, shapes, words, weather, animals... he knows good stuff. He's bright. He's assertive. He's talkative. He's inquisitive. He's outgoing. He's social. He's amazing.

Many parents want to believe that their star shines the brightest, but that's so egotistical and conceited. I just like to believe that my star shines brightly: Period.

I woke him up this morning at 7- which was an hour earlier for all of us- and he wasn't thrilled about it. But I reminded him that he would start Montessori school today and he immediately got excited and was ready to get moving (yay, all the pep talking we've been doing worked!). Getting dressed, eating breakfast in a bit of a hurry and bustling out the door isn't something we're really accustomed to- at least before 10 in the morning. Our routine involves a lot of lolly gagging around in our PJs.

The get "up and at it" will probably be much harder on me than it will be on him considering I'm not getting a full night's sleep and I'm definitely not an "up and at it" morning person myself (must be where he gets it from). Children are optimist and pliable. Grown ups are grumpy and stuck in their ways.

So now here I am. Baby Viv is sleeping and I feel like I have all of this extra time that must be utilized. I forgot what it's like to be alone in the house with just an infant. What do do? What to do?

There's always a never ending list of typical domestic crap that isn't much fun but must be done. I have my music column to work on- interviews to set up, research to do.  My big Miranda Lambert interview is this upcoming Friday and now I'll have plenty of time to bone up for what will be one of my biggest features stories to date.

On this first day of Jude at school I've decided that since I will have plenty of time throughout the week to handle my obligations and responsibilities, I shall peruse baby photos of my little Montessori learning bee.

I check the clock and it's still far too early for lunch. The fact that I'm on the computer this early in the day, uninterrupted, is foreign to me. I miss my sidekick running in here half naked from stripping down after using the potty, shouting about cars, begging for juice and gummies, hanging onto my leg, wanting to be held and chased, getting into everything his little hands can get ahold of (like TROUBLE) and whining about this, that or the other.

I think I may just hug him half to death when I get my hands on him again this afternoon.

3 or so months old. Our all-time favorite photo of Jude. It is framed in three different rooms in the house so we can see it all the time.

GO GET YOUR LEARN ON BUDDY BOY!

Delirium

When I was just a youngster, I was pretty nuts. Well, maybe I'm still pretty nuts, but have just learned how to contain it better. I can accept that. Either way, when I say "youngster," I mean teenager (and partial early twenties in all fairness). I was a fairly normal, mild mannered child- if anything, nerd city- but as the years went by I became very angry. Cliche typical teenage wasteland b.s.- the angst and rebellion. The woe is me self-medication. The bitter turmoil and "Why is life so unfair?" existence that is the American teenager.

I mastered the art of wallowing in the crazy- really milking it for all that it was worth. I relished in my crazy and wore my loose cannon tendencies like a badge. Because it was easier than dealing with the unpleasant mess hiding under the surface. But, like so many of us do- I eventually grew out of that. Drama is so energy sucking and unproductive. Life doesn't get easier- just more manageable, especially once you realize that you have the power and ability to control your own situations. You either choose to be miserable or you choose to be happy. Or you choose to hover around in limbo, unsure if you are happy or not- but ultimately, even from there, you can choose to be bored in limbo, or move on to something more exciting and fulfilling and interesting. If you aren't satisfied with your current situation, put your big girl panties on, deal with it, and move onto something that satisfies you.

All of this sounds so simple- and honestly it is...until you have children. 

Children can drive you to a whole new level of crazy. A manageable crazy, but still crazy. It seems like as soon as I got a handle on this "having my shit together" thing, I had a baby. Now two babies. And in the wee hours of the morning, when the tiny person I am responsible for won't let me sleep- it's difficult not to lose my shit. You can't choose to move onto a more satisfying, restful situation when you have babies- no matter how much you've mastered your little personal universe- because even the most doting husbands by day are all but worthless in the middle of the night- particularly if you are nursing. All you can do is choose to be miserable in your sleep-deprived delirium or be happy in it... and being miserable in this situation is waaaaay easier. I personally have to fight the inner crazy chick in my head who wants to lose her cool and cry and freak out sometimes because I just. Want. TO. SLEEEEEP!!!!!

I have my good nights. I have my not so good nights (I'd say bad, but they're never really BAD. Just not so good). Last night was a not so good night. The delirium that comes with sleep deprivation goes in waves... sometimes you accept that you are sleep deprived, sometimes you fight it and resist the inevitable.

Baby Viv turns 4 months next Monday and she isn't anywhere close to sleeping through the night. She started sleeping almost 8 hours at a time for awhile, but has since reverted back to waking up every 2 to 3 hours. We're going backwards and it SUCKS.

Jude was sleeping through the night at 2 months old. I guess I got spoiled and naively believed that both kids would grant me such luxury. I'm learning with kids you can't compare apples to oranges, but you can't really help it. You go by what you know. And all I know is that Jude was sleeping through the night by 2 months. He also woke up pissed off every morning until he was 2 years old... and still wakes up pissed off from time to time. I'm talking PISSED off. We used to call him "Mr. Shitty Morning" because he was so miserable. For no real reason besides the fact that he's not a morning person. This can either be a cute personality quirk or irritating and unbearable to the Nth degree- it depends on what kind of day I'm having.

I thought I escaped Mr. Shitty Morning when I moved out of my parent's house and away from my Mr. Shitty Morning father.

Nope. Isn't irony a bitch?

In exchange for Next Generation Mr. Shitty Morning, I now have Miss Party Girl Up All Night. Miss Hold Me All the Time or I'll Flip Out. Miss Give Me a Booby or I'll Attack Your Face and Give Your Chin a Hickey.

The good news is, Baby Viv wakes up happy. I would too if I got to snack all night long. I get and read advice about training baby not to wake up snacking in the middle of the night. To break that habit- and this advice from people getting restful night's sleep makes me want to punch their lights out. The last thing I need is for Viv's baby screech owl noises to wake up junior in the adjoining bedroom. So snack in the night she will and sleep with me in our bed by sunrise she shall. With the first baby I was more regimented and stringent... because I could be. With this baby, whatever goes that will keep her quiet and happy and not waking up first baby.

At my baby shower for Jude, all the seasoned mommies filled out little advice cards (which I kept of course). One that resonated in me the most said to enjoy the middle of the night feedings when it's just me and the baby alone, while everyone else is asleep, because that time is so short and sweet and will be over and gone before I know it. I didn't follow that advice enough with Jude- at least I don't think I did. He got older and bigger so quickly that I don't know what the hell happened to my infant boy. I look at him and how rapidly he's growing and I want to cling to baby Viv because I know she's next. With Jude I feel like I was constantly trying to get him to sleep because he's always fought sleep (still does) so I could put him down. Now I don't want to put Viv down because I feel like I need to savor every little mili-second I have with her in my arms, needing me and taking comfort in me like she does now.

I find myself second guessing whether or not I held Jude enough or cradled him enough while he slept... I'm learning that no matter how confident you are as a woman, as a mother, you will constantly second guess how good of a mother you are and if you are doing enough, good enough, enough enough...

Seconds babies are a game changer. With Jude I think I clung to a lifestyle that included blissful nights of 8+ hours of sleep. Now I know that ship has sailed and to just ride this out... even if it does make me feel crazy drunk/hangover like tired all day.

New shoes make me happy. I'm the only girl I know without an actual shoe fetish, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate a pair of new ones. I am especially happy now that my feet aren't swollen from pregnancy and they are back to their normal skinny banana boat shape and size, so they no longer look like bread loaves stuffed into pans in shoes like these. Yay!

Husband went out and got himself a fancy pants coffee maker. I say himself, but I guess I should say US. Right now it's more for him though, because he gets to drink the real thing and I don't consider decaf coffee actual coffee. But alas, I pump myself full of decaf coffee in the mornings now, trying trick my brain into a mental shake down, hoping that the mere routine of brewing and doctoring a cup of coffee will have some sort of energizing effect on my energy level. No such luck, but I have come to enjoy the taste of it, even though it's pretty much worthless. I was hesitant about this coffee maker because it uses these little plastic coffee pods for individual cups- it seems wasteful and unnecessary (and borderline capable of taking away a couple of Taylor's man points since it's so uppity. I worked in a tobacco and coffee shop once upon a time and guys who got froo froo coffee drinks were never short of merciless teasing once they left the shop)- BUT, Taylor works hard with his nose to the grind every day, so if a fancy pants coffee maker brings a little slice of sunshine into his day, I won't tease him for it.

Considering revamping my closet. Since getting addicted to Pinterest, I've come to reevaluate my clothing and my organizational skills. I've been inspired! Plus, now that I can fit into my clothes (for the most part), I want to make my closet space more exciting. While pregnant, I went on a rampage and dug out a ton of stuff to make room for future new threads that I planned on collecting in celebration of getting my figure back. Amidst being annoyed at my smaller sized clothes, I sold and donated some stuff that I'm realizing now I should've kept (damn). They say not to go to the grocery store when you are hungry. I say don't go through your closet and get rid of your normal sized clothes when you are pregnant.

This space could actually be used for more clothes since there is a rack above it. I can't bring myself to tear down my little accessory shrine though. The funny thing is, I don't really wear much jewelry anymore- but I still like my stuff and wear pieces on the rare occasions that I go out. Over the years, after you get married and have kids, your personal girlie space evolves and has to fuse with your husband's taste and stuff. Guys get man caves (if they want them) but what do we get? The whole house I guess, but for me, my cave is my closet. It's a little space packed with my stuff, decorated and arranged in the way that I've always done with my nick nacks and things since I was little. Maybe it's an identity thing, I don't know. I do know, however, that it feels good to be in there and feel like "classic me," if that makes any sense at all.

I want to organize my shoes but I'm not sure how to go about doing this. My beloved boot collection is in particularly bad shape, with them all stuff into a corner back there by my shoe rack. I feel like I need more grown up ladies shoes, but I am terrible in heels and have no real grown up places to go these days.   The only heels I have are the ones I've collected over the years specifically for Vegas trips- since Vegas is the only place you'll ever really see me in them, and I have to go buy new ones each time since the ones worn from each previous trip get so trashed and demolished from all night club hopping, drinking and belligerent shennanigans (that's how we do it in Vegas!).

My closet's mascot. Yes, this is a monster eating a bowl of rice with chopsticks. A funny coworker gave it to me awhile back and I love it. It makes me smile every time I go in my closet. Now it also reminds me of how much I miss a big bowl of white rice. 

~sigh~

I keep a "piggy" bank. It's stuffed with funds that are just for me. No groceries. No toys or clothes for the kids. No bills. Just for me. I believe this is a must for moms.

Miss Party Girl Up All Night 

Miss Hold Me All the Time or I'll Flip Out

Miss Cutie Patootie Pie that I can't get enough of, despite today's complaining rant.

High Five for FUN!

How is it already Sunday night again? The weeks are just flyin' by. This weekend has gone by super quick too, but I guess because it was pretty fun! Spent most of it down in Norman- always a good time (so happy I have my parent's house to crash at with my babies!).

High Five for fun!

As yesterday was the first OU game day of the season, I dressed my little lion cubs up in their OU gear- Jude in his Adrian Peterson jersey and Viv in her little onesie and denim skirt. I knew it would make my husband's day to see his babies in those outfits, and that's why I did it. The three of them were just as cute as could be in their matching OU shirts. I wore a comfy black dress. Not intentionally morbid or indifferent, but because I don't own or wear OU regalia. I don't NOT wear OU stuff because I think I'm too cool. Far from it. I actually don't wear game day gear because I feel it would be taking away from actual fans who do wear it. I'd feel awkward and phony because I just don't get into OU football. Out of respect to those who love it, I don't wear it. I'm no band wagoner. One of the games I went to with Taylor a long time ago, I tried to at least wear an OU'ish colored shirt, but Taylor just teased me the entire time and told me that I stuck out. He told me that I looked like a hippie trying to look like an OU fan and that it was really obvious that I didn't care what was going on.

"What?" I asked indignantly. "This is a red shirt." But OU's colors aren't red. They're CRIMSON. 

Well, fuck me.

 I grew up in Norman my entire life and have never gotten into OU football. My parents aren't into sports (my dad is the most UNsports guy you will EVER meet in your life. Seriously. Meet him and tell me I'm wrong) so my brother and I were sort of destined to never be into team sports either. It was never on TV at our house so my exposure to it was virtually zilch- in fact, most of the time I forgot that OU football even existed up the street. I don't remember hearing much about OU football really until after the 2000 Championship- then I couldn't escape it if I tried. Maybe up until then I wasn't paying attention- I did after all spend every Saturday from high school through my early twenties working in the mall- or was I existing in a constant state of buzzed out bliss that I was oblivious to the crimson and cream machine that fueled my city- but I'm guessing that when you grow up living in a place, certain things about its ambiance just become such a constant that you forget they're even there. Now I'm married to OU Super Fan #1, so OU football is a very big deal in my household. I learned this really quick when Taylor and I first started dating 10 years ago. As a 5th generation OU alumni, Taylor has OU football running through his veins. Even jokingly knocking it is blasphemy in my house- which I think is stupid (he can tease me about everything under the sun but I can't bust his balls about this? Come on!), but what can I do? We all have our sensitive spots, and although my husband doesn't have many of them (I love that about him), OU football is definitely one. So I go along with it and let him tell me about OU football things and participate in watch parties (because I like parties and I like game day eating) because that's what good spouses do: we support each other's interests. Besides, when OU loses, I have to live with the drunk pissed off husband moping around my house. So it's much better for  me when they are WINNING.

I'm a good sport, but I'm not exactly Miss Team Spirit. It's just not in my nature. I was a cheerleader in the 8th grade and it was an excellent learning experience for me- it helped me discover what doesn't get me excited. But alas- here I am... older, wiser and still "Eh" about the whole thing, but it's inevitable that my kids will probably be OU fans just like they're dad... and that is just fine by me. I'm happy that they will grow up sharing that with him- and I'll always put on an interested face and encourage their enthusiasm for it. I'll make 7 layer dip for them to eat while they watch it and arrange watch parties at our house so they'll grow up with memories of fun get togethers spawned by a love of something bigger than them. I'll take them down to Norman to tail gate and hell, I'll even buy Viv a little cheerleader outfit to wear if she ever decides she wants one- whatever. 

It seems to me that there should be no limit on what you can do to make your kids smile and have fun- so if they're having fun and are into it, then you should be too.

Jude and Viv and I hung out at my parent's house with my parents and brother before I left them there so I could venture out for my night on the town. Jude was really understanding about Mommy needing some grown up time. Can't you tell?

Taylor went to the game with our friend Dustin and I went out later that evening with Jennifer. The guys left mid game or so to meet up with us for sushi and drinks at In the Raw, sharing with us tales of senior citizens passing out from heat exhaustion in the stands. People apparently were getting carried out on stretchers and were puking into cups because it was so hot up there. 

Boomer!

Asian cuisine, girlie martinis and Japanese beer have become Jennifer's and my date night ritual. 

This is a 5 STAR date night package that became a trend by accident. We just really like Asian cuisine, girlie martinis and Japanese beer. An excellent recipe for a perfect "full" and gabbing fuel.

Jennifer and I have started scheduling ample phone conversations and date nights because we are old and busy. She's here there and everywhere teaching yoga and working and doing her Jennifer thing, and my windows for grown up time are so fleeting anymore with two little ones pulling me apart like a wishbone. These days, to get in the marathon conversations we need to thoroughly share everything that must be shared, penciling in dates is a must. Kind of like how a martial relationship goes- you have to make time for one another to keep a friendship healthy and flourishing and growing, even if you have to schedule it. I'm pretty proud of us for figuring this out.

It always weirds me out when I see people my age or younger making out in public places, but it's always even weirder when it's people my parents age and older. No offense older people, but no matter what age you are, seeing people your parents age make out is always uncomfortable. Or hilarious when you've been drinking and they don't notice you taking their picture to post on Facebook.

Taylor kept calling what they were doing "heavy petting." Yep. That's pretty much what they were doing. The woman kept spilling her white wine all over the place and the man couldn't seem to tear his hands off of her butt. Ewwwwww.

Jennifer and I suck at the "friends taking self portraits" thing, especially once we've abandoned the martinis for beer. This picture was a winner only because we finally gave up and got some guy at the Deli to take it. The series of pictures of us attempting to take one of our own that was successful in capturing our good sides will have me laughing for days because we're total dorks.

No, you can't see them. 

Ego Schmeego

After weeks of waiting until at least one of my pairs of yoga pants fit, I finally managed to squeeze my ass into one Monday. Just one pair though- an older, stretchier pair- most of the others are just not going to happen yet, but still.

~ sigh of relief~

I'd been telling myself that I wouldn't go back to yoga until I could wear at least one pair of my pants. Call it a vanity thing, but I refuse to go buy new yoga clothes for a size that I flat out refuse to stay in. If I spent the money on them, I might just get lazy and complacent in them. Nope. That just can't happen.

I'd been both anticipating and dreading this moment since I first got the go-to to exercise again, 6 weeks postpartum. Anticipating because I've missed my hot yoga class so much- I'd grown addicted to this therapeutic escape from my daily routine- healthier and in better shape than I'd ever been in my life. Dreading because I knew that the past year of sedentary bliss I'd been enjoying had knocked down the level of skill and strength I'd worked so hard to achieve in a fierce way.

I found out I was pregnant with Viv almost exactly a year ago this week. It was in the middle of the last hot yoga class I would go to that I went into headstand and found myself seeing spots and feeling like I was going to pass out. I've gotten to know my body pretty well over the years- and I knew that something just wasn't right. Following my intuition, I stopped off at Walgreens and got a pregnancy test, went home and took it immediately. Sure enough- positive. I immediately felt stunned: disappointed that I had just attended my last hot yoga class for a long time but thrilled at what my future now had in store.

So here we are- one year, 50 lbs. gained and 40 lbs. lost later. I made my return back to Tiffany's on Tuesday (to her new studio- which is beautiful!) both excited and nervous. Her new heating system is killer. Literally- KILLER. I had to get up, leave the room and take a break. WHEW! Hot damn. Momma was about pass the F out. I knew I shouldn't have been embarrassed, but I felt sheepish. I don't like feeling weak.

I can't blame it on the heat though. I must take responsibility for the fact that I am hella out of shape. Even the most simple asanas were challenging. My body seemed to suddenly wake up and shout, "Hey- what the fuck are you doing to us?!"

I'm all janky and stiff and... tired. 

This is definitely a lesson for my ego- as I've learned that pregnancy and childbirth serves to be... a lesson in putting ego in check... for me at least. I'm not going to waltz back into an upper level hot yoga class and be Wonder Woman on the mat after willingly and knowingly allowing my strength and flexibility and stamina to deflate like an old birthday balloon. I sorta knew this going in Tuesday- but I was honestly fooling myself. Now I'm pretty damn sure that I'm not Wonderwoman after all.

It's a new era of refreshing challenge for me though- which is something that I crave and constantly seek out: a good challenge. With a second pregnancy and long fought for natural childbirth now under my belt, I can move onto the next challenge: getting back into my old shape- if not better this time (that's the ticket!). Virtually starting over and progressing into the challenging yoga poses and balances that I've lost is a goal that I'm super stoked to work on. I'm counting on nothing but positive growth on the journey to get my breath and stride back. 

It's all about growth growth growth! 

Jude was sad to see me leave for yoga Tuesday evening. He's gotten so accustomed to having me home ALL THE TIME that he's not too thrilled at the idea of me having any kind of a life away from him. It really is quite flattering to have that little face pressed up against the glass of our front door, crying and wailing for me to come back. Is it totally evil to feel a gigantic rush of relief (and guilt, thank you very much!) wash over me as I'm backing out of the driveway? I forgot how good that 2 hours of "me" time feels when I go to yoga. For 2 hours I didn't think about cooking or cleaning or diapers or making crying/whining stop or entertaining or who needs to be held or who needs to be changed or who needs to eat or who needs a nap or making everyone else in the house happy... I just concentrated on... me. Wow, oh yeah. ME. I forget about her a lot.

Jude was walking around the house today saying, "I want do goga wit mine Mommy." It took me awhile to figure it out, but I asked him, "You want to do YOGA with me?" He got really excited and jumped up and down shouting, "Yeahhh!" Well alright buddy, you got it! I got out my mat and showed him a couple of simple things- and when he saw me do it, he started bouncing around laughing yelling (since everything is communicated through yelling and shouting these days) "Jude try! JUDE TRY!" 

We had SO. MUCH. FUN!

I just finished writing an article for the magazine on kid's yoga, so this got me thinking and planning for when I can enroll Jude at age 3- and Viv, further on down the road. I've already started working on some relaxation techniques with Jude while he's in bed, right before last kisses and hugs and good nights, like a little mini/kid version of savasana (corpse pose). It works wonders in calming my Tiny Tornado and I can't wait to get his little bouncy butt into class! 

And now, as I go to bore my husband into an early night's sleep with a Redbox treat of "The King's Speech," I leave you with pics of the world's next great yogi in action!

His downward dog. I'm impressed!

Well hi there!

Cobra

Jude's version of Warrior 2

The happiest Warrior on the block!