When I was pregnant with my daughter, I was finally—FINALLY—able to have a consistent morning prenatal yoga practice. I remember bragging to my mother in a phone call, saying something to the effect of: “I just realized if I can’t get up and do it now, there’s no WAY I’ll be able to keep it up when the baby gets here.”

It was nice of her not to have me committed.

I fully envisioned voluntarily waking up at 6am every morning to do an hour or two of yoga, even when I was up every two hours all night long with a newborn. I didn’t think I’d even have to take a break. (OK, mamas… Go ahead and have a big laugh at my expense. I’ll wait.)

See also Balancing Poses, Balanced Life

The reality is this: I was in no shape physically or emotionally to even THINK about unrolling my yoga mat until my daughter was around 5 weeks old. And when I did start practicing again, my sessions looked dramatically different in every way than they did before I became a mom. Now that my daughter is approaching her 3rd birthday, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever have the energy and motivation to wake up early (on purpose) to exercise or meditate ever again.

Every now and then, I’ll think. She’s old enough now. She sleeps through the night. It’s time to start my morning yoga routine again.

Then this happens:

I place my phone (with alarm) right next to my head and turn it down low so the sound will wake only me. When I hear my alarm, I move slowly, gently, but as fast as possible to un-wedge my arm from under my daughter’s head (by this time she is always, ALWAYS in my bed). Once the alarm is off. I lay in the dark for a minute to ensure that my daughter has fallen back into a deep enough sleep that I might possibly be able to move without waking her. When she’s still again, I roll, slowly, quietly out of the bed. I tiptoe carefully out the door, turn on the white noise machine in the hallway, and try to usher our deaf (and really LOUD) cat down the stairs and as far away from the bedroom as possible. That’s when I make my coffee. I sit down for just a moment, enjoying the silence. A moment, turns into a few moments. I think to myself, I should meditate or something. I sip my coffee. I breathe. This totally counts as meditation. I notice my coffee cup is half empty (or half full, depending on the day).

If I’ve made it this far, that’s when everything goes downhill. It is approximately 7 am. I hear a loud beeping noise. Shit! It’s my husband’s alarm. He rolls over and turns it off. I have about 3 more seconds before my precious me time is over. I frantically sip my coffee. Silence. They went back to sleep. OK. It’s now or never. Yoga time! I grab my mat. By my calculations, I have just enough time for 5 quick Sun Salutations before the alarm goes off again, ruining everything. I take another sip of coffee, and unroll my mat—it’s even more vital to do this quietly now that I know my family is stirring upstairs. I feel my feet underneath me. I stack my bones. I breathe. Inhale. I reach up. Exhale. I fold forward.

Inhale—”MMOOOMMMMMMMMMYYYYYY!!” Damn it! My yoga session is over before it really even begins. I slowly walk back up the stairs like sad dog, tail between her legs. Why did I think I could this was a good idea? When I make it upstairs, my daughter demands that I lie down with her. We cuddle until 7:30am, at the moment I fall back to sleep (why, yes I CAN do that after half a cup of coffee), she’s ready to get up. I roll out of bed a second time, more bleary eyed than the first, to start my day. For real this time.

Read more…
My Toddler is a Yogic Sage
My (Almost) Two-Year-Old Taught Me Pranayama
Yoga Books for Babies