Peace to All Who Enter Sunday Bloody Sunday

I did Bikram yoga for the first time today and it was not pretty. It was 90 minutes of intense, sweaty, twisted hell. I knew what I was getting myself into, but I was still not quite prepared for what it would feel like to be in an extremely small, extremely hot room with 35 nearly naked other people twisting myself into difficult poses that I was supposed to hold for five breaths, or, an eternity. My first pose was so off that I attracted the attention of the yoga teacher. I tried to copy my hot shot neighbors for the rest of the class, but this was difficult when my head was, say between my legs, looking to the left, becoming one with a fixed point. The next time the teacher came over I apologized and said this was my first time (if I had a dollar or every time I said that…), which he announced to the class, which elicited a round of applause. I think I will say that every time I go, just for the ego boost.

The teacher talked the entire time. Boy, that sure makes the time fly. And while he did have a few good things to ruminate on during the mediation portion at the end (“We become what we resent” and “change yourself and everyone and everything around you will change” come to mind) he did have a few less than savory quotes, like “I told my dad I wanted to kill him.” Interesting…on Fathers Day, no less. Those sort of unexpected death threats kept the class from being 90 minutes of listening to fortune cookie-esque talk. It ended with a bunch of Omms and a namaste, which almost made me laugh because I felt so ridiculous saying it. Such a poser, no pun intended.

Then, after all that Ommm and good karma and yoga energy, I headed back to the country ranch in time to see Avery suffer a nasty fall and split open her chin. We decided to get on the road and head back to NYC instead of seeing a doctor in Massachusetts. Nicole said she thought it would be fine, but I thought it might need stitches. Avery slept most of the way in the car. We called our doctor when we got back to the city and sure enough, she confirmed that poor Avery needed stitches. So Nicole took her back to the hospital (where she was born) for the her very first minor surgical experience. I know that Nicole is the better mom to go because I am not as calm as I should be in situations like this. Think of Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment and that is close to how I may react in any stressful hospital setting. Yet I am sad that I am not there to hold her little hand and kiss her little face and help distract her from the pain. Thinking about it now makes me cry. Will Nicole always be the go-to mom for the Big Things? Will Avery look back and remember me as not being there for her? Even though it is because I need to stay home with Madeline? And didn’t my yoga teacher say something today about letting these sort of thoughts drift into my head and then drift right back out? Breath in, breath out.

Just got the text from Nicole: Six stitches for my poor baby girl!

Pictured above, Avery and a worm and Avery watering the herb garden with a visiting Nana (Nicole’s parents visited us up in Mass). And miss Madeline. I need to Photoshop out her diaper.