About three years ago I was walking up State Street when I ran into my friend Steve. He was just back from India where he’d been studying ashtanga yoga; his wife had left him; and now he was getting up at 3:45 every morning, riding his bike to the yoga center to do his practice, and then teaching students until 8:30 (the point at which I normally rolled out of bed in those carefree pre-motherhood times). Before we parted Steve said that in India he was often invited to do things by the phrase, “You come.” And thusly he invited me to his yoga class, though it was about six months before I took him up on it. But once I did, let me tell you, ashtanga yoga totally kicked my ass.
So this morning I got up at 5:30, nursed the baby before he had any idea what was going on, put him back in his crib where he passed out again, and went to Steve’s yoga class, which he now teaches with his partner, Michele. I haven’t practiced much since the baby came, and about a third of the way through I thought I was going to faint. I curled up on my mat for a few minutes and thought about crying. But something realigned itself and I got back up and kept going. When I got home Jack was waiting on the sidewalk, talking on the cell phone, holding Jackson (still in pajamas). I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m always slightly relieved that Jack has managed to keep the baby alive while I’m gone.