Little Tits Yoga

Who knew I’d create a television tyrant? My plan was to remain TV-free for at least my son’s first two years. Well, not counting hanging out with his dad in front of some Saturday or Sunday sports with no sound and Tivo-ed-through commercials. As a proudly crunchy mama, I figured it was hardly progressive to stick to the American Association of Pediatrics’ guidelines as a minimum. Maybe we’d even get rid of the TV one day. I certainly never had time to watch it!

But the kid would not nap alone, I didn’t have much in the way of childcare options, and I could not even do a few yoga poses without him climbing on me or clamoring to be picked up. The half-dozen or so yoga classes I’d attended in his 20 months of life reminded me how much more funny and happy I am when I have a regular practice going. So, I bought a DVD.

It’s was a YogaKids video. My sister’s kids had the “ABC Yoga” video of this series, and I thought there were worse things than my 4-year-old niece pointing to me in her living room and saying, “You’re doing down dog!” What could be the harm in my son learning the way of the yogi early on, right? Hey, maybe we could even make it a ritual, something we do every morning before breakfast. This could make me a better mom, one who models consistency, honoring my body, mindful breathing. TV as Hippy Helper!

All lovely thoughts, perhaps, but really just rationalizations for my heading the way of the light box. We watched the video a few times in the morning, and it got little reaction at first. My son pattered away after a few minutes, then came closer and tugged at my stretchy capris. One time I tried to do triangle while holding him, and my formerly sprained ankle was not pleased. The little kids on the screen were getting a better workout than I was.

The video’s selection of poses was not my favorite; “ABC Yoga” had been on backorder, so this was just a general kids collection with a few real poses, some slightly altered and renamed poses and a few breathing exercises, starting off the video with us watching a yellow duck rise and fall on a girl’s belly.

Visually, though, much of the video was fun to look at with lots of animal images. The kids even got to hug a big fluffy dog and mimic a bunny’s twitching nose. There were a few songs but lots of calming voice talk with quiet or new-agey synth in the background. Images of natured abounded, sometimes on their own, and sometimes with voice-overs about how we are all connected – the earth, sky, trees. A feel-good message.

“Look at the snake! Hiss!” I invited my son the first few times we tried the video. “And there’s Lake Michigan, and a boat.” I tried to make it instructive while also getting in some stretches. Now I cannot believe I invited my son to glue his eyeballs to this thing. It turns out that yoga, in the form of light coming out of a big screen, can be addictive.

I blame it on my husband who once put on the video in the evening not in order to get some yoga in himself or even to buy time to get some cooking done, but just as something to do while his mom was visiting. This, to me, was like giving a kid chocolate when he doesn’t want it. What a waste of a bad thing!

Since then, our boy has demanded the video daily. I think he has come to see the six young children, all in brightly colored matching shorts and t-shirts, as his new best friends. “Kids!” he yells, and signs, bopping his hand up and down like he’s patting kids on the head. “KIDS!” This is not with the cute question mark in his voice, as with “more?” or the soft added “please?” when I don’t acknowledge a request right away. No, this is the serious tone of orders, all caps, as in “drop down and give me twenty!”

Sometimes his demand is done with finger pointed at the TV, sometimes holding the DVD box, and, my personal favorite, sometimes pointing the remote control at the screen. One day he had just asked to nurse when we sat on the couch and he spied the remote, begging for his “kids” fix. As he was lifting my shirt, confused about whether he wanted me or media, it occurred to me that my son’s enunciation is not all that clear. I could have sworn he was shouting “Tits!” Except that he was looking away from my naked breast and toward the TV. I gave him a choice: nurse or kids. He chose to nurse, but as soon as he was done, he turned around to scooch off the couch and then handed me the remote control.

I’ve now tried to make peace with the fact that my son watches this little bit of TV. He buzzes when he sees the bee, and meows at the cat. He happily points out the boat al by himself now. And I swear he is singing out the letters such that Y-O-G-A is probably going to be his first spelled word, whether he knows it or not.

He is getting increasingly self aware, shouting his name and pointing to himself to ask me to assist him getting into position. We also spend some of the time with him just sitting in my lap, especially for a while after butterfly pose. When I can get away with it, I use the time in between poses to work on dinner prep. If I’m lucky and not too busy multitasking during his drug therapy, I sometimes get in a few stretches and breaths during the video’s 30-minute run.

For my own real practice, though, I’ve acknowledged that the video alone will not Zen me out and have me getting to sleep before 2 a.m. So I’ve ventured out to a new local studio and even bought a series of five classes instead of just paying the drop-in rate. I feel very rusty but grateful to have someone else who is not attached to me focusing on my body and telling me what to do.

One Sunday morning, the instructor was showing us a shoulder opening stretch that had us face to face with the wall. As she came up to adjust me and woman next to me, she said, somewhat apologetically and somewhat gleefully, “Now, see, I don’t have boobs, so this is never a problem for me.” Having never worn anything larger than an A-cup, I was surprised to be considered a booby woman. It was about an hour before the time my son usually started his nap, during which he typically nurses non-stop until I wake up and pull him off. So I was a little full. Thanks to my son’s voracious breastmilk appetite, my chest, clad in a turquoise Shiva Rea tank, did, for once, look like it actually had some cleavage. I opened my shoulders with a smile.

Tits!