B'Sha'ah Tovah

In the secular world, when a woman announces that she's expecting a baby, others wish her hearty congratulations, and share in the excitement - often throwing multiple baby showers, asking about names, and wondering about the gender of the growing bundle of joy. In the Jewish world, moreso in the religious sect but nearly always amongst the traditionalists, we wish the woman and her husband B'Sha'ah Tovah.

B'Sha'ah Tovah is a wish for the parents-to-be that the baby is born in a favorable hour for the baby and the mother. This is not the same as wishing them Mazel Tov, which is a wish of congratulations.

According to Jewish law, although the human soul exists before the baby is born, human life actually begins at birth, when the baby is more than halfway out of the mother's body. There are many superstitions that reflect this: we typically do not utter the baby's name before the post birth ceremonies*, we don't have baby showers until after the baby is born (though some people, like myself, have them late in pregnancy when - if born - the baby would be viable in the outside world), many do not find out the gender of their child through ultrasound (though I think this is also shifting). For some, they don't even talk about the baby much.

When I was pregnant, I talked about my little guy all the time, I accepted all good wishes with gratitude, because every baby is a miracle, after all, and I knew that every positive prayer was in his favor. Just over 3 weeks before his due date, however, I had an ultrasound that showed something less than favorable. I have Lupus, so I was considered "high risk" despite my overall health and my age. Being considered high risk, I had probably close to 20 ultrasounds (maybe more) during my pregnancy, and the 37 week ultrasound indicated that maybe my little guy had stopped growing (what?! With as much as I was eating and gaining?? We wondered how that was even possible.). Based on the previous measurement, it appeared he had gained a mere 5 ounces in 3 weeks. He should have gained much closer in the range of 12 ounces to 1 pound. Panic ensued, and I was given the option to check in to the hospital in two days, having the little man by Friday evening, or wait the weekend out and come in on Monday for another ultrasound and round of Non-Stress-Tests (NSTs). I was warned, however, that since we would be going over the weekend they wouldn't be able to monitor me for 2 days, and therefore we'd have no way of measuring his health outside of my kick counts until Monday morning.

My husband and I consulted his father, who happens to be a high risk OB/GYN. He felt that, at 37 weeks with all other indications the baby was healthy, that we should check in and get induced. So, we told very few people, made sure we had some food in the fridge, dropped the dog off with my parents, I went and got a manicure and a pedicure (hey, a girl's gotta feel pretty - even if she's 47 pounds heavier than normal and swollen from head to toe from being an incubator for 9 months), and we made our way to the hospital.

Being induced is rough. I was in labor for nearly 22 hours. Despite the fact that I had practiced yoga up through the end, and despite the fact that I felt like he was going to fall out of me when I walked, er, waddled, my little guy did NOT want to leave his cozy jacuzzi in my belly. I can't say I blame him, really...we were evicting him at least 3 weeks early**. Post birth, my body was a wreck, though I'll spare you the gory details. My baby was teeny (not nearly as teeny as they thought he was - in fact, he was a full 8 ounces larger than what had been projected just 3 days earlier) and his beautiful face was bruised from being stuck in the birth canal. After a scare in the hours after his birth (the nurses thought he wasn't getting oxygen because his face was blue, but it turned out to be the aforementioned bruising), we were in a state of new-parent-bliss.

Once the excitement died down, after the emails slowed, and in the week following his bris, I became really sad. I cried on his due date. Not because I was sad about my baby, but because I felt like I had robbed him of more time in the womb. More time to grow, to connect with me, to prepare for this bright, cold world. We found out that nothing had been wrong with my placenta at all, the measurements - which are subject to human error - were just off. I felt like I had failed at my first task as his mother: I let him be literally yanked into the world before he was really ready. I wondered how I could believe that everything happens for a reason, when the reason my baby was born 3 weeks early turned out to not be a reason at all.

I have amazing doctors. I know this, I am ever so grateful for them, and I trust them, which is why I followed their advice. But I still feel a twinge of sadness every now and then when my son is a bit behind other babies his age***, or when I look at his head which still misshapen from the suction used to get him unstuck, and I wonder if forcing my body into giving birth before my baby or my body were ready was really the best thing for us. At these times, I remind myself that I have a healthy, very happy, and gorgeously fat little boy, and that there are a lot of people who would trade places with me in a heartbeat, if given the opportunity.


I don't really think anything would have been wrong with waiting another week or even 2 to see if he decided to come out on his own, but I know that a lot can happen in two weeks, and for whatever reason, by Gd's hand this guy was meant to arrive here when he did. We have no idea what would have happened had we waited, and this is why we say B'Sha'ah Tovah. The reasons aren't always clear, but I understand the purpose so much more.

*Baby boys have a brit milah/bris, a ceremonial circumcision performed by a mohel, a person in the Jewish community who is trained appropriately (by Jewish law and, at least in the US, by medical standards). They receive their names at this time. Baby girls are given a ceremonial naming. Both are often done in conjunction with a large celebration.
**In the medical community, a generous 2 weeks past the projected due date is allowed for a "healthy" mom to carry her baby before medical intervention, meaning my son could have been born 5 weeks from when I actually gave birth.
***This is typical for babies born early, they are often behind developmentally in however many weeks they were early. Often they catch up pretty quickly, and for the most part, my son has as well.

One Week

One week from today, my beautiful baby boy will be six months old.

Six months old?! Already?!

But only yesterday he looked like this...

A tiny, skinny, wrinkly, absolutely perfect little creature that I created, carried, and brought into this world.

The day he was born, my mother-in-law visited me in the hospital and told me I would blink and we'd be celebrating his first birthday. I couldn't imagine that time would fly that fast, and yet we're thisclose to the half-year milestone, which means that next Monday my tiny little 6 pound baby will be closer to being a big one year boy old than he will be to being my tiny, little, firstborn, brand new baby.

See?! TINY!

Gd willing, this boy will someday have siblings, which means he'll be the only of our children to ever be an only child. If we are blessed with more of these precious bundles, they will have an older (or maybe even a few older) sibling running around. A sibling who will make messes, make noise, and most of all will demand my attention. The luxuries of being the firstborn can only be experienced by one...not only is everything new (not the "stuff," as that isn't nearly as important,though, for many first-time parents today, the "stuff" is all new too)...but Mommy and Daddy (and grandmas and grandpas) can give their attention to baby with very few distractions. Their world suddenly revolves around this one, tiny, brand new baby.

The truth is, of course, that six months old is not old - not by any stretch of the imagination. Six months old is still a baby. Six months old is still completely 100% dependent on Mommy for survival. My son hasn't even eaten solid food yet! But six months is a pretty big milestone.

Yoga teaches us to live in the moment. It's not always easy, and of course it doesn't mean that we will never think of the future or of the past, but it does help us to be present and truly experience our experiences. I know I have more time with his babyhood, but it is going fast. I glow with adoration, pride, and excitement each time he learns something new or discovers he can do something that he didn't realize he could do by himself. I love every second, even when I'm silently wishing he would sleep just a little longer so that I could be more rested. I am incredibly blessed to have the choice to stay home with my son, which means that chances are very high that I will be the one who is around when my son experiences his firsts. Knowing that so many will be coming very soon and very fast, this week I will take a little extra time to enjoy the sweet, milky baby breath that has already started to fade (despite the fact that he hasn't eaten solid food yet), I will give extra kisses to the velvety soft folds of baby rolls that have yet to be bruised or scratched or banged by this small someone learning to move on his own, and I will revel in the fact that this beautiful growing boy is my creation, a huge miracle that I was blessed by Gd to be a part of.

And I know that this boy, no matter what size or age, will always bring me joy, as long as I remember to be grateful for each moment in time.

Stories

Two weeks ago, while driving back from our mini-vacation in Ocean City, MD, I (out of nowhere, I might add) just decided that I was a horrible blogger. I hadn't posted in over a week, and my previous post hadn't garnered much attention. Forget about the fact that I had only recently become a blogger;

or the fact that I'm a first-time mom who's still adjusting.

As far as I was concerned, those details were irrelevant. And this was the thought that began one very long thought that listed all of things that I felt inadequate about in my life, past and present time.

Then I realized I was doing "it" again. I was stuck in a story, playing and replaying a sadly familiar tape in my mind. A tape that detailed all of the ways I felt I didn't measure up, based on judgments and nonsensical standards set by society or even by friends or family. I forget the exact statistic, but I believe that something like 90% of our thoughts are the exact same thoughts every day. So when we get stuck in these stories we are essentially beating ourselves up, over and over, day after day, just like a bully.

Sometimes we don't even realize we're in a story. Because of the frequency with which we "hear" them, we often don't even recognize they're going on again. They just manifest in our bodies as tightness, discomfort and dis-ease.

Furthermore, the stories don't always appear to be negative. Sometimes, we even think they're positive - almost like affirmations.

"I am so much skinnier than she is."
"I lost the baby weight a lot faster than my sister."
"I drive a much nicer car than that guy."
"My yoga practice is so much stronger than his."

The thing is that even these types of thoughts have a negative effect on us. You have no idea who you're really comparing yourself to - the woman you're skinnier than may have struggled with an eating disorder and is healthier when she's eating more; your sister may be suffering from postpartum depression and might have a hard time just taking a shower every day, let alone losing the weight she gained pregnant; the guy with the not-as-nice-as-yours car might be saving for his children's college education; and the guy who's yoga practice isn't so strong may be recovering from an injury. The bottom line is, at the end of the day, if we spend our lives comparing ourselves to everyone else, we'll never measure up, because we'll subconsciously set our standards based on our own outward perceptions of those around us.

Learning to quiet the mind, and therefore quiet down these stories (or sometimes even shut them up, when we're lucky) is one of the greatest gifts of a regular asana* practice. This isn't to say that as soon as you start a regular practice you'll never hear them again, or that new stories will never sneak up on you...however, through a regular asana* practice we learn how to acknowledge them and then release them to the Universe. The freedom you find when suddenly your bully isn't bullying you anymore cannot truly be understood until it is felt. Sometimes it's as simple as sitting in stillness (meditation) and making the decision to turn them off; oftentimes we need to be wrung out, physically exhausted from a rigorous asana practice, and reminded over and over again. Either way, it's not easy...but in the end, a life of freedom from this negative energy is well worth the investment.

As for my tapes, ultimately, I reminded myself that I am a new mom, and that I am dedicated to my son. A few days after we got home, I also took an amazing 2 hour class that focused on opening the hips, one of the favorite spots for our bodies to harness dis-ease. So, if my blog suffers a lack of my attention at times, I can live with that. In 20 years I'm not going to look back on this time and wish that I had blogged more.

I will, however, be grateful that I knew enough to spend an extra 20 minutes snuggling with my son.

*Asana is a reference to the physical postures in a yoga practice.

Taking a Break

In sticking with this week's theme, part of accepting where we are is knowing when to take a break. This week, I've been ON. Determined to honor my commitment to myself and to my son (Happy Mommy means Happy Baby, right?), I have made more effort to reestablish my daily yoga practice.

Saturday I taught, and I made it to the studio later for a practice. Sunday I made it to the studio to practice. Monday I managed a 30 minute home practice AND taught at the studio. Tuesday, after a VERY taxing day of Being a Mom, I completed Jillian Michaels' 30 Day Shred AND managed a 30 minute home practice, all after 10:30 p.m. when the baby finally fell asleep.

Tuesday night was challenging. I had trouble falling asleep, my brain just wouldn't turn off. The baby woke at 2:15 a.m. to eat and snuggle - a mere 45 minutes or so after I'd finally fallen asleep. Groggily, I went to him, and didn't make it back to bed until after 3. He woke again around 7:15 a.m. I could barely move. This kind of night has been rare for us, since the baby was 6 weeks old he's generally slept through the night for at least 7 hour stretches, but usually 8 or 9. Last week, after he received his 4 month shots, he woke every night at least once. The previous week we visited my grandmother for 5 days, and he woke every night at least once. I know this type of sleeping pattern is "standard" for most moms of babies the same age as my son, but 3 weeks of this and

I'm starting to run out of steam.

It's like those early days/weeks for me, except without the new baby euphoria to keep me going. Wednesday I had full intentions of continuing this way, even if for only 30 minutes (30 minutes is, after all, more than nothing). That morning we were both exhausted from the restless night, and took a long nap. He woke for a few hours, to eat and play, and then took another long nap while I visited with my brother. He slept more during the day than he has in several weeks. So Wednesday night, after cleaning up the kitchen, making banana muffins, putting the baby to bed, noticing I had a bit of a sore throat, and wondering for a brief moment - as I sometimes do - why nursing has to be so draining on the mother's body (after all, wouldn't it make more sense to energize the mother so she would be better equipt to care for her infant?) I took a cue from my son. Instead of beginning my workout and my yoga practice at 10:30 p.m. like the night before, I decided to take a break. Recharge my batteries.

So instead of a yoga practice, I had two of my fresh baked muffins, a big glass of soy milk, and a short meditation before bed.

In the corner of my mind, I couldn't help but decide that I definitely needed to practice on Thursday, and maybe even complete Jillian Michaels' 30 Day Shred again. After all, a plan isn't a bad thing to have, as long as we're open to life not exactly unfolding as we plan.

Acceptance

Through a regular yoga practice, we learn to accept what is - where we are in our career, our relationships, our asana* practice, our life...This is not to suggest that with a regular yoga practice we accept everything in our lives without question, or that everything is suddenly easy, but we do learn that the more that we allow ourselves to be 'okay' with our current situation, the sooner we are able to change the things we want to change. This is incredibly powerful, but also deeply humbling.

When we choose to accept our current circumstances, we are no longer able to blame outside sources for those circumstances. We must take ownership of the good and the bad in our lives.

When I got pregnant, I was in a great place in my life. I also had a plan. I knew I was going to eat healthfully, practice yoga every day, and get plenty of rest. Unfortunately, I made this plan without knowing what it was like to be pregnant. First, I was absolutely starving, and eating was the only way I could keep nausea at bay. I ate so much and so often that my face hurt. And vegetables? They pretty much left my plate. I was on a carbohydrate overload. Second, I started getting nauseous during my practice, and my body started doing weird things - my shoulders were slipping during chatarunga**, I had stabbing pains in my belly during twists...I still craved asana physically and mentally, but I needed to back off. My plan was not exactly going as, um, planned.

Although it wasn't always easy, I lived my pregnant life for my baby. If I was hungry, I ate (even when I wanted pizza two meals in a row!). If I was exhausted, I didn't have a yoga practice. I gained a LOT of weight. I listened to my body, I accepted my circumstances. I gave birth to a healthy, happy baby boy on March 26th.

My "back to normal" plan isn't quite going as planned either. I was sure that by 4 months postpartum I'd be back to my daily asana practice, back to my regular eating habits and back in my jeans. So far, I've been lucky to get 3 or 4 practices in each week, I generally eat whatever is quickest to prepare, and I still have around 13 pounds to lose. I realize more and more that while it's sometimes necessary to have a plan, we also have to be open to the journey. Life happens, and not always how we imagine it will. However, dwelling on the things we consider to be wrong or bad only steals our energy, and often prevents us from seeing the beauty and the good in our life. Being a mom is not always easy, and sometimes all I really want is to take a shower/get a studio practice/have a nap, but I know that being a mom is the most important thing I'll ever do.

I have a new normal now. I'm taking it one day at a time, and I wouldn't change a thing.

Besides, how could anyone complain about waking up to this face every day?

"The curious paradox is that when I accept myself [my circumstances] just as I am, then I can change."
Philosopher Carl Rogers

*Asana is the physical practice of yoga. Each posture is referred to as an asana.
**Chatarunga is low pushup.