Four months. Sixteen weeks, or so. It doesn't seem like a long time to be in the world, but I think you've been with us forever.
You and I started taking a baby yoga class this month. It's called Itsy Bitsy Yoga, and I don't know, it's not really what I expected. It's...well...it's...it's so yoga-ie.
When Jett was a baby I took him to this wonderful baby yoga class. It was a pain to get to this class, and required walking up a huge flight of stairs with that heavy car seat, but it was worth it because I felt so good during the class - we felt so good during the class. Why did I like that class better?
Is it because I started taking Jett when he was only 6 weeks old? He was the youngest baby in class for a while. The younger the baby, the more attention the baby gets from the other mothers. Maybe that's it. (Did I just say I liked Jett's class better because he got more attention? How embarrassing). You are the second oldest in your class, and when compared to the four week old who was there last week, your newness factor - that mysterious, magical newborn aura, is wearing off. But not to me. When the other mothers talk to me about their babies, I find myself thinking, how can you even talk to me when I am holding Kai? How can you do anything but stare at his cute face? Are you not awed in to silence and reverence by my sweet baby? Will you just join me in admiring my baby for a while? He is still so new!
Maybe our class feels different because we go on Sunday, instead of Friday. Fridays were special for me, because after Jett was born I stopped working on Fridays. Fridays were stolen days, free days, and the fact that Jett and I had a whole day together, after four days of going to work, was something to treasure. But you and I are together every day. While it is wonderful to spend an hour of guided, uninterrupted time with you, it's additional time we have to ourselves, not the only time we have to ourselves. Maybe that's it. We're too fortunate, perhps.
Or maybe it's the class. It's so chant-y. No itsy bitsy spider (ironically). Less hugging, more stretching; less singing, more chanting. Oh that monotonous, two-tone chanting. Where is the sweetness in that? No lullaby at the end, when all I really want to do is lay down next to you, sing you a song, and memorize your smiles.
Still, you smile a lot in class, and that is why we keep going.
If you keep smiling, I'll keep chanting. We love you, Baby Kai. Namaste.
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