by Laurie Lichtenstein, posted in the Bedford-Katonah Patch
Yoga. I’ve got the pants, I’ve got the mat; I just don’t have the time. I can barely remember my Warrior One pose, a casualty of motherhood as my family has grown.
I wistfully recall my last yoga class, which if memory serves was two years ago. And I am fairly certain memory is correct. I met a woman at the park recently who used to be in my yoga class. She was pregnant with her third child—she had one last time I saw her—and neither one of us could recall the other’s name.
Yoga, like a morning cup of coffee in peace, should be mandatory for mothers; I’m thinking about petitioning my congresswoman.
Moms work. Moms cook. Moms drive. Moms coordinate doctor’s appointments and play dates. The job is never done. Even after lights out, Moms worry. We worry about the squabble our daughter had on the playground, or whether our son’s asthma will flare up with tomorrow’s pollen count.
That one hour a day to breathe, and exercise mind and body goes a long way toward optimal mom-job performance.
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