It seems the perfect antidote to a stress-filled — although fun – child’s birthday party is . . . yoga. With a seven year old.
Let me back up. I make everything difficult. I have some control issues, I’ll be the first to admit, when it comes to planning an event that needs to go well. Today, it was my ten year old’s bowling birthday party. Oh, I had done the advance planning, reconnoitered with the bowling alley, arranged for completely nut-free refreshments on account of the kid with the allergy, chased down just the right loot bags and the acceptably benign stuff to go in them. I had managed the time down to the minute and put out a small logistical fire regarding whether two or three of the invited guests would be able to attend despite a breakout of head lice (they got their treatments in time and agreed to wear baseball caps anyway).
Of course, man plans and God laughs. Our normal two-hour first Sunday of the month service stretched out endlessly, as everyone and his or her cousin wanted to ramble on and on about all kinds of things, which I’d normally be all into – but not today. I ducked out before Communion and managed not to run over anyone as I sped across town trying to salvage my schedule.
Most of the guests were on time, and by ten past two, they were happily bowling away. (Although, proving, I guess that CP Time trumps Daylight Saving Time, two kids showed up after two strings of bowling had been completed and as we were sitting down to have pizza and cake.)
It went as well as a party of ten year olds could go. Moms and Dads came and got their happy kids, and I went home, determined not to do another thing for the rest of the day.
Except yoga.
There it was on the whiteboard: do yoga with Scooby. She’d been watching last night as I’d shopped for a well-reviewed yoga program on NetStreaming – just until I could get back to the Y for a live class. I figured I’d practice at home in the meantime and maybe look a little less awkward next time I went. We watched on video a bit as the instructor took her students through the first couple of stretches, then Scooby asked, “Can we do that?”
Not now, I said, it’s time for bed.
How about tomorrow?
Fine. And so, up it went on the whiteboard. It was her last reminder to me before she fell asleep, and her first request this morning.
So, still wired from being responsible for a bunch of other people’s kids for two hours, I crept into the kitchen and encountered the whiteboard reminder.
We rolled out our yoga mats and started the video. We earnestly tried each pose, following the directions to relax or press down with various body parts. (Scooby’s flexible!) I thought she would get bored quickly; after all, yoga is slow-moving and the instructor’s voice was, well, soporific.
She tried everything. She only got the giggles when she kept falling over during the touch-your-feet-to-the-floor-behind-your-head pose. (Whatever.) I could hear her breathing deeply next to me as she concentrated. She seemed surprised when it was over; it was a little abrupt: deep breathing, deep breathing, credits.
How do you feel? I asked her.
That was fun, and hard, she said. We did yoga! And then she added, Can we do it again?
Maybe tomorrow, I said.
The strange part was that I wasn’t self-conscious or anxious or anything. At the end of it all, I was relaxed, refreshed, and looking forward to the next time we could do yoga together. I wouldn’t have thought spending fifty minutes with my seven year old daughter contorting ourselves in front of a TV screen would be anywhere on my list of things to do, but there it is. Maybe Scooby, like her mom, gets a little tired of running around her life like a crazy person. Maybe she craves a little quiet time and deep breathing to center herself before another hectic week begins.
I guess it’s never too early to learn such a useful skill.
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