A few days ago I was driving through nearby town and saw new yoga studio. I was all "whoa there pardner....this is south/wesside not airy-fairy tofu eatin' north shore." Then had deep sigh of relief down to my chai-drinking, vegan casserole loving, om chanting toes. Finally for once, the mountain has come to Muhammad!
So I signed myself up for Restorative Yoga on Tuesday nights. Short lived as we're off to Australia in a few days, but making it part of my regularly scheduled programming upon my return. It was bliss. My lower back was sore in ways I was not even remotely aware of.
On drive back the rain was falling lightly on the windshield, tradewinds were whipping the trees, jazz was coming over the local community radio station, i actually remembered to fill my water bottle for once and then....phone rings. It was Nick. He sounded...defeated.
"Are you...uh, heading back?"
"Yup"
"If Jarah freaking out was on scale of 1-10 he'd be at a 10. It's been over 20min"
Pulled into driveway to hear little guy screaming his guts out for all he's worth. I scooped him up, he got a whiff of mama milk and calmed right down. Thank god for mammaries.
That or my restored, zenified spirit
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sleep Wars: A New Hope
Jarah and my lactating body parts are "breast friends" (bad pun intended). I have not minded having an opihi (that's a limpet for all your non-Hawaiian residents out there) baby who needed frequent feeding to find his place of zen. However, his poor tummy seems to suffer under his appetite. I've watched his poos with the careful attention only a first-time mom can have and noticed the more he eats, the stranger the consistency gets.
I won't delve as deep into the color and consistency of baby poo as I'd like...because I'd like you all to keep reading. Let's just suffice it to say that too much frequent snacking (like once and hour) results in a less than optimum digestion situation. So I'm trying to space the feedings out a bit. Every time he head butts my chest I try to use some wily redirection. "Look at the fan." "Let's sing 'The Little Mosquito" song, "Aloha! (the word cracks him up)," "Look there's you're reflection in the mirror."
It has been working. Imperfectly, but working.
Except for night. He would go happily for over an hour if I let him. Take it away and peril. I'm sure the neighbors hate us after 7pm. So tonight I nursed him until he seemed full. Good and full. Milk dribbling down his chin and belly taut full. Then I sang. I sang until my singer was sore. Than I went to Pandora Radio and played Enya. He hated it. Sorry New Age. I played him Ben Harper. He liked it. Yeah for hippies! I played him Ladysmith Black Mambazo. He cried. Sorry Africa. I played him nature music sent to chants and flutes. He fell asleep.
Perhaps he is still New Age. He is a Kauai baby after all. It's only a matter of time until he starts practising Hatha Yoga, packing vegan lunches for school and engaging in non-violent communication. That or wearing camo and hunting pigs.
Let's just hope New Age music is worth it and the Empire Doesn't Strike Back tomorrow night.
I won't delve as deep into the color and consistency of baby poo as I'd like...because I'd like you all to keep reading. Let's just suffice it to say that too much frequent snacking (like once and hour) results in a less than optimum digestion situation. So I'm trying to space the feedings out a bit. Every time he head butts my chest I try to use some wily redirection. "Look at the fan." "Let's sing 'The Little Mosquito" song, "Aloha! (the word cracks him up)," "Look there's you're reflection in the mirror."
It has been working. Imperfectly, but working.
Except for night. He would go happily for over an hour if I let him. Take it away and peril. I'm sure the neighbors hate us after 7pm. So tonight I nursed him until he seemed full. Good and full. Milk dribbling down his chin and belly taut full. Then I sang. I sang until my singer was sore. Than I went to Pandora Radio and played Enya. He hated it. Sorry New Age. I played him Ben Harper. He liked it. Yeah for hippies! I played him Ladysmith Black Mambazo. He cried. Sorry Africa. I played him nature music sent to chants and flutes. He fell asleep.
Perhaps he is still New Age. He is a Kauai baby after all. It's only a matter of time until he starts practising Hatha Yoga, packing vegan lunches for school and engaging in non-violent communication. That or wearing camo and hunting pigs.
Let's just hope New Age music is worth it and the Empire Doesn't Strike Back tomorrow night.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
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