I did yoga on Sunday, for the first time in a loooong time. Like yank my yoga mat out from where it was leveling out my TV stand kind of long. Or even show up to Bikram wearing spilt shorts kind of long.

As you can gather, I am not a yoga person. If asked to describe my perfect workout it would be a long, sunny and usually solo run. You see, like so many of runners, I am a self described running junkie, or used to be BB (before baby).

I took it all very seriously, my shoes, my races, my PRs and mostly my weekly mileage. If I wasn’t running then I wasn’t a runner and then (GASP) if I wasn’t a runner … who was I. These days my racing is a bit limited – in fact, the only thing that seems to be racing right now is my free time. Anyone with a child knows that once you open that specific pandoras box, especially in the beginning, you lose more than a bit of personal freedom. And moreover what once was a given is now a luxury (a happy trade off of course) but a luxury nonetheless. So instead of long indulgent runs that left me feeling clean and renewed and exhausted, I’m kept on a short leash where I happily plod along, grateful to be ticking off a handful of minutes or miles.

The trade off is a beautiful ball of energy that happily keeps me sprinting around the house in what surely will be the most wild and AWESOMELY challenging race sprint of my life. Parenthood is every cliche they say … but my favorite is that it’s the absolute best.

Regardless, back when I was still self categorizing as a “serious” runner (so tough on myself right) I was often told that I should supplement my miles with a bit of yoga; it would help break up routine and avoid injury. But like most runners who not only crave pushing the pace, but to FEEL tangible “results” from that work, yoga seemed like a glorified nap. Yes it was all about being present and toning though repition, but wasn’t I present as I zoned out during my 10K speed work. And didn’t the constant churn and burn of my legs tone enough. Going slow in order to get ahead seemed counter intuitive.

So I’d bob my head, turn on my heel and effectively disregard the advice of those who clearly had a more balance running regiment then I.

But that was then…

These days things have changed a bit and my gate isn’t the only thing affected. The balancing act that is parenting, has allowed me to practice something else equally as important – self acceptance.  I have learned to accept the slower pace, I have also learned to accept the necessity for things like an extra hour of sleep after a night with a teething ten month old, and a 20 minute run in place of a two hour one so that I can actually wash my hair before my 9A meetings. The net net is I’ve had to accept a LOT of change when it comes the whens/wheres/ whys and HOWS of my running.

Yet with this new change, also comes new found freedom. Reframing my mindset has meant I could now make room for the occasional barre class, shred or even soul cycle. There was only one last threshold to cross before I could count myself a cross-trainer, that was yoga.

Maybe it was the deliberateness of it all or the sense that the long legged ladies leading class had a diet cleaner than my house, but I felt wrong walking in. I felt they could tell my yoga pants weren’t Lululemon but instead a running tight masquerading as it. I felt awkward adjusting my mat and fumbling with blocks. I could barely remember tree pose let alone figure out what to do with all the Fifty Shade paraphernalia next to me. Luckily just then the instructor breezed through the door and with a single wave of her hand, a dimming of the lights, a deep breath in … I began to unwind.

I noticed things. The beads of sweat on my shoulders. The way my left hip struggled with flexibility and how the less I forced the positions the easier I flowed from one to another. By the end of the class I was deep into my practice – slow breathing and all. I found myself focused on the very muscles I used in my daily runs and whats more I found myself enjoying the process of pushing a new direction – down. And as I dug in with my toes and heels, I found new strength in grounding. I began to carve out a deeper reserve, a new physical well to dredge from and dip into. This time instead of feeling depleted – I felt full. And as she closed out class with silent intentions I knew what mine would be.

Flexibility; and it was just the metaphorical adjustment I was so clearly needing. From a more grounded vantage point I was able to breath deeply and (finally) focus on my muscles in the indulgent way I had missed so much. If the world was trying to tell me something then this class was the not so subtle hint. Be flexible. Learn to adapt and adjust in real time. And enjoy a new perspective every once in a while.

Laying on the ground, covered in sweat and grateful, I realized that sometimes I needed to slow things down if I wanted to make any real progress.

Pooping in front of a virtual cheerleading squad of post-collegiate nurses mid push.

Trying to keep your lady bits under cover, while your little one kicks the chevron patterned “boob curtain” off mid-brunch.

Catching a glimpse of yourself sauntering around in a post-partum corset and nursing bra set – so hot.

And best of all … mesh undies.

Need I say more?

There are many “injustices” women’s personal vanity and comfort suffer at the hands of pregnancy; most of which are ceremoniously shared amongst girlfriends, mothers and sisters over many many mocktails. These war stories are the ties that bind and the true induction into the tribe of motherhood. And yet, with all this disclosing, there is one topic so personal and so affecting that is rarely discussed. Fashion.

That’s right, beyond the magic and horror that is labor and delivery, lies a whole treasure trove of emotional baggage surrounding pregnancy and fashion. It’s something rarely acknowledged by women but it’s one of the first emotional roadblocks we hit when those two pink lines first appear.

Before pregnancy everyone woman has a style. Even those who self-describe as “functional dressers” have a style – it’s well, functional. And there’s a certain amount of comfort within that individual style; after all we’re most ourselves when we slip into our favorite cozy sweater, or don that ultra-beat up concert tee (the one we secretly stole from our old college beau). We feel sexy as hell in that pair of boots we love or comfy as hell in our best fitting jeans. Whatever the style, or article of clothing, each piece says something about us.

So what happens when we’re suddenly and metaphorically thrust into a closet that’s well, not our own? Suddenly the fit is off. The taste isn’t our own. And somehow our personal “voice” feels a bit muted.

For most women clothing is a reaffirmation about our sense of self, and a very visual declaration to the world about how we’re feeling that day – even what stage we’re at in our lives. And when there’s a sudden shift in our options we often find ourselves at a loss.

The question then becomes, how do we retain our sense of self if the reflection we see in the mirror doesn’t remotely look like us?

It’s a crucial question and one not entirely relegated to the world of pregnancy. Even drastic life changes like move to the suburbs, can have some women spinning. After a move, one friend confessed that she was depressed and unable to shop because she felt she now had to morph her style to match her new address. Meanwhile another newly pregnant friend distilled her fashion distress by confiding that she was in limbo with her changing body – although she was comfortable with her burgeoning “food baby,” the fact that she wasn’t showing yet made her feel at odds with her own wardrobe. Essentially, it had become a distraction that was in essence superseding her excitement about pregnancy.

This conversation is not uncommon and neither is the reaction. It speaks volumes about the subtle role clothing plays in our complex understanding of ourselves. Once we find we physically don’t fit into our wardrobes, we’re required to face the reality that our lives and figures are drastically changing forever. This realization, and in some cases unnerving thought, has crept into the mind of even the most maternal of women from time to time. Because the fact of the matter is that no matter how hard you tried to get pregnant or how great your love for your child is, you are still a person. And that person and life matters too and should continue to matter.

Now, historically maternity clothes have been limiting to say the least. My mother’s generation (women now in their early 60’s) predominantly focused on fading into the background instead of finding clothes that fit into their lifestyles. The unspoken understanding was that pregnant women weren’t really “going anywhere” anyway, so why the need for fashionable attire. Hello moo moo. And while current maternity fashion is attempting to buck that trend, there is still an undercurrent of conservatism that influences majority of the styles.

My own maternity fashion journey was eye-opening. My self-described “pre-baby style” was boho prep with a twist of rock n’ roll – not exactly a line Target readily carries. I liked my jeans holy, my shirts oversized and my bralettes very colorful and very visible. I loved fashion and a little bit of edge which was severely lacking in the mommy to be ready-to-wear set. Everything was solid or striped. The necklines were high. The fit was well – fitted. The jeans had no holes and the shirts had virtually no prints. It was as if the moo moo had been replaced, but the message was the same; just blend in.

Welp that was not happening. Luckily, I had spent years amassing a collection of oversized concert cutoffs and flowy free people frocks. I was hell bent on retaining my sense of fashion and ultimately my sense of self. This meant skirting the notion of maternity clothes and getting extremely creative with fit. The end result was perfect – it was well …me.

I bought regular clothes in XXL and layered accordingly. I found dresses with unique stretch that could accommodate my 45lb weight swing. I shredded my Topshop maternity skinnies and made a point of decking out each outfit with appropriately oversized accessories. I fought to for myself. I fought to make my fashion fit my lifestyle and not the other way around.

It seems like a silly thing. After all how could one piece of clothing define such an amazing and transformative stage in your life. But that’s just it. The stage is transformative enough on it’s own. Sometimes it’s harrowing, sometimes it’s amazing and sometimes it’s overwhelming – sometimes it’s all three at once. It’s a damn miracle and miracles can rock you mind body and … closet.

That said, through all this transformation and emphasis on doing what’s best for baby, there’s one piece that is key to the happiness of both host and hostess and that’s confidence. Being a mom starts the moment you find out your pregnant. From there on out you’re tasked with making extremely affecting choices on behalf of your little one. One of those choices should be to keep fighting for your self. You will change and so will your life – more than you know – so why not allow yourself some anchors or “breadcrumbs” to help you find your way back once the dust has settled (and you can tie your own shoes again).

After all being a mom is about bringing new life into this world and we can’t be the amazing “guides” we need to be, unless we hang onto our own lives as well. That said, if you don’t want to wear stripes – don’t. If you hate yoga pants (probably a smaller subsect) then don’t. Shred the rulebook and your jeans – heck you’re a mom now, you make the rules, fashion and otherwise.

 

I am currently sitting a very “vibrant” boutique hotel lobby. All around me people buzz. Servers drop plates of fresh pressed quinoa, coyly trying to pass for burgers. A steady stream of convention attendees meekly file out of their luxury bus and form {equally pedestrian} lines at the front desk, which is one part UFO and two parts U2 stage prop.  Others lounge; eyes locked on their devices, as canned Brit-rock plays a bit too loudly in the background.

On the surface all looks well but look a bit closer and it’s a meta narrative for all the ails of society.

Big leap eh. Too big? Too harsh – I know I know snarky writers should never simply sit there and judge, after all my least favorite quality is someone who takes himself or herself too seriously. That and people who shred unsuspecting hotel lobby décor, especially after they enjoyed a perfectly good arugula salad.

But my beef (or pressed quinoa if you will) isn’t with this particular establishment, instead it’s really more of a systemic social issue. And no I’m not going to go down an anti-Trump rabbit hole, though I’m sure you can imagine my stance on this POTUS’s politics, instead I want to focus on something we‘re in control of. Something we can actually change.

Ourselves.

But why. We’re not the problem right. We’re socially conscious. We eat kale (sometimes). We recycle. And we know the passwords to all our kid’s social channels.

Yet somethings missing isn’t it. I call it The Never-ending Story Syndrome – that’s the officially official clinical title for it. See I told you I don’t like people taking themselves seriously.

For those less familiar, the story tells of an ominous “nothingness” that is sweeping across the land destroying everything in its path. It is the most terrifying kind of foe because it is completely formless and it’s destruction so absolute. Anyone who has seen the movie can attest to the atomic like nature of this sadness, as it levels trees and reduces an entire kingdom to one tiny grain of sand.

Now I’m not saying that we all have this crushing “nothingness” lying dormant deep inside us but I am presupposing that we don’t all bounce out of bed with the same spit and vinegar as our forefathers.

The reason, I believe, is we lack true connection.

It’s not that we are inherently unhappy sitting in this hotel lobby. Just ask any of the ladies who are lunching – the Lululemon clad millennial mom binge watching the Bachelor late night with a glass of sauv blanc in her hand – if she’s momentarily content and depending on her relationship status she’ll likely answer yes. And yet if she were to turn off her tv and silence her devices she might be able to carve out just enough silence to hear the faint call from deep within.

The nothingness.

The feeling is so subtle it can be tough to notice. The best way to describe it is as if you are looking outside your own life wondering if everyone else feels as lost as you do. And as you look outward, you can’t help but question, the value of your friendships (why don’t they feel like they did as a kid), your relationship (he’s still as handsome so why does sex after the baby not feel the same) your interests (the songs sound the same but I just can’t into it like I used to).

It’s not tree leveling but the nothingness is enough to mute the joy in your life and rob you of many happy years filled with true connection. It’s a feeling akin to walking around in a daze and floating through moments propelled by sheer momentum or even worse an in-organic sense of purpose.

Some people, like myself are a bit too aware. I spent years chasing down alternative feelings to quiet that voice. I took art classes. I ran ultra-marathons. I dabbled in vegetarianism and started writing again. The results were superficial – a band-aid instead of a sucher to heal this tiny hole. I was seeking the wrong salve – instead of hunting for connection like I should have been, I was distracted by a misguided sense of purpose.

It wasn’t till years later after my first son was born that I finally found an antidote and in the most surprising place – my kitchen sink.

I was elbow deep in warm soapy water washing bottles and thinking about how long it had been since I had simultaneously gotten my hands dirty (and clean). Having spent my whole life with a dishwasher, I had never really cleaned much by hand if anything at all. In fact like so many Americans, I grew up in a supremely suburban house with all the conveniences of modern life.

 

I hadn’t realized that over the years those very conveniences intended to make my life easier were simply making me feel less useful. As a girl who spent her collective (and apparently somewhat cliché) middle school years being told not to get dirty; rooting around in a sloppy sink wasn’t high on my list of fave activities. And yet (surprisingly) cleaning the bottles became a daily chore that nourished me in a way that I never expected. It was simple. I didn’t take on a new religion or give away all my earthly possession. I didn’t finally have that heart to heart with my dad or volunteer at the local children hospital. I just did something simple and meaningful and it in turn reconnected me with the daily act of living.

Instead of outsourcing the work to a machine as we so often do, I was taking matters literally into my own hands. The warm water combine with the immediacy of the results and the feeling of true usefulness made me feel …. I dunno purposeful again.

Was this what true connection felt like.

It came in simple ways than I expected, it came when I avoided doing things the easy way, when I disconnected from convenience and enjoyed the simple act of WELP taking action.

Simply put washing bottles made me feel again. It was sensory and calming. It cleared my mind and also reminded me what was important. And it made me feel connected with the daily act of living in a way no reddit article have.

It sounds too good to be true and a bit sexist as well (must be noted that my husband routinely rolls up his sleeves as well) but it’s true. Here I was a liberal modern woman espousing the poetic and personal value of hand washing bottles. So prosaic. But I challenge you to try it. To find a task that can be easily outsourced and dig in. What happens when we put down our screens and look up again. Better yet when we head out into the garden or garage and get a bit dirty. To fix something with out hands or touch and engage with the simple tasks that make up this big and beautiful life. It’s a good question and something I want to start doing more of. If not only to keep my dishes clean but also to keep the nothingness at bay.

 

So as I close out and look up from this screen, I can’t help but wonder if they need any help in kitchen.

 

 

 

Would love to hear if there are any tactile tasks that you all are doing that make life a little simpler, sweeter, and bring you a bit closer to true connection.

 

It’s summertime again and again I have that feeling.

We all know the feeling, even if we’re not wholly conscious of it. It’s a feeling fed by the senses; by the peaty smell freshly mowed (baseball field) grass. By the sound of our swimsuit pilling, as we peel ourselves off the hot poolside cement. It’s the way we welcome the drip of overripe fruit on our tank tops, and a good caking of dirt on the bottom of our flip flopped feet. By the way we crane our necks following the fleeting smell of baby sunblock from a passing stroller. And dunk our hands deep into the icy cooler to fish out a longneck.

It’s a heady combination of sounds and sights and smells that make up summer. And all of these circle back to one sensation – nostalgia.

 

When I was younger I re-read the same book over and over again – nearly every summer. The plot revolved around two sisters and how they spent one very pivotal vacation. I loved it because the author took great pains to accurately distill the sounds of those three months perfectly – the “thwack” of flip flops as you run full tilt down the block to your friend’s house (giddy because you knew their parents weren’t home). She was bang on when it came to the subtle sensorial cues that remind us what it feels like to be young, full of life and  free from all jackets (and responsibilities).

Summer is just that potent, that even as adults faced with 60 plus hour work weeks, and a laundry list of unsexy chores, we still find ourselves pausing to notice and remember. And it’s for this very reason that I’m sitting down and putting pen to paper, or in this case fingers to keys, because I feel an itch and because I had a baby.

They are undoubtedly linked – having a child has given invoked the desire to simultaneously freeze time and also travel back in it. You see the strangest thing has happened after my son was born, and no it’s not that I’m actually able to shower and apply mascara (or write this blog for that matter) it’s something even wilder. Similar to an itch, I’ve been feeling this pull. The pull is back toward my childhood – to the sights and sounds and feelings that long buried memories evoke. Much like the sense of summer, these memories aren’t big or notable, in fact they’re often so subtle you could  easily lose them all together. And yet something about my child had caused these little gems to bubble back to the surface – and me to do my due diligence and unpack or unravel their meaning.

Maybe it’s the nostalgia or a deep seeded desire for outreach, but I’m looking to dig in and explore the “bubbling” while the days are long, the breeze is aromatic and the colors are over saturated. Mainly I just want a spot to share – like my own little front stoop to chill on and run through all the random wonderings bouncing around in my brain. And also to be honest. I feel like conversations have been reduced to recounts of the weekly reality shows instead of open dialogue about life.

So as I kick off summer and this new blog I want to do it without expectation. I have an itch to share and I want to do so freely. That said, I promise to be honest. I promise to take it off roading a bit and to indulge in the weird and wild sometimes. I do not promise good grammar or politically correct commentary – we have too much anyway. I do promise swearing like a sailor, run on sentences, and running metaphors.

So feel free to follow along as I begin to untangle this summer and all the magic this age and stage has to offer.

 

Gratefully,

LG