Yoga hurts. It shouldn't. But it does. I'm trying to do twenty minutes of yoga in the mornings but I feel more like an action hero than a yogi. As I placidly sat in a seated twist--enjoying the awakening of my long-neglected spine--I got body-slammed by a tornado of three-year-old exuberance.
"You hurt me."
"Oh...but you're a puppy."
Then, in sphinx, a small child stood on my back. I don't know if my body's ever going to be the same. Why didn't I practice when he was small and immobile?
In cobbler pose, I was struck in the eye with my wool yoga strap.
"Okay, that's enough. That really hurt mommy."
"Oh...sorry Don Diego."
Why don't you have him do yoga with you? you might ask. He does a few poses and this is lovely. However, a preschooler attention span, or at least my preschooler's attention span, is a little short these days.
Maybe, I should do my twenty minutes at night. But-oh-so-tired.
Love, love, love my child. But...lamenting my hour-long yoga sessions.