Mamaste

I was in a yoga class this Sunday, the precious 2.5 hour ritual that only exists because of the generosity of Jason (his golf game is suffering, but you should see my crow-to-headstand transition). My teacher (my guru, Zoe) had us do a series of asanas designed to open the upper spine and loosen "the tightness behind the heart."

She might have meant my rhomboids, my lattisimus dorsi, a more open crescent moon pose. But I kept thinking about the tightness behind my heart. The clenched place that makes me short with Lu, mad at the people at the post office and generally annoyed with you just for taking up space. This fist of a heart is ready to set you straight, mister! And I'm happy to give you the finger!

The tightness behind my heart is both literal and figurative. I wish I could come to that conclusion more poetically. At least I've been stretching a lot.

Lu, for better or worse, can dial into the frequency of my heart. "Mom, when I stay in my bed at night, it makes you very, very happy." Making her mother happy is something she will be worrying about for years to come, and I hope I don't make that any harder for her. Yet the thought of her asleep in her bed makes my heart unfurl a little. I should see how long I can hold this pose.

Life is a Stage, Bedtime an Unwanted Intermission

Since the combined disruption of her birthday weekend and daylight savings time, we haven't recovered our fragile bedtime schedule. Lately, we have an hour of shrewd stalling, during which she:
• Gives up a whole day of saved poop in one diaper/potty hybrid blowout that involves elaborate clean-up and praise. We are held hostage by her crap. Someone call Freud.
• Throws fits and melodramas around which creature/book/parent/lighting scheme will be part of bedtime process. It's like hotel staff dealing with J-Lo. Someone call her manager.
• Is disarmingly sweet, wanting a smooch from Dad or "Mama, you forgot to tickle my arm. I miss you." There's no one to call. We're suckered.

The other night, I was in our bedroom with the door open and I could hear the faint strains of singing and activity coming from her room, then finally the loud clapping of plastic on plastic. I walked into the hall to find her dancing, singing (in a whisper), and wearing EVERY ITEM OF DRESS-UP CLOTHING SHE OWNS, including high-heeled plastic mules on her feet AND HANDS. I watched her for two seconds, then she saw me. And began solemnly, silently — quickly — taking off the satin cape, sequined beanie hat/tube top, plastic shoes, and tutu. She crawled into bed and sucked her thumb and said, "Good night, Mom. I'm done now."

THREE

Lu is three today. We had a little party Saturday with family and friends. Lu was kind of a pill. She took gifts at the door with little acknowledgement. She gave sullen, prompted thank-yous after opening them.

This picture sums it up.

At her explicit request, I made chocolate cupcakes with pink frosting and "sparkles." These made a her a little happy.

She also received a glorious fairy costume, among many other (for the moment) unappreciated gifts. The minute she realized what it was, she started taking off her clothes to put it on.

I worried so much over her ungracious behavior, but it turns out she is sick. She has a little viral something — not the end of the world, but enough to ruin a birthday.

A birthday. A third birthday. Three years with the most hilarious, insightful, direct, friendly, curious and amused-by-fart-jokes person I know (with stiff competition from her father).

Go Fly a Kite

Sunday, we went to the kite festival at Zilker Park. There is such romance to kites -- just nylon, string, imagination and wind. Lu seemed to like them, but she liked her snowcone more. I might have liked the kettle corn more myself. There is also romance in snowcones and kettle corn.

She looked at kites.

She bounced in the inflatable thing.

She met some dude wearing a grocery bag.

She got tired and we had to go home.