I have, thanks to a book lent from a good friend, ventured into the world of baby yoga. Lily loves it-- it's mostly just doing fun and silly things with their bodies, but I imagine that it feels good. Ben rolls his eyes at the whole thing (to which I say, "at least I'm still using SHAMPOO, buddy"), but I really love the way that it adds a dimension of creativity to my one-on-one time with Lily, which is special because she just doesn't get as much of it as Zosia did as a baby.
Aside from illustrating various poses, our baby yoga book offers some parenting mantras. I think that as a mom of little ones, we're so often consumed by the daily business of caring for our babies' bodies, teaching them, etc. that we don't pause to think about some of the bigger picture issues, and don't stop to refuel and regroup. So, anyway, one of these mantras is
"I am the perfect parent for my baby. My baby is the perfect baby for me."
As I read the mantra, I had this immediate reaction that was something to the tune of, "Yeah, right!" I mean, I feel so far from being perfect-- I'm constantly learning new things from other parents, am constantly noticing ways that I fail to be patient, fail to be present, fail to be loving. But hypnobirthing has taught me that imagining a positive outcome so often actually precipitates one, that I'm open to the possibility of this parenting mantra. I mean, for some reason these two particular little babies, chosen from all of the babies out there, have been entrusted to my care. There must be some perfection in that, right?
Which I'm trying to remember in this moment. As I feel guilty for sitting downstairs typing, as I hear my dear husband pacing upstairs putting the baby to sleep-- who had fallen asleep on the car ride home from her cousin's house, but became wide awake the second we pulled into our driveway-- and has been waking her big sister up in the process. Somehow, even amid all of this, there is perfection.
I am the perfect parent for Lily. Lily is the perfect baby for me.