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[unlikelyyogi]

Eat dirt

Trying to be a conscientious parent here. Still sterilizing bottles well past the recommended age, preparing nutritious (but still yummy) meals, organic when possible. Then your kid drops down in the playground and starts to eat dirt #whatsthepoint #parentfail

[unlikelyyogi]

We chalk all our lessons hard learnt - bungled jobs, forgotten friendships, failed relationships, and all our other fuck-ups and embarrassments - down to "character building" exercises. Well, I'm in my mid thirties now, and I'm overflowing with character, but not much else

[unlikelyyogi]

#kidsaregross

Your kid receives dozens of thoughtful gifts for his birthday, you spend hours unpacking then and showing him how to play with each one, and when you turn your head, he starts playing with the toilet brush

[unlikelyyogi]

Letters to my Little Loaf.

A letter I wrote to my darling Little Loaf, when he was on his way to meet us. Revised today, as we approach his first birthday. 

My darling baby boy,

You’re half cooked, already. At twenty weeks, you are fully formed, your fingers and legs are long, your beautiful face is perfect, and your hair is starting to grow. And on Friday, we get to drop in and see you. I can’t wait. I can already feel you, floating and swimming around, responding to the things I do, say and eat. You have your personality and preferences, and you are not shy about communicating them.  I am glad that you have your own voice, because you will surely need it in the world in which you are to be born.

The world which you are to enter is strange, beautiful and paradoxical, and as your Bibi once said, it is often not a fair place. It is changing rapidly as you grow and develop, and by the time you are ready to raise your voice, I imagine it would have transformed beyond recognition. But I fear that there will still be pockets that are unfair, and that despite the lofty goals of some, deep, structural inequality, discrimination and prejudice will remain. And I hope, my love, that you use your voice to speak out against this.

The coincidence of your birth, I imagine and I pray, will favour your life chances. You will be born in a developed city, in a space of your own, to parents who already love you more than they could ever express or have imagined. Your fathers’ job, and your grandfathers’ circumstances, will help ensure that you do not reasonably want for anything, that you will not go hungry, and that you have access to the education that will prepare you to succeed in the world. Your sex will ensure that you are not thwarted by glass ceilings, and that you may not have to face the routine humiliation and objectification that half the population has to face. But my love, always remember that these privileges are not birth rights. Did you know that your DNA is the same as over 90% of the world’s population? The circumstances of your birth do not make you more worthy or deserving than others, but it does make you more responsible. You are responsible for giving what you are able, always being compassionate and kind, and leaving the world a slightly better place than when you entered it.   You must respect women, and see them as equals in all regards (except perhaps in moving furniture). You must especially respect your mother (and not just because I said so), your grandmothers, your sisters (if you have any), and your wife (if you have one). These are your responsibilities.

Never have a sense of entitlement. Even as we strive to give you everything that you could want, and everything that we are able to, never believe that it is owed to you by virtue of some superiority. This is pure dumb luck, my love. We must be grateful and appreciative for what we have. There are many that are not so lucky.

There are, however, many rights that you are born with. These are unalienable and universal, even as they are often denied to many. You may find that they are times that they are denied to you, but you must fight for them, and I will fight alongside you.

·       It is your birth right to live with dignity, and to be respected for who you are and what you believe. Your value and worth is intrinsic and unalienable; it is not based on your skin colour, your last name, nor your postcode.

·       To determine who you are, and what you believe. Many people may try to influence this, my love, and I suspect your parents will be amoung them. We will try and tell you what is right, and what to believe, based on what we believe and have been taught is right. But ultimately, you must decide this for yourself, and follow this with the passion and commitment of inwardness – while never discriminating against, or judging those, who believe differently. But do me a favour, my love, and don’t remind me that I said this to you.

·       To love who you love. This again might be something we, and others, may try and influence. There may be many reasons as to why you might be drawn to some, that have nothing to do with love. But there are far too many people in the world that are not able to be with those who they love, and for whom this is a strange, dangerous thought. Do not deny yourself this right, and never let anyone else deny you of it either. Not even us.

·       To never endure being mistreated, abused, or discriminated against because of your religion, your skin colour, your name, or your orientation. Unfortunately, this happens all too often in the world, and I can’t imagine that it will happen less so, going forward.  You will be born into a certain religion, and (hopefully) instructed in its teachings. Your skin colour and your name will always reflect your ethnicity. These things do not define you. Even as religious is politicised and polarized, and names and skin colours become the basis of discrimination and otherization, never let others reduce you to this, or define you by this. Despite differences of identity and orientation, faith and tradition, we are all the same, deserving of the same rights and respect. Do not let anyone else treat you otherwise.

Finally, my darling little loaf, try not to get too spoiled by all my attempts to shower you with all the love, attention and presents that I am exploding with, as we speak (and I feel you kick – can you feel this too?!)

I love you beyond words, beyond expression, beyond understanding. I love you simply and completely.

Yours,

Your Mother

December 14, 2015

[unlikelyyogi]

A New Axis

Becoming a mother changed everything. It wasn’t simply about having my body first colonized, then split open, or my breasts becoming engorged, then leaky, or all moments of leisure evaporating, and all my time dedicated to the service of my little lord.

It changed my mind too. My perspective. Perhaps it was the deluge of hormones coursing through my body, or the delirium of one too many sleepless nights. But something shifted, it sublimated.

As Arman grew inside of me, I felt the strangest thing. It was though the existential loneliness that had seen me through much of my life evaporated. I can’t explain it. I barely understand it. But despite the isolation that motherhood brought s with it, and the with drawl from social commitments and previous relationships, I no longer felt alone. 

It was not as though he completed me. I am not an abandoned sketch, awaiting the right hand to fill in the forgotten lines. Surely no man or child could have that power. It was simply that I no longer held the desire to be seen.  I can see now, with my own eyes, what I, in part, had created and brought forth. Beyond the subjectivity of a parent, I know that he is perfect.

Parenthood gave my world a new axis. If I had been careening, orbit-less, colliding into other planets, Arman gave me a new center. A holding point. And while one day, my interests and activities may expand again, I know that it is with thoughts of him that each day will rise.

He showed me too, a life beyond myself. Like much of my generation, I spent my teens and 20s living in an eternal present. This was not so for my grandparents generation. They could never luxuriate in the false complacency of their immortality. My grandfather’s infancy was marred with the passing of his mother, he came of age with the death of a nation. Like the stalwarts of his generation, from early on, he strove to forge his legacy.

Time opened up with Arman’s arrival. I see worlds beyond my existence and experience. I know this is the natural order, and I eagerly await the day when it is his time to come forward, and mine to retreat. It doesn’t scare me.

But it makes me think about my legacy. What contributions can I make to a world where my son will eke out his life? What role model can I be for him? And what will I leave behind? It is no longer about finding a job, any job, making some money, living in the moment. These moments will end, just as his have begun. I must act now.  

[unlikelyyogi]

One (Wo) Man Village

I  tried my hardest over the past five months. I tried to be the best mother I could possibly be, and father too, because Father is so frequently away, and grandmother(s), grandfathers, living and passed, great grandparents, friends, teachers, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins and everything in between. If I failed, which I now can see that I had, it was not for want of trying. 

But the trying ran me ragged, and my determination and doggedness could not forge the impossible. No matter how many baby yoga/baby swimming / baby massage / long walks / long talks / silly rhymes over countless bedtimes / bath times and meals that I threw myself in to, it simply wasn’t enough. It takes a village to raise a child, and try as I might, I can never be a one person village. No one can. 

The inevitable consequence of my efforts was a pressure cooker effect, where I found myself colliding with my child - who, by all estimations, is a good baby. He is not particularly difficult or challenging. It wasn’t him or me, but by virtue of it just being us, there was conflict and chaos. Every meal went burnt because invariably while the garlic was saluting, the baby would start howling. Leaving the house was a daily ordeal, as I tried to put on my shoes or brush my hair so I could take my child to baby yoga, he shrieked because all he wanted was to be held. Sensing my stress and fatigue, he grew petulant, an me, desperate for something - anything - that wasn’t all about him, starting smoking again, three years after giving up. The guilt consumes me still, and compounds with the guilt from fiery explosions as my patience wore thin, and the sharp sting resentment I sometimes felt as I clashed with the grand usurper of my time, body and mind. 

And I felt guilty too, about escaping to Pakistan. It had been planned for years, and it is the thing to do, but still, I felt as though I was denying him something. Baby yoga classes, Gymboree, and those music classes! Surely now would be the right time for them. 

But coming here, seeing him take his place in the village in which I was raised, the outpouring of joy as his Bibi walks into the room, his sense of security as he is held in the very hands  that gathered pebbles for my slingshot when I was a child, surrounded my his cousins, even if they don’t share their toys, and a hundred pairs of eager arms that do not object, even when he dribbles milk down their shirts. This has made me realize. I was wrong. I see my child, happy. It is not one class that has made him this way, nor one person. It is the village. The constant stimulation, the endless love, the community and the family.

His happiness pads the edges of my patience. The support and family cleaves time for me to get away too, once in a while. I escape for yoga. I go for a massage. I miss him terribly for those moments, and I burn slightly when I realize that he hasn’t lunged for me from the arms that encase him. But I know that this is the best thing for him. And yes, for me too.   

[unlikelyyogi]

So in recognition of the sucki-ness of the whole situation, here goes. 

It’s a Cruel World After All

There’s just one Mummy and she works for me She takes me out, and she feeds me But sometimes she puts me down for a minute or two To take a break and run to the loo You see, she’s had too many cups of tea After having stayed up all night looking after me So I start to howl and bring the house down It’s a cruel world after all

(Chorus)  It’s a cruel world after all It’s a cruel world after all It’s a cruel, cruel, cruel world

My Daddy works hard to support me Goes to office to bring home money But at two am, when I want to play He says, “Son, let’s wait for another day.” So I start to weep, so no one can sleep, It’s a cruel world after all

Chorus

The world is big and bright and loud And I like to go out and look around But I get tired and``start to fuss On the way home, I shriek on the bus My Mummy holds her head and starts to say, It’s a cruel world after all.

Chorus 

It's a cruel world after all.

It’s tough being a little guy. You haven’t quite caught on to this delayed gratification business, and yet there are times (the outrage!) when mummy puts you down for a few moments (which is eternity in your life span!) and doesn’t immediately give in to what you want. Or doesn’t know what you want (after three hours of continuous crying, you’d think she would have tried everything and finally nailed it). Hell, sometimes you don’t even know what you want. And sometimes, you just need to cry it out for the hell of it. It can sure suck, sometimes.

It’s tough being a mummy too. Even after having sacrificed your mind, body and sanity on the alter of motherhood, your little tyrant still complains and cries. Sometimes, nothing you do is ever enough. It sure can suck.

It was in recognition of the general suck-iness of these scenarios that this latest ode came about. And also because while the tune of its a small world is forever branded in my memory, I can’t seem to remember anything but the chorus and one verse (who knew there were more verses anyway?!) and surely after singing one verse again and again, one is ready to bash their head against a wall (if the three hours of crying hadn’t driven you to it already!) Us mothers must seek their entertainment wherever they can.

[unlikelyyogi]

Don’t kick Mummy in the Tummy

Turns out, an undergraduate degree in English Literature, creative writing courses and years of writing (frequent terrible, always emo) poems has come to some use after all...  

As I engage in the daily battle to put my overtired infant to bed, or to calm him down, I find myself thinking up new - and realistic - nursery rhymes and songs. After all, how many times can one sing Wheels of the Bus? 

This is my latest, and is inspired by real events. It’s called, Don’t Kick Mummy in the Tummy.

Don’t Kick Mummy in the Tummy

Don’t kick Mummy in the Tummy Don’t pull out her hair You have lots of toys That squeak and make noise Why don’t you hit them instead?!

Especially in the early days, when my C-Section scar was still raw, the nursery rhyme had quite the urgency!

[unlikelyyogi]

Overtired...

Of course, that is the one thing all new mothers are instructed to prepare for. “Sleep while you can,” laugh well-meaning strangers, and you find yourself nervously giggling along, while desperately trying to steel yourself for the eventuality of stuccato sleep, and pray fervently that your child will be a good sleeper. But they never are, are they? Or if any are, I don’t want to hear of it, not from any gloating mothers, with their glowing skin and un-bagged eyes. Bitches.

The first night was probably the worst. I would have imagined that it would have been much harder further down the line, with an accumulated sleep debt, but it was that first night where I was most delirious with fatigue. I suppose it was then that my body most needed the rest, having been sliced up and halved, sedated and sown together. And my mind too, unable to comprehend the enormity of what lay ahead. But I couldn’t rest. Neither the baby nor my paranoia would allow me too. When he finally did settle into sleep, I would pull myself up like an amputee, who has lost the benefit of their legs and lower body, but still experiences jolts of searing pain with every movement. I would place a shaky hand on his belly to see if he was still breathing, whether he had survived these few hours with me. And he would stir, awake, and explode into tears, and it would begin again.

It did get easier. Or perhaps I became inured. Fatigue became so commonplace, I simply didn’t notice it anymore. I suppose it manifested, in the knots in my shoulders, in the tightness around my face. But like atlas, I usually don’t think twice about this burden, that I now can’t imagine being without..

Until something throws it off. A bad night. Teething maybe, or the hangover from inoculations. Or perhaps, the hubris of night out, fuelled by the desire to enter the world you once inhabited, get a baby sitter, go out for a few hours, try and forget…forget that this at the expense of your sleep. You will still have to rise with the first stirs, and that the few short hours away can either be spent on sleep or in play. And surely one is more restorative than the other, however a good idea it seemed at the time.

Then the fatigue hits. It’s crushing. It courses through your whole body, deadening even the tiny muscles of your toes. You realise it's been over four months since you slept more than six hours in a night, or had an unbroken stretch of 4 hours. You realise that you have been fooling yourself, and the adrenalin that has been fuelling your days in no substitute for rest. There is no recuperation .

Maybe one day, maybe in a few years, I will know what it is to be rested again.

[unlikelyyogi]

Describing motherhood...

Imagine the craziest job you could ever have, with the most unpredictable, demanding boss. And it's around the clock, all day and night, with no holidays. It consumes you. And should you, by some conjuring of a baby sitter or other bit of good fortune, get a break, you will never be able to switch off. Your mind always returns, even for those few moments that your body finds itself somewhere else. Oh, and the work is completely unpaid. Hell, it's barely recognized or appreciated. Yet, it defines you. More than anything you've ever done, or could do. And you love it more than you ever thought possible.

[unlikelyyogi]

My world has shrunk...

My world has shrunk…My interests used to be vast, expansive, stretching through time, across continents, subjects and people… And now, all my thoughts and concerns, my emotions and imagination, and even my identity, is governed by ten pounds, 20 inches… My thoughts throughout the day, and what jolts me from my sleep, are about this little man. The rest of the world has slipped and fallen away, and I struggle to remind myself that the rise and fall of nations should remain at least as important as the sleeping patterns of my little loaf. My emotions too, have condensed and contracted. My greatest joys, and also newfound darkest fears, are wrapped within this tiny frame. What happiness before a tiny, gummy smile seen through bleary eyes at three in the morning? Or the sense of responsibility contained in the way a tiny arm presses into me, with all the unspoken trust and faith in the world? The anguish of an inconsolable baby, as the two of us cling to each other and howl, as routine inoculations have left us dejected and in pain.

My confidence too, has shrunk. I feel like an imposter in all worlds, out there, with the free, unshackled folk, with their contributions and concerns that extend out into the world. I cannot be fully present in that world any more, for my mind and thoughts continuously run back home. Nor am I any less of a charlatan amoung other mothers, for surely I felt more confident in my abilities to parent until I became one. …Now, everything becomes a personal failure, my inability to birth my baby in the way that I had wanted, not producing enough milk to satisfy his hunger. my child’s fears and insecurities, his illnesses and discomforts…

And this is surely compounded by the endless, unsolicited advice regurgitated by all those around me, who surely know how to care for my child in ways that I cannot (are they right?!) whether he is to hot or too cold, over fed or hungry, and what the hell did I do to him to make him start yowling at three in the morning, my husband snaps at me (he had peed all over himself during a diaper change, though that might not have been visible from my husbands spot, nestled in bed). I am a bad mother. I am a bad mother because I do not posses superhuman strength, stamina and knowledge, all of which is needed to raise a little human. I am a bad mother, because even as I sacrifice my engagement with the world and every part of myself, it is still not enough, it cannot soothe all cries (and then, am I not being overbearing and suffocating?) I am a bad mother, and because I have abdicated all other identities and affiliations, my place in the work force, my role as a wife (though that may have been in jeopardy before this little loaf rose to meet me) and many of my other hobbies and interests, a bad mother is all that I am…

[unlikelyyogi]

You know you're a new mother when...

You find yourself weighing out the relative merits of either going in for a shower, or taking a nap during one of your newborns increasingly shorter naps

[unlikelyyogi]

[unlikelyyogi]

The Unlikely Mother...

Two weeks ago, today, the unlikely yogi turned into the unlikely mother. Perhaps not unlikely in that I have never doubted that I wanted to have children at some point (though that point always remained in the vague, distant future), but perhaps just that in looking at this little bundle of perfection lying and grunting next to me, I still cannot wrap my head around the fact that he is mine. I grew him, from a tiny sesame seed, into this mewling and puking infant, who is more beautiful and amazing than anything I could have imagined... 

[unlikelyyogi]

Asteya

Before embarking upon this yogic journey, one of the observances is on stealing, or asteya. No point in even getting to the asanas if that one is not taken care of. Nowhere is asteya more manifest than at a yoga retreat, where everyone locks their room, and then leaves the key on display at the reception desk! The Pakistani in me is still a little nervous to leave my key outside, but I don't suppose it makes a difference as my roomste does it every day! We leave wallets outside the bathroom when we go inside, our cameras are left for the full day outside! Maybe it is a better way of living!

[unlikelyyogi]

It's been three weeks...

...since I wore make up or blow dried my hair ....or that I read the news... ....or watched TV... ...or ate meat..... .....or touched alcohol or a cigarrete ... Or sat in a chair for more than 30 minutes... ....or went more than 2 days without practicing yoga... ...or bathed without the prying eyes of geckos or bugs..... ....or saw a Pakistani or Indian face... ... Or wore heels.... ....or read anything not yoga related... ...or woke up after 6 30 am....

[unlikelyyogi]

Wear and Tear

Week three and frustration levels are rising. I have not magically powered through the primary series. In fact, my headstand is even more shaky now than it was before I came. Sure, with help I can now do some poses that I couldn't previously, but without assistance I'm sure I will be back to where I was before this course. I don't feel any stronger. In fact, watching people soar through the second series, finishing in hand stands and drop backs, is making me feel weaker than before. And, when I feel weak, I eat. My emergency chocolate supply became a daily chocolate supply, and even as I write this I'm finishing the last of my emergency (!) chocolate wafers. Perhaps for these reasons,I havent lost all the weight that I thought would mythically pour off my body. In fact, my digestion is perhaps more sluggish than its ever been before. Perhaps a very healthy (minus chocolate insdulgences) and not enough natural fat makes one severley constipated? that definitely doesn't lead to a sense of well being. Plus, I'm more distracted than before. During my philosophy and anatomy classes, my mind runs havoc, fishing out memories from lifetimes ago. I can't meditate, i can't still my mind, or turn the senses within. The essential questions that I was hoping to find answers for seem more elusive than ever, and I'm absolutely lost as to what lies ahead after this course ends. That mind body connection that Paul keeps exhorting me to develop seems as mythical as hydra headed serpent who we evoke before our practice. and I'm getting bloody fed up of fishing ants out of my tea or watching for flying geckos when I shower. And, what's most frightening, is that I am less confident than ever before of my desire or ability to teach. The only thing I have gained conviction in is how far I have to go, and how much more I need to learn