Last week I took The Boy to a special story time yoga at our local library. He’s already been exposed to yoga at our house in various ways: Watching Mom do sun salutations out of the corner of his eye while he watches Thomas the Train; Knowing I’m going to a class while he plays in the child center at the gym; or together, as we read one of our favorite books, My Daddy is a Pretzel. The Boy knows Tree Pose, Triangle Pose, Downward Dog.
I wouldn’t go as far as to say he’s an above-average nearly 3-year-old yogi, but he likes yoga. That’s enough.
Story time and yoga? Yes! In fact, I’ve stopped going to the regular storytime events because he won’t sit still for them. He lasts all of 30 seconds before I get a look that says, “Let’s cut out and play with the train set.”
Quite honestly I don’t want to just sit there either. I get it!
So there we were eager for our yoga session (me especially so after running hills early that morning) among a room full of tots and their caregivers: moms, dads, grandparents. Who all took a seat. Or stood there. Not moving. For the whole. stinking. storytime.
Except me. But, of course.
I was the only adult besides the yoga instructor making monkey sounds, roaring like a tiger, hopping like a frog, stomping like an elephant, barking like a dog.
I tried real hard to focus on having fun with The Boy. And we did. Yet I felt–and you are not supposed to feel this way in yoga–pissed off at all those parents and grandparents. Sure I get it. I’ve been that mom who just wants to sit there with her coffee. Zone out. Score 20 minutes of someone else entertaining the kids. Still I had to work at not passing judgment while I was making monkey sounds, roaring like a tiger, hopping like a frog, stomping like an elephant, barking like a dog.
Because, come on!, I was the only grown up involved. Apparently no one looked at me and said, “Well, she doesn’t look that stupid, I’ll go ahead and do this too.” Nope. Just sat there.
Talk about a missed opportunity–not just for the chance to move and stretch for themselves, but the chance to show their children that fitness is a family affair, for the pleasure–the privilege, really–of being active together.
And I know what that means. I will never again be able to sit in storytime with my coffee and zone out.