Finding hOMe

It's quarter after five on a Wednesday night. I should be en route to yogahOMe Mariemont to teach my group of regular hot vinyasa friends.

Instead, I'm staring at my feet. They resemble small tree trunks. I can't see my ankles. My toes look even more like little square Legos than they usually do.

I can blame the incredible swelling on wearing these today in month nine of pregnancy:

This means that the class I taught last week was my last regular class.

Not forever.

But for, well, awhile. Months. Maybe years. My Wednesday night home will now be my own--with my family, where I am anxious to commit myself to being.

Yesterday on my way home from work I heard Miranda Lambert sing "The House that Built Me." My thoughts immediately turned to hOMe. My journey there began in 2005. I was this fragile little heart who needed so much healing, and I've traveled from that person to the one who--I hope--has helped to heal others.

And then there's my home within hOMe: my mat. The home I can return to time and time again, the home that in the past few years I haven't returned to much.

I thought if I could touch this place or feel it, this brokenness inside me might start healing...

And although I don't feel broken--not in mind or body--I know that my practice is. I long to dig my fingers into my mat, to press my heels into her beautiful purple softness, to balance on just one leg, on just two arms, on just my head. I come to child's pose on my mat and immediately my breath slows, my mind calms, my heart settles in. I breathe. Like riding a bike, my breath returns to a place of ease every time I return.

I long to do this regularly.

For the last five years or so, I've been guiding others.

I'm ready to go back to guiding myself.

I cried yesterday in the car as Miranda sang; I think I knew deep down that even with two regular classes left, I wasn't going to be there.

Yesterday, I let them go.

It's now about 5:30. I've unrolled my mat onto my dining room floor. My fingers press in, my swollen feet aren't too swollen to feel rooted. Grounded.

Home.

Fear? Or Excitement? Or both?

It occurred to me about thirty seconds ago, with a bit of fear, and a lot of excitement, that the next weekday I find myself not at work, but instead sitting in my usual chair with a cup of coffee in my hand and The Today Show in my ear, that there will be a newborn in my lap.

I haven't slept well in the last week or so. I dream about going into labor. Every time I roll over, I think my water will break like it did with Will. I get up to go to the bathroom, I lay back down, and inevitably cramping and one contraction will follow and I think, "Is this it?"

Last night I dreamed my dad was cuddling his new grandson and then we told him the name, and he promptly handed us the baby back, angry that we didn't choose to name him "Frank Junior." That wouldn't happen, but clearly I've got some apprehension about all things baby two.

This weekend, I chatted with a guy at a birthday party who told me number two was the same as number one, at least for him, and since his wife was still "psycho," he guessed it was the same for her, too.

My sisters-in-law just last night at dinner warned us about the not-so-easy parts of having two. The metaphor had something to do with juggling, and since I've never ever been able to juggle anything--not oranges, not limes, not knives, not sticks of fire--I could feel this fear grow just a little bit more.

And yet here I sit, Will Vroooming! trucks in the playroom, and I think, "Get up out of this chair, momma. Your world isn't going to be the only one turned upside down soon. Go Vroom! a truck with him."

This thought is immediately followed by, "But who will help me get up off the floor?"

It doesn't matter.

I'll find a way, just like I'll find a way to juggle two boys, to manage a house with no sleep, to survive through labor and those post-baby blues.

Will just crawled into my lap.

Maybe I'll just enjoy this cup of coffee with one kid on my lap a little longer.

Keeping busy, waiting for baby

Remember my last post, in which I laid out the plan to ambush the house across the street? Yesterday's perfect spring-like weather was ideal for our little makeover.

Here's the before:

And the after:

Now on first glance, it may not look incredibly different. Here's what we did:

• Removed the faux brackets from the shutters, and gave them a fresh coat of semi-gloss black paint. 
• Trimmed the juniper tree bushes on either side of the front porch, opening it up, and making it look a bit more well-kept. 
• Cleaned out the flower beds lining her front walkway, as well as the beds on either side of the porch. In the spring, if we haven't sold, we will plant some seasonable flowers (it was full of overgrown dead ferns).
• Added my two bright red flower pots, just for a teensy pop of color on the front of the house. 

In addition to her house, we also cleaned out our non-camper-on-blocks neighbor's car port and side yard, which required moving about ten pounds of bird seed, lots of fallen branches, and at least six hanging pots of dead plants. 

All that activity and still...no baby!

Keeping the nesting thing in full swing (and inspired by pinterest, of course), I've started contemplating how I'm going to drop the baby weight. I decided to break out my old homemade granola recipe today and give it a whirl. Perfect topping to some plain greek yogurt. And you know exactly what is in it. Give it a try! I've made it slightly lower sugar than the actual recipe, as sugar is my true weakness. 

Basic Granola

2 c. oats

1/2 c. wheat germ

1 tbsp. brown sugar

1 tbsp. water

3 tbsp. canola oil

1/4 c. maple syrup

Extra Flavorings

1/4 tsp. vanilla

1/4 tsp. almond extract

1/2 tsp. cinnamon

Extra Ingredients

1/2 c. raisins, dried cranberries, chopped nuts, shredded coconut, dried banana chips, etc. 

Mix oats, wheat germ and brown sugar in a bowl. Bring water, oil, syrup and any extra flavorings you'd like to add to a simmer in a small pan over low heat (not adding any extra flavorings is fine, too). Pour liquid over oats and stir to combine. Spread mixture onto a greased cookie sheet, and use your hands to make small clumps of mixture. Bake at 275 for 30 minutes. At this point, you can add any extra ingredients you'd like, toss with a spatula, and allow to bake for another 15 minutes. Allow to cool completely, and store in a tight container for up to 2 weeks.

Now off to the gym...must continue to attempt to walk this baby out!

First-time home sellers

Selling a house is not nearly as fun as buying one.

After what feels like our bajillionth showing, and comments like, "Love the kitchen!" (thanks) "Fantastic Master Suite!" (duh, that's what happens when HGTV comes to your house) and "The yard is great!" (yes, or we wouldn't have had our wedding reception in it), I am completely heart broken when I read, "Questionable neighborhood," "Surrounding houses devalue," and "Neighbors like a trailer park," (that one in particular crushed me--after all, we bought the house with those trailer park neighbors!). 

There's only one thing left to do: 

Be a surprise Curb Appeal makeover good neighbor. 

Never mind that I'm four weeks or less from giving birth. Never mind that it's February, and sprucing up anything in February is like putting lipstick on a pig.

Never mind that my neighbor insists upon parking his camper...in his driveway...on concrete blocks...

Ok, maybe it is a trailer park. 

Our first target is this house across the street. We are ambushing this weekend. Sweet little old lady, just put on a new roof, and we are going to make her house look maaaaaaaah-velous! 

Stay tuned for the "after" post on Saturday! 

Creating Global Kids

As a parent and an educator, I think it's incredibly important to remove our kids from their safe neighborhood "bubble."

My high school classmates and I have talked before about always being protected by the little Anderson Township bubble of goodness--my eyes opened immensely not in my college town (that was really just like moving bubbles), but when I got to France for study abroad. I was so discontent with the experience at the time--homesick for the bubble--that I didn't live in the moment. It is only in hindsight that I appreciate what exactly it was that I did there.

My eyes became even wider when I started teaching in my current school. The number of fights that produced bloody noses, black eyes, and shreds of hair weave were something I really wasn't ever exposed to (and something I have been warned by my superiors that I am never to intervene and break up lest I wish to get a bloody nose myself).

So my mission as a teacher for the last few years has been to get my kids to not necessarily understand, nor even appreciate other cultures, but rather to respect their differences. I can't remember being taught this concept when I was thirteen. No adult ever said, "It's okay to think it's totally off-the-wall different. It probably is. But that doesn't make it bad or negative."

There's a poster that hangs in my classroom:

Nothing any culture ever does is stupid, dumb, gay, weird, lame, fill-in-the-blank with your favorite 13-year-old negative adjective of choice here, etc. Quite simply, it's different than what we are used to.

As I type this, my last class just walked out the door. They are currently doing presentations on Francophone (french speaking) countries. I've been lucky to have a student from Senegal in my French classes the last few years, and this year was no different.

She spoke in Wolof, the tribal language her family uses at home, and she made us fatya, a sort of African empanada made with chicken and spices.

Direct quote, from a student to my Senegalese girl: "I'm so glad you made this because I really thought all you ate in Africa was like, lion and antelope. You really opened my eyes and made me realize that Africa isn't crazy weird."

Right on. It's not "crazy weird;" it's different.

Creating global kids, one decreased stereotype outside-the-bubble at a time.

Little Buddha

I was cleaning Will's room the other day, when I paused at the little Buddha we put on his radio:

The little Buddha was given to me just a few weeks after we found out we were expecting Will, a holiday gift from one of my sweet yogi teachers. He found a home in Will's nursery on a shelf, and when we changed his room, the radio seemed to be the place Buddha landed next.

So I stopped dusting for a moment, and stared at Buddha's little open palm, and I wondered to myself, "We have no plans of introducing our kids to any kind of organized religion. Encourage them to explore? Yes. Show them various paths and allow them to choose what they feel in their hearts? Duh...absolutely! So what kind of value do I want Will to take away from being able to recognize Buddha?"

Because honestly, I get a little warm and fuzzy when he points Buddha statues out at the yoga studios, in stores, in our house, etc., so what do I want him to understand about Buddha?

I grew up with a cross hanging in my bedroom and a Bible in my bookcase (Precious Moments edition, to be exact), and something tells me my mom probably didn't get the same warm and fuzzy feelings when I would yell, "Hey, that's Jesus!" or if I even yelled that, because I found my CCD years to be incredibly confusing. This confusion further confused me, because I liked reading, and I liked stories, and I liked lemon cookies and juice for snacks, and wrapping yarn around popsicle sticks to make "eyes." And yet I didn't understand the purpose of doing any of it.

And I've read a few mommy blogs lately that have expressed their gratitude in teaching their kids that God is there for them, because mommy won't always be, and I get that. There's comfort, as a mom, in knowing your kid will have someone to turn to and find comfort in regardless of the situation.

But that doesn't really fly with Buddhism. Or me. So...

"Yes, Will, just look to the cross legged pudgy guy, and he will inspire your way."

Silly, right?

And yet, I want my kids to know something about it.

These lessons, they will unfold as they are supposed to.

For now, I start with and focus on the mudra of the little blue Buddha on Will's radio.

Left palm in lap, right palm open. It is the Abhaya Mudra: symbolizing protection from others, an offering of peace, and a dissolving of fear.

In the end, regardless of religion, isn't that what we all want our kids to know and feel?