Today we have Mom and Baby Yoga class. This is one of three classes we take each week. There's this one, and then the other yoga class (with a teacher who uses a different approach, as I wouldn't want Phinny to misinterpret yoga as simply a directive, posture-oriented practice, don't you know) and our music class. Here is what happens in the music class, as described in a conversation with my mother.
Me: "It's Pre-Wiggleworms. Pre."
Mom: "Like, you go and play instruments at a tiny baby?"
Me: "No, we go and sing to them. A whole group of moms and babies under 5 months."
Mom: "You go and sing to them. At them. As in you pay 15 dollars to go to a room and sing at your baby, lullabies you sing at home, along with a handful of other moms who all pay 15 dollars to go sing at their babies with you in this same room."
Times they are different now. Way back when I was child walking uphill both ways to school, barefoot in the snow, we were very lucky if our parents drove us (standing up in the car) to the beach at the end of the road where, dressed in piecemeal approximations of swimwear, we swam amidst carp and scattered bright orange popcorn in the sand surrounding my mother's lawn chair. So the pigeons would poop on her.
My child, in contrast, attends classes, taught by professionals, and enjoys my undivided attention while we unfold the world for her together, in little organized parcels of wonder.
And we look good while we do it, homies. Check these yoga pants I made for her. Sure they look good on their own, but wait until I post the pictures of these babies wrapped tightly around Phinny's chubby thighs, sleeky defining her amazing yoga-built muscle tone. Just you wait.
Again, thanks to an old t-shirt: