Namaste and Junk

Yoga, people. If anything's been missing from my life, that was it. I'm on the 11th day in a row of this challenge, and I'm still loving it, just giving myself over to whatever the day's practice brings. Last night it was harder than usual to get my little monkey down for the night and by the time I got to my session it was nearly 8:30 and I was tired and we hadn't had dinner and I very nearly skipped it, but it turned out that going to the mat was exactly the best thing I could have done for myself. And HR had one of his best night's sleep since, well, ever, so that was nice too. He's been going through a lot of changes that really mess with the way he gets his rest, but I think we're dealing with it OK.

I've been thinking about what it means to raise a baby in the city. In most ways I think it's awesome. We don't have a yard, but we are close to a lot of parks. We can walk to everything, and do. The little boo can go weeks without ever being in a car (which is probably why he has such an aversion to car travel, but that is improving with age) and in time he'll get to know the ins and outs of museums and other city-centric things we take for granted but aren't immediately accessible to rural or suburban dwellers. But sometimes you just have to get out of the city to do things like last Saturday, when we ventured to the outer reaches of Ev-rit to hit up the yuppie trifecta of Costco and Target and Home Depot in order to procure baby proofing supplies. And since you gotta eat, we had our first Texas Roadhouse experience which was actually quite pleasant. Not because the food was especially great or the ambiance was so lovely, but these chains have a huge advantage over more indie establishments and it's that they are so dang kid-friendly. It's so huge and loud in there that you never feel like you're bothering people when your little one gets squirmy, and there are many animal parts on the wall and ceiling fans to so one parent can keep him entertained while the other one shovels down her lunch. Plus: 22 oz. beers. Nobody should ever go to Babies R Us again without downing one of those bad boys, it greatly enhances the experience. Well maybe not children and expectant mamas, but everyone else.

I'm working from home tomorrow and may or may not write, but probably not. So happy weekend if I don't get back on here until Monday. This musical selection is dedicated to my sister Danielle. I don't remember much about her, since she died when I was five and she was two, but I remember that "You Are My Sunshine" was her favorite song. It's been covered by everyone in creation, but, like so many songs, I feel like Willie Nelson has the definitive version.



Whenever I refer to my sister, please know that it's not in a sad way, but in celebration of her. She's been gone for 30 years and I barely remember her as an actual person, but she'll never not be a part of my life.