The Poopsie Collective

Fitness: My Postnatal Yoga Experience

guest written by Jessica James of www.solpoweryoga.com

As a yoga teacher I was considered successful. I taught privates exclusively, had celebrity clients and was booked months in advance, yet I secretly felt a little like a fraud. Almost like my success as a teacher came faster than my practice could support, because I hadn’t mastered the handstand. I felt that if I were to teach and accept people’s hard earned cash then I should be able to perform the tricks as well, and worried that I couldn’t be taken seriously if I didn’t have the handstand mastered. While the rush of balancing upside down on my hands for 10 seconds led me into a deeper state of at oneness that we call “yoga bliss”, it was honestly ego driven. I was determined to be “worthy” to teach, so I sought out the best gravity defying teacher in town and my practice shifted from a moving meditation to inversion boot camp, complete with grunting, cursing and “atta girl” coaching. I was just starting to get it, or so I thought…

Jessica in handstand.

I found out I was pregnant and quickly shifted my practice by excluding most poses that twisted my mid section and ab work. I continued practicing inversions, but I had someone spotting me, and inherently lower expectations for myself and from my teachers. I was pregnant… of course pouncing like a cat from a pushup position into a handstand would be difficult. But I remained committed to my practice through my pregnancy like it was a lifeline. The support from my peers and colleagues was overwhelming. No one was judging me or measuring my abilities as a yogi and teacher. My pregnancy was, appropriately, my focus.

Jessica in Astavakrasana, or Eight-Angle Pose. Inspiring and impressive, right? 

After my delivery I was strictly instructed by my doula not to exercise for six weeks. She warned me that if I went back to soon I could undo my healing making it harder for my body to bounce back. I felt stuck.  What?  No Yoga at all? I had a whole new way of being in the world, new responsibilities, a lot of pent up energy and I was told that my practice was suddenly off limits? The one thing that kept me sane, the one thing that I ran to for comfort in times of big change was just beyond my grasp.

I heeded my doula’s advice and counted down the days until that “yoga bliss” could be all mine again! I waited…

Three days before my six weeks was up, my boyfriend’s instructor knocked on the door for his private lesson. I greeted and escorted him to the yoga space downstairs. My boyfriend and new daughter, Ava, were still sound asleep. I woke my boyfriend telling him it was time for his yoga when he surprised me: He offered to watch Ava while I took his session. I knew he just wanted to sleep longer and thought watching Ava meant sleeping next to her, but I jumped at the opportunity, and played it off accepting his generosity. I changed  and headed downstairs secretly hoping Ava would wake and my boyfriend would experience some of what I had been doing for the past six weeks. 

The instructor was my pre-pregnancy gravity defying inversion coach. He seemed genuinely happy to see me; we did the regular new-mommy small talk, then got to work. He didn’t mess around. No more than five minutes in, I started daydreaming about changing a diaper. I thought, “Holy hell, what have I gotten myself into? I am hating this!” I can’t blame my instructor, he’s a guy, and was used to my pre-baby attitude of “if I don’t get this I am no good”. He had me in a standing splits and was picking on the alignment of my hips! He wanted them square, but I practically had a new set of hips on me! I tried. I gritted my teeth through mustering up everything I had, to hating my teacher, wanting to punch him, and then eventually just collapsed to the floor in a puddle of tears.

I apologized and blamed my crazy post-baby hormones. He felt badly and backed way off. We finished the session and I ran upstairs quickly resuming my position as “mommy”.  Ava had done her part and tormented her daddy, who was equally relived that our roles had fallen back into place.

The following day my back was a mess. I tried to delicately place Ava in her car seat while pain shot up my back. I sat on my yoga ball with my new daughter and cried again in mourning of my yoga practice. My body was ready for activity but apparently not that kind. I began to quietly skip out of my boyfriend’s private classes, and started to practice by myself again. I tuned in, listened to what I needed that day and began to let the practice lead me.

While taking myself through my own sequences I was reminded of why my clients liked my brand of yoga in the first place. Yoga was the one thing that they could do for themselves, at which they didn’t have to compete or even be very good. They just had to show up on the mat and breathe.

As my yoga journey spiraled inward, I reemerged with a different sense of self. I was a mother now; I had to take care of myself so that I could care for my daughter. Instead of following my ego I began to follow my bliss. My practice is not “back”, I still haven’t mastered handstand, but no one cares. Truth is the only person who ever cared about my handstand was me.

Every single one of my clients was anxious for me to return to teaching, and when I did I came with a much deeper understanding of the practice. I discovered that the quality of my teaching and my mothering is in direct proportion to my dedication and cultivation of self-love. I got my ego out of the way and allowed my practice to finally become an expression of love and devotion. I found that center and sense of self that I thought mastering handstand would give me, but I found it within myself, not within a pose. In a way, my practice was reborn and with it, so was I.

Jessica James has been practicing yoga seriously for 8 years, and for the last 4 years she has taught movie stars, pop stars and all sorts of fancy people that pay her to keep them looking “Hollywood ready.” As a teacher, she has developed yoga sets that sculpt the body and clear the mind. Yoga has brought a whole new dimension to her life, and she loves both her practice and her clients. She is currently developing and shooting a Prenatal Vinyasa Flow program (DVD) due out this Summer. For more on Jessica, visit her website: www.solpoweryoga.com. 

The Mum Tum

Written by GWEN

I’ve never had a flat stomach. It’s just not the way I’m built. I mean I can see my feet, and most of the time my hoo-ha, unless I’ve been out for a celebratory meal or something, if you know what I mean. No? 

ANYWAY, I’ve learned to hide this, handicap if you will, pretty well.  Because otherwise I’m a pretty small person, proportionally. I’ve been told I have nice long legs and a tight little toosh. (By the way, apparently this shape is known in magazines like Glamour as “The Apple”. I know, I don’t get it either.) So I accentuate my good areas. You know, I work a lot of A-line or tent dresses. Kaftans, blouses. Nothing tight. Ever. I guess my body has molded my fashion sense and taste in a way, and I’m okay with that. Every now and then I wish I could sport a belt, show a little waist line—especially when high-waisted jeans were in—but it’s fine. I get by and still manage to look pretty put together if you ask me.

When I was prego, it was quite liberating to let it all hang out. I actually did wear tight tops for the first time in my life. It was OK to have a belly and I was proud to show it off.

Me about to pop in probably the tightest shirt I’ve ever owned!

Then, once I had Izzy, I went back to my normal figure pretty quickly. (Isn’t figure such a retro word??) That is to say, I still had a little belly, but everything else was pretty good. And when I was breast feeding and chasing around Izzy every day, I was pretty skinny. Still had a pooch mind you, but not bad. 

Almost three months have passed now since I stopped breast feeding and I’m looking a little worse for wear these days. I hide it well, and like I said, I’m certainly not fat, but the tum is BACK. And better than ever. It’s a little bigger than I would like and I understand at some point I am going to have to cut down on the dessert and pork belly dinners. Not in winter though. Don’t be ridiculous. 

I have been feeling a little bad about myself lately, though, and here’s what didn’t help… I ran into a fellow mom friend yesterday at a playcentre. I looked pretty cute, wearing jeans, boots and a navy silky kaftany-type top. I hadn’t seen my friend in a while, and after we had chatted for a few minutes, I must have leaned a certain way, which prompted, “OH! Is that a little bump you’re hiding under there?” 

“NOOO!!!!” I shouted without thinking.

She turned bright red and apologized profusely. I mean, I wasn’t really upset, it takes a lot to offend me. 

And to be fair, the real answer to her question is, “Yes. Since 2001.”

Tit for Tat

Written by ERICA

What my boobs looked like immediately post-baby. And what I wish I looked like all the time. She’s hot.

*** Disclaimer: if you are my dad, father-in-law, ex-boss, or anyone uncomfortable with talk of boobs, stop reading now. Because the time has come to talk about some tits, specifically mine. ***

So a little background info on me: I have (or should I say had? But we’ll get to that) great boobs. I just do. I’m not embarrassed to say it, in fact, I’m proud of them. I’m not sure where they came from. Sorry mom, but there is no way these perky C-cups were inherited from you. Or at least that’s what I thought. My mom always told me she used to have more of a chest before her kids (you are welcome) sucked them dry. And we weren’t even breastfed. Anyway, my entire life, if you asked anyone (me, my husband, my friends) what my best qualities were, I’m pretty sure my boobs would make the list. And according to my husband, so would my humility. (Smart a$$.) 

So when I got pregnant I was curious to see what would happen to my chesticles. Would they get massive? Would they disappear? Would they loose all sexiness and start to resemble cow utters?

The short answer? Yes. To everything.

During my pregnancy they basically didn’t change. They sure looked smaller, but I’m fairly certain that’s just ‘cause my burgeoning belly bump stole the show and for the first time in a very long time my tits weren’t the biggest thing on my body. 

Then I had Owen and some weird things happened. In the hospital I had zero milk and, wait for it, non-existent nipples. Yup, my nips are tiny, always have been, apparently always will be. Which is fine with me. But it wasn’t fine with Owen. He wanted NOTHING to do with them. Which shocked me. No one has EVER rejected my boobs. Ever. I would have been insulted but he was just so teeny and innocent, it was hard to stay mad. I even had a lactation expert come check out my lady lumps. In walked a she-male that looked (and sounded) like Arnold Schwarzenegger in a white lab coat and after being legit manhandled I was told, and I quote, “These just won’t do. These boobs are no good to me.” I’m pretty sure I cried. 

Next, we (me, my family, and my sad, good-for-nothing boobs) left the hospital, and on the ride home (seriously) they blew up like porn star tits. That lasted for about 2 days, just long enough for me to run into the nearest lingerie store in tears because none of my bras would fit. I soon found out they didn’t fit because I was a size 32-E. AN E! What the crap is an E cup?  I’ll tell you. It’s bigger than a double D. It’s a post-pregnancy, my milk-just-came-in, I look like I might topple over, cup size, is what it is.

So weeks go by, the breast-feeding is a no-go, the pumping is making me feel like a miserable, cranky cow, and slowly but surely, my boobs are disappearing on me. In the end, I lasted only 2 months pumping. I stopped after I had a breakdown at 3am while I was being moo-ed at by my breast pump (I swear to god it makes a moo sound) and in a half-asleep, too-tired-to-sit-up, stupor I spilled 3 ounces of breast milk all over my nice clean sheets. (And yes, I proceeded to sleep in those sheets because I was too tired to even survey the damage.)

The next day my doctor told me it’s more important to have a happy, sane mom, than a miserable mom who pumps at the crack of dawn. So I quit. I’m a titter quitter and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I was able to salvage what little boobs I had left, and walk away from the experience fairly unscathed.

One day I’m sure Owen will read this and be mortified. No kid wants to hear his mom talk about her boobs. But listen up cutie pants: it’s your fault they’re not as big and perky as they used to be. It’s because of you that I have lost all confidence in their powers. It was on your 1-day birthday that I got physically assaulted by an aggressive lactation expert with man-hands. So tit for tat Owen. Tit for tat.