Yoga – It’s Just Not My Thing

Yoga – it’s just not my thing.

I hear about the benefits, I understand why it might be good for me, but I’m not interested.  And despite all the people who have tried to convert me the closest I have come to practicing yoga is taking a  different class in a yoga studio at the same time as a yoga class.

And tonight, I was late.

I ran down the sidewalk and rushed through the back door, threw my stuff on the floor and ran for a quick bathroom stop before I joined the group. Unfortunately to get to the bathroom I had to go through the, now in progress, yoga class. I checked my speed at the door, quietly slipped through, padded down the back of the room and through the curtain at the end to the reception area.

Pit stop over, I quickly went to join my class. Across the reception area, though the curtain-

And I was stuck.

An almost falling, windmilling arm, frantic, help I’m being attacked by a giant shiny, purple curtain stuck.  I understand that the low lights, soft music and candles are supposed to help with a calming and centering sort of atmosphere. But I can tell you that from my curtain mangling position it did nothing but panic me further as I attempted to extract myself from the curtain without making any more noise than I already had.  Of course my candle light induced panic just increased my tangled up position and seconds stretched to hours as I kicked myself free of the attack curtain.  At that point I figured I couldn’t possibly make things any worse and dashed for the door, the real door, and back into the bright lights and music.

Yes a large purple curtain and I agree, yoga – it’s really just not my thing!

 

 

This Moment – Morning Flight

A Friday ritual.

A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week.

A simple, special, extraordinary moment.

A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.bee hives in the morning

 

If you’re inspired to do the same, leave a link to your ‘moment’ in the comments for all to find and see.

Inspired by SouleMama.

Now that those nasty early morning hours have gone by I am again linking up with Northwest Frame of Mind  and her 1 Day 1 World project.  I was outside taking care of chores and watching the bees this morning between 8am -9am when I took this picture. Find out what others around the world were doing by clicking over!

I Hate the Park

Yes, it’s true, I hate taking my kids to the park.

I started hating the park when I’d take my kids to go play, only to find myself a captive audience in the never ending “Watch this!” show. Not that I dislike watching my children show off an odd trick or two, but I have a hard time mustering my enthusiastic appreciation of a five year old sliding down a slide – twelve times. Fortunately, with time and support from friends, I have cured them of that. We now have a deal. The deal is I take them to a park, they play, I read my book. I am watching and will comment on extra cool things like crossing the monkey bars unassisted and will be available for the mending of all bloody scrapes, knocks on the head, and broken bones. Other than that, I’ll be on page 143, thank you very much.  This is a great working deal for the girls and me, until the helicopter mothers show up.

Yes, it’s possible I look disengaged from my children because I am not standing at the bottom of the slide, under the monkey bars, or playing tag. However, I am plenty close enough to hear all of what is going on. Therefore, there is really no need to monitor my children for me. It is actually completely unnecessary for you to stand under the monkey bars for me. It is also ridiculous to interrupt my reading to ask if the children are mine. Your not so subtle hint that I should be manning the slide myself is unappreciated. Have you seen playground structures these days? Even Clara has a hard time hurting herself on them and she’s the girl who gave herself a black eye walking across a bedroom this week! I try to ignore the hovering parents but we all fold to peer pressure sometimes and inevitably, I abandon my book and go try to look excited about watching Jane slide down the slide for the 67th time.

Park hating aside, some days we just have to go. Yesterday, Ivy’s tadpole (age 10 months and nary a frog leg) died and while I disliked the “It’s boring here, can’t we got to a park” sentiment that was being thrown about, I felt bad for the girl. After dinner I made “the deal” and we trekked to the closest park (which is not that close, by the way). Unfortunately, Jane fell asleep in the car and there was absolutely no waking her when we got there. But, the park was helicopter free, I was able to read my book while Jane slept and the older girls played their hearts out.  Everything went so well that we stayed a little later than we should have but at bedtime everyone happily left and went home tired and refreshed after a such a lovely park visit.

The End.

The girls, no park involved.

The girls, no park involved.

Ha!

No, actually we arrived home and all hell broke loose.

Because, of course.

Of course, after refusing to rouse at the park, Jane woke up a crying, confused, tired, upset disaster. And, of course, the crying, tired, disaster wasn’t falling asleep – she just had an hour nap. And, of course, when we get back home (you know the boring place) from doing something fun, bedtime is doubly boring. So that’s why Ivy and Clara had to make necklaces instead of reading in bed when they were told. Banishing all three girls to separate rooms helped, except that then, of course, Clara couldn’t fall asleep. When I pointed out that perhaps the reason she couldn’t fall asleep was because she and Gypsy the cat were standing on the top bunk running around trying to catch a moth, of course, she fell into a heap of tears.  Meanwhile, through it all, though now from my bed instead of her own, Jane was crying that she didn’t get to play in the park. So in a desperate moment I told her we’d go to the park in the morning.

And, of course, logical or not, in my mind, all the chaos was because we had gone to the *#%* park.

When morning arrived Jane, who at two never remembers anything you say unless you’d really rather she had forgotten it, woke up demanding to go to the park. John having had an unfortunate set of shifts this week and after falling in bed for five hours was already gone for the morning. So I made a plan. Here is where you should probably cringe. I was pre-eight AM with a half of cup of tea in me, I can’t hardly dress myself much less plan, but plan I did.  We’d all take Ivy to school, pick up treats from the bakery and we’d go eat them at the park.

It was a a good theory, then Ivy discovered our plan in the truck. And despite the fact that she plays on playground equipment multiple times a day at school and was heading to a friend’s after school, she started the cry of “Not fair!” Somehow this turned into her instigating a fight amongst all three girls as to which park we’d be stopping at. I, still pre-eight AM, sat in a disbelieving stupor in the front seat wondering how a girl who wasn’t even involved could cause such a commotion. Finally, Ivy was dropped off, donuts and tea were in hand, the park decided on, and we got out to play (and read).

Exactly one minute and forty five seconds later Clara was done. Seems that her mother may have been right that a sweatshirt was in order for the morning. I dressed her in a spare of mine and told her that we were here to play and have fun and tossed her back on to the equipment. Exactly two minutes and fifteen seconds later Jane was done.

I gave up.

We loaded up, Clara spilled her juice all over the truck (and her doughnut) and tears ensued. By the time we were headed home I had been accidentally kicked in the head, my spare sweatshirt had turned into a mop for pink juice, Jane was covered in her own juice and chocolate sprinkles and I was vowing never to go to the park again.

Probably it’s irrational. I’m sure if I was so inclined I could pinpoint a number of more logical reasons for my misfortunes, but really, I just hate the park.

The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson

It’s over a 1,000 pages.

It’s “Part One.”

This isn’t a book, it’s a commitment!

I didn’t even start to understand this new complex world until I was around page 400.

But, the characters are engaging, the world is detailed, and the story is complex without overreaching. By the time I was near the end, you know, the last 200 pages or so, I couldn’t put it down.

Would I recommend it? I’m not going to steer my anti-fantasy friends toward this one. It’s likely too huge and overwhelming to be a cross genre favorite. But, if you are someone (cough, cough, my husband, cough, cough) who is avoiding Brandon Sanderson because of the whole Wheel of Time business, please stop, go find this book, and read it.

If you are still waffling click over to read “The Way of Kings” – The Way To Write Epic Fantasy. Not only is it an excellent (and much longer) review than mine, it’s what inspired me to pick up the book in the first place!

 

I’m Jane.

Life being life and me being me, my girls often are left to their own devices.

On a particularly busy morning I had been perfecting my imitation of a chicken with it’s head cut off while listening to Jane and Clara happily playing upstairs but hadn’t actually seen them for hours.

Also, life being life and me being me, I forget things.

I forget that Jane, is still of the age where things are taken literally. For instance, her name is Jane. Not Jane Catherine. Not sweetie. Jane.

Eventually, on that crazy morning, Jane and I did cross paths.  I was letting Storm into the house and as I shooed the wet dog past her down the steps into the basement Jane looked at Storm and said in her best syrupy sweet voice: “She’s such a good dog!”

And I, proud of my little girl for happily playing and getting along with her sister all morning said: “And how about you? Are you such a good girl?”Jane giggle

Jane looked up, defiance and anger on her face and spat: “No. I’m Jane!

Then she left me downstairs torn between giggling over yet another instance of Jane’s literalness and worried that I may have just received a clue as to what had been going on upstairs all morning.

 

 

UnBlessed by Crystin Goodwin

I could tell you…

I could tell you about the world. The magic of the elements and the animals. The ceremonies and the changes. The extensive history of the people.

But I’d hate to ruin the way the author unfolds it for you.

I could tell you in great detail the why’s and wherefores of the characters whom I loved and those who, upon reflection, I wished had been a little more fleshed out.

But I don’t want to introduce any prejudice. I want you to be as taken with the people as I was.

I could tell you what I absolutely loved and what left me wanting.

But I won’t.

I could even tell you just how it leaves you hanging at the end to send you running off to Amazon to see if her next book has yet been published.

I could tell you all of that.

But all that’s really important.

All I really feel you need to know.

Is that I have three young girls who all require breakfast in the early morning.

And the night I sat down to read (and eventually finish) this book I was left with far, far, less than the recommend eight hours of sleep a person is supposed to receive.

Far, far, less.

Would I recommend it? It was my turn for the morning shift with the girls and it was still totally worth it.

Rosie's Book Review team 1

This honest review was given in return for a free copy of the book from its author.