T A B L E_T A L K

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R E C E N T L Y

Drama Queen: The worst toys ever
This month's finalists battle the most nefarious play-pretties that ever tots have touched
(01/11/99)

Sleeping in
By Anne Lamott
No one tells you that the profound tiredness you feel in your child's first year of life doesn't go away with the 2 a.m. feedings
(01/07/99)

One mother's gain
By Maurine Zarlengo Christ
After adopting three children, a mom says it's love, not blood, that makes parents
(01/06/99)

My mother's daughter
By Kristina Zarlengo
A child of adoption wonders: How much is my nature a product of my nurturing?
(01/05/99)

The baby girl I gave away
By Ceil Malek
Putting up a baby for adoption was the first act of my adult life, but it took me almost 30 years to face what that decision meant for me and my daughter
(01/04/99)

BROWSE THE MOTHERS WHO THINK FEATURE ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

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HOW A WEEK AT A YOGA RETREAT SAVED
ME FROM THE PERFECT PARENTING FRENZY.

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BY FAULKNER FOX | I had a little nervous breakdown last spring. Or maybe it was an identity crisis. I couldn't figure out how I could be a mother of two young sons (a 3-year-old and a baby), a writer and a happy individual all at the same time.

I knew I was going down when the smallest logistical decisions began to take on huge significance: Should I pick up my son from preschool before or after I go to the grocery store? Should I pump my left breast after feeding the baby on the right, or should I pump the right before feeding the baby on the left? Or pump a bit on both, then feed him the rest?

I was absolutely convinced that each question had a right answer and a wrong one. My days were full of hundreds of mommy pop quizzes. All day and most of the night I was cramming, trying to figure out how to make my life manageable. Happy, I figured, would have to come after manageable.

When I had my relatively brief windows of baby sitter-bought time to write, it was hard -- nigh impossible -- to stop the whirring, the list-making, the trying to figure out the right answers to myriad domestic dilemmas. This mind-set, which I call "tasking," is not the most conducive to creative writing. In fact, I felt sure that tasking was killing the tiny bit of creativity my sleep-deprived brain might still be capable of, but I couldn't stop it, couldn't stop trying to figure out the answers that would lead to control.

It got so I was either gritting my teeth or weeping most of the day. It was very bad, and also confusing. I seemed to have the life I had always wanted -- two beautiful and healthy children, a supportive husband I love, a good part-time teaching job and three or four hours a day to write -- and yet I was miserable. Pretty much the only thing that always made me feel better was yoga, which I was doing sporadically, sometimes with my baby in Mommy and Me postpartum classes and sometimes by myself, which required leaving my husband with both kids at dinner time.

"That was the worst hour and a half of my life," he said when I returned pretty relaxed from one class. Gradually, though, it became clear to both of us that whatever the hardship to my husband, I needed an extended break. I was desperate for a few days when I didn't have to get anyone juice or change anyone's diaper. And I knew I wanted to do yoga. When I called an old friend in desperation, she mentioned a yoga retreat in Colorado she had visited several years before, so I weaned my son and went.

Mothers of very young children don't generally go away to do yoga for six days. As far as I can tell, they don't go much of anywhere alone unless maybe a family member falls gravely ill, and the young mother is literally the only living person who can help. Or maybe there's an extremely compelling business trip with an implied threat of dismissal if you don't go. I can't think of one mother of a baby (my son was 8 months old when I left) who has gone somewhere for herself and by herself for a period of days.

There was a lot of guilt involved in my decision to go. Here's how I justified it: When I am feeling particularly bad about my parenting, I torture myself with the question "What will my sons be talking about in therapy 20 years from now?" I decided that the worst answer -- the answer that would make me feel like the biggest idiot -- would be: "My mother was really depressed when I was a child. I wish she'd gone on more yoga retreats." Also, on the 10 or 12 occasions when I asked my husband if he was sure he could handle it all if I went, he always replied, "I can't handle it if you don't go." I took that as permission.

N E X T_ P A G E: Cleaning toilets for spiritual growth

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