YOGA MAMA DRAMA
Salacious Tales Of Urban Parenting By Katherine Stewart They're pregnant. They're Glamorous. They're The Yoga Mamas (Berkley Publishing Group). In a scandal-packed plot that makes Desperate Housewives seem tame, novelist and Vis.A.Vis contributor, Katherine Stewart has concocted a hilarious tale of urban parenting that makes hay of cheating spouses, sports cars, competitive shopping, spa vacations, and yes, epidurals.
By offering an insider's view of the world of $800 dollar strollers and catered playdates, Stewart delivers a level of social satire that makes The Nanny Diaries look like they never got past the interview! Wickedly funny, poignant and insightful, The Yoga Mamas also captures the secret life of the new mother - the dilemmas surrounding self-image and the need for community in the world that has no idea what you're going through. Readers will be drawn into this tale of true friendship through characters that are fresh, unique and unforgettable. The Yoga Mamas offers a rare blend of high comedy and intelligent commentary on the realities of modern parenting. All in all, a captivating read.
Here, the New York native shares one of the best reads of late. Following you will find an excerpt from her book... - Nora Goldstein - "Om shanti, shanti, shanti." A dozen pregnant women and I sit cross-legged on the floor and chant in unison. After two months of prenatal yoga, I still don't know what the chants mean. I don't want to know. When your belly is the size of a vending machine, it just feels good to be surrounded by other, equally large women. "Loka namasta, suki no babantu." Years ago, I thought of pregnancy as a fashion statement. I pictured myself flaunting my new shape in luscious, form-fitting silk, my hands resting on a teacup-sized belly. I guess I was planning to have a celebrity pregnancy, the kind you read about in style magazines. I was clueless. Richard and I had planned this pregnancy. Or, at least the part you think you can plan. Then baby turned into a living nugget inhabiting my body, and the whole thing seemed to spin out of control. I ordered a shelf full of books about childbirth but might as well have bought horror videos. Miscarriages, toxic reactions, prenatal depression, postnatal depression - there were just too many ways the whole thing could go horribly wrong. Friends and relatives happily volunteered blood-curdling stories, like the one about a friend of a friend whose labor lasted three days and nights, and so-and-so "whose coochie was never the same." "Shanti, shanti, shanti." Hasharama is located in the glossy heart of Soho. Bona fide celebrities sometimes show up in class, and Prada-clad students browse for herbal body oils, Tibetan rugs, and overpriced meditation videos in the gift shop. Portraits of spiritual overachievers stare down benignly from the walls: Deepak Chopra, various bearded gurus, Gwyneth Paltrow. For a place devoted to "spiritual liberation," it has a distinctly authoritarian streak. Written exhortations governing almost every aspect of client behavior are taped to all the walls. Our instructor's name is Gaia, and she wears her gray hair in a long braid. "Your body exists in the past, and your spirit exists in the future," she says. Gaia's idea of yoga, like the amber earrings dangling over her sinewy shoulders, is very 1970s. "Once you begin the journey, there is no return," she intones. Life as I know it is definitely over. I squeeze my bloated feet in my hands, amazed to discover they are even puffier today. I scan my internal body monitors. Back pain? Check. Leg cramps? Check. My body is acting like it has a mind of its own - a wanton, reckless mind with no respect for earlier ideas of self. "You know, I'm pregnant," I say to Richard, often. "I know," he responds, like we're talking about the weather. "Five months now."
"I don't really have fat feet," I mutter to myself. "Rise! Inhale!" Gaia barks. I roll up onto my feet. Gaia lifts her head majestically, closes her eyes, and spreads her arms wide. The rest of us follow her in the Sun Salutation. As I close my eyes, I feel my baby flutter. I think about the distant future. I picture my teenage daughter and me walking through a sunny field of wildflowers. "Mom, you're the best," my daughter is saying. Then I notice she has triple-pierced her tongue.
"Exhale into Downward Dog!" |
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