Once a week, I try to go to Mommy and Me yoga. The instructor I like teaches at two different studios, one in a very affluent sort of mid-western feeling neighborhood and the other in a hipster "in the industry" up-and-coming neighborhood.
Mommy and Me yoga consists of Mommies trying to do yoga while the babies and toddlers play on blankets on the floor around them. It's kind of neat, because when a pose comes up that you don't want to do, the baby serves as an awesome excuse for a time out. Which, I guess, means it's not great yoga, but it's better than no yoga.
Now, I prefer going to the affluent neighborhood studio because I love that neighborhood: it calls to my aspirational nature and it's one of the few southern california places where I'd actually want to own a home because it's walkable and kids are out and about. And there's an adorable train station. But the Mommy and Me yoga for that studio is on Wednesday at 11:00 AM. In other words, it caters to the Stay at Home Mom. That's certainly not me.
I usually go to Saturday's class instead. But it's filled with extremely thin hipster women who name their children things like Luna or Anton. This is not my tribe. I'm more apt to wear a shirt with a logo about having no idea about what I'm doing than I am to be serene and confident.
Today, there were 5 of us. And everyone was nursing except for me. They whipped out a boobie and I whipped out a bottle and I could feel all of them looking askance at me. I was simultaneously defensive and then I felt like saying, "whatever." I will continue to go because it's good for me and it's nice for Little Man to have some parallel play time (Luna likes him lots!)
I might not breastfeed, but I have a beautiful handstand, an amazingly strong vinyasa and my open hips are legendary. So there.