That Story

Aidan does not like my yoga. Not that he tells me outright. It's just that I noticed that he noticed when I didn't go.

"Mom, why didn't you didn't go to yoga today?"

That question X three. I know that question doesn't come from Aidan's concern for my mind, body, and soul. Finally, I asked him tonight what he thought of my yoga. He wishes I was just home. Or something like that, he said. Meanwhile, he can ride his bike, play ultimate frisbee, and find a friend with video games for hours on end. It's not fair. Parenting baby pandas isn't supposed to be fair of course.

What's really not fair is how women in Iraq must wear head-to-toe gear, aka the sectarian versions of burkas. Sometimes layers of clothes. Sometimes gloves. Sometimes black socks. Sometimes certain or all parts of the face covered. The details are determined according to the dress code of whatever militia is dominant in their neighborhood. In other words, what women wear essentially serves as the identity marker of whoever is the local warlord. The woman inside is irrelevant. A human flag pole.

It kinda made my stomach turn to hear that story tonight. Especially as I was trying to figure out what was fair and unfair for me. P.S. These sectarian dress codes started just weeks after the invasion when the rule of law eroded, according to the interview. Before that for decades women wore jeans, etc.

So anyway, I am continuing with yoga. And I've decided to take it as a compliment that Aidan misses me, because mostly I would never even know it. He is a very subtle communicator, shall we say. So, he and I will just do more overt relations, like cuddle reading before bedtime and stuff like that. Yet even almost-8-year-old boys need to know that their mothers and sisters can do stuff too.

Goodnight! Thanks for coming over.

With love, T