Eyes in the Back of My Head aka New Mama Physics

I'm starting to understand the concept of "Mama's got eyes in the back of her head."

It's not so much that I am spying on the little man, it's more like my proprioception is getting finer and finer.

They say that a yogi can be in more than one place at once, can see through matter and move through matter. I believe this to be true. For example, when I'm in the kitchen, washing the dishes or wiping hardened cottage cheese off the baseboards, I know exactly where in space Bodhi is in the next room, even though I can't see him. It's a little like remote viewing. And I can tune my ears to pick up the sounds of his flesh hitting the tile, so that I know where he is, what dangerous uncovered outlet or sharp corner or loose knicknack he may be closing in on. I can even time it so that I place one more knife in the dishwasher before I run into the next room and scoop him up, just in time, as his fat little hand is reaching for the dog's tail or his Dad's power strip.

Now if he's crawling, I'm aware that he has better access to things than if he's in his Dr. Strangelove walker. So I have to move a little faster. When he's Dr. Strangelove I know he can't open things as easily, and he can't drink from the dog's water bowl or squish dog food through his fingers. He can't reach them. He also can't rifle through the trash can or pull the plastic bag out of the trash. Not in the walker. On hands and knees he can. So I have to adjust and move more quickly.

It's like I have a Philip K Dick/Google Earth like imprint of the house and every item in it in my mind. I observe, and intercept, from above.

I can also watch him from across the room as he toddles around, finding his way, challenging himself by carrying objects while walking, pushing wagons and walkers across the floor, catching himself as he falls flat on his bottom, no matter what the floor surface may be. I can know, thanks to my mad mom physics skills, where in space he is and how far he is from the ground and how hard the impact will be and if he's in a position that will cause him injury or if his head will hit the ground, or if his butt will.

We can be at the playground and I can test the limits of how far I can push him in the swing, can know if he's going to bonk his head when he pushes himself forward and down the slide, can even determine if an older child's heavy footwear is going to within striking range of Bodhi's tender skull while he crawls around in the rocks at the bottom of the steps.

I'm not bragging, and I'm not 100 percent accurate either. And I really hardly ever take my eyes off of him. It sucks in a way. I told Andrew that being a parent meant having to de-laz-ify. There is no being too tired to change a wet or poopy diaper. There is no being too tired to carry him into the store with me, even if I'm only going in for a minute. There is no too tired to pick him up and console him when he's afraid or angry or exhausted. There is no too tired to bathe him when he's dirty, feed him when he's hungry, or take him to music class even when I don't feel like it; there is no too tired to play with him when we wake up, to hug and kiss him every time I leave or come home and have to be apart from him. There is no too tired to rinse the nipples of his sippy cups that seem to have mold growing in them; after all, he'd never notice or care if I didn't do it every time we used them, but I would. I have been known to eat food past its expiration date, but I would never allow him to do so. You know, de-laz-ify.

It's like my rule in asana: if I give up now, the only one who loses or misses out is me.