Today is my first time linking up with Shell for PYHO (Pour Your Heart Out). I loved Erin's post, which inspired me to sit down and blog on a day that I really didn't feel like     doing much of anything at all.

I went back to yoga this week. Mind you it's Wednesday, so I've only been twice, but I still feel good saying 'I went back to yoga this week'. If I don't qualify it, it sounds much more badass than it really is.

My first session back, first thing Monday morning, I was tired and grumpy and tight and felt like a big ol' fat girl in a studio full of lithe cheerleaders. Not because anyone else made me feel that way, but because I typically feel that way.

I lumbered my way through one vinyasa after another,  wobbled in dancing warrior and prayed for the brief respite of downward dog. My muscles burned and my feet cramped, but it was my mind that was really working. Funny how when I'm concentrating on not being the new girl who falls flat on her ass, my mind is free to think about things completely impractical but entirely important.

My most insidious thought, that entire morning, was 'am I a woman who is a mom or a mom who is a woman?' A question that seems more like 'you say po-tay-to, I say po-tah-to' to some, it grabbed me and wouldn't let go.

Probably because I've been feeling like the mom who once upon a time was a woman. I could hold an interesting conversation, read an impressive number of books, saw movies before they hit Redbox (or, back in my day, the video store) and got dressed in the morning in clothes that reflected who I am, not merely what was clean and closest at hand.  

Don't get me wrong. I'm happy being a mom–ecstatic, actually, that I've been trusted with these three human beings. But somewhere along the line, I lost a whole lot of Lisa in order to be the mom I think they deserve. I stuffed my own feelings, my own desires, my own dreams in some instances to do what I thought was best for them.

As I should.

But as they grow, and don't need me quite as much in the ways I've grown accustomed to them needing me, I find myself missing that part of myself. As they find their voice, and use it to tell me they don't want me around like they used to, I find myself wondering if I mean anything outside that role of mom.

Because if I'm a mom to kids who don't need–or want–me quite as much as they used to, what am I really?

I don't know. Maybe this is why the whole empty next thing is such a big deal; and considering that I still have two fairly young kiddos at home, and I'm a full 10 years away from truly being able to understand what 'empty nest' really means, I'm thinking that even if my muscles ache and my feet cramp I should keep going back to yoga.

Often.