Stress Management or Not

My kids signed me up for a stress reduction seminar.  Apparently my nightly dinner table rants about the 13 laundry baskets never unloaded, nervous twitchy left eye whenever someone mentioned missing shoes and near pathological demand for five hours of sleep had struck a chord.

“We’re thinking, you might need a break.” My oldest one helpfully offered, handing me the brochure.

It seemed like a good idea in theory, however mothering ten children isn’t something the kindly women at the U R GR8! Spaemporium were used to even contemplating. 

The first lady talked about using colors to coordinate children and manage temperaments.  For example, she suggested a red folder for the child that needs motivation to get going, and a soothing teal folder for the child that needs to pay attention and sit still. I asked what I should do with the soothed teal kid who sees red when he gets a girly folder, the perky girl who will be sad if her folder isn’t pink and sparkly, the kindergartner who only likes purple, the son who wants the same thing as her and the teen who wants everything black but then tells me it’s depressing.  

“How many do you have?” she asked, taken aback.  When I told her, she said that color management probably wouldn’t be as effective with so many varying energies in the same domicile. “It’s not designed to use all the colors of the rainbow.”

“That’s good because there are only seven available and I’d need three more.” I responded, though I was sure one of the kids would have found being Ultra Violet rather cool.

On to the Feng Shui expert then for how to arrange all these chakras so they wouldn’t collide into each other and cause a nuclear meltdown of emotionally epic proportions. 

After ten minutes of playing kid tetris wherein we attempted to position each person in their own personal space, taking into account the wandering monster principle of sibling rivalry: whomever is happy shall be overcome, whomever is industrious shall be sabotaged, and if you’re eating it, it was mine first, she suggested I get rid of my own stress points first by consulting the yoga teacher. 

Alas, my body long ago surrendered to gravity.  It was never athletic even when it was young.  Getting into the “crow” position, I could only imagine the temptation of some of my children, seeing their mother with her legs tucked under her elbows, posterior waving and bobbing as she balanced on two hands, to give a giant kick.  Motherhood is already a series of Sisyphean tribulations born out of love; I didn’t see how contorting myself out of whatever dignity I might have left would alleviate my stress. 

In desperation, the three women consulted each other over my case.  Issuing a full refund and a chocolate bar, they wished me well. I could only respond after chomping down on the gift, “Namaste.” 

However, I do feel much better.