When my heavily pregnant girlfriend in London suggested I join her pregnancy yoga classes, I was newly pregnant and somewhat skeptical of the concept. I’d attempted yoga (hatha and ashtanga) previously and always, always been terrible at it. It hurt, I was probably mangling my back beyond repair, I had shocking balance which I always loudly attributed to my flat feet just in case anyone wanted to know, and I would enter into mild panic attacks when I realised that everyone else was sitting upside down, cross legged, balanced on their hands. I also used to worry I would fart out loud and humiliate myself.


My lovely and level-headed friend Kate assured me that the pregnancy yoga was nothing like this – it was much gentler and was tailored to the needs of pregnant women, so lots of swaying your hips around, sitting and stretching on the ground, and definitely no head stands or warrior poses.


So I went along when I got to 14 weeks, feeling fraudulent and petrified. It was fabulous. There were five or six of us in the room each Saturday morning, and we’d all sit on the bolsters and go around the room, explaining how far along we were and what concerns and niggles we were experiencing so that the teacher could tailor the class accordingly. I began to love going along and hearing about the other girls' carpal tunnel syndrome and Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction and all sorts of weird and wonderful things I’d never heard of, while I boldly confessed my ongoing morning sickness and heartburn and ailing back. Finally – a place I could go where I could whinge and get sympathy. Then we’d all hop onto those big squishy gym balls and lift our pelvic floor muscles as Alan, our petite Scottish instructor, explained about the three different sections we should be lifting and squeezing, and then we’d get down on all fours and sway our hips in figure eights and all smile along at each other encouragingly.


Then of course, the London gig was up and I was forced to come home and get ready for My New Life. Back in Perth I googled “pregnancy yoga” and found a six-week course starting well enough in advance that I could happily laze about and procrastinate about returning to yoga for a few weeks.

So I started my new class last week. Firstly, I’ll admit, I was a bit desperate for companionship as I’m feeling somewhat cut off from my old social life and regularly torment myself with the facebook status updates of all my London friends, attending the Glastonbury music festival and the Edinburgh fringe festival and taking trips to Morocco and Turkey.

Anyway, this companionship objective didn’t get off to a great start when it became apparent that the majority of the girls in my class already knew each other from previous classes at the school, and were speaking in exclusive little groups about their obstetrician appointments and their other kids and other friends they both knew from yoga. They all dutifully retrieved themselves a mat, a bolster, a blanket, and a “meditation pillow” and set themselves up in neat formation on the wooden floor like purple and blue dominoes. I felt like I was in year 8 again, bewildered and lost and desperate to be like the older kids.

The teacher appeared before us and said in a soothing voice: “please assume sacred butterfly pose and close your eyes and relax.” They all reclined back onto their bolsters, legs outstretched in a diamond shape, and closed their eyes. I flopped down and craned my neck to see what the others were doing. How did they all know what the f**k sacred butterfly was? How could I be the only one who’d missed this vital step in my education?

“Make sure the bolster is sitting firmly against your sacrum,” the teacher said, for my sole benefit. By this, I took her to mean, shove it as far as you can into your back so there’s no gap. I did. I closed my eyes and remembered the doctor telling me not to sleep on my back because it cut off the baby’s circulation.

“Any outside thoughts that creep in… just let them go,” the teacher crooned.

Oh God. The cat! The cat must’ve slipped into the nursery when I was in there getting a spare blanket out this morning, and I shut her in there. She’ll be pissing all over the Baby Bjorn by now, or coughing up furballs in the bassinette.

“Just focus on your breathing.”

Oh God. I’m going to get a parking ticket. I wonder what time the class finishes. How much is a parking ticket in Perth these days? Will my boyfriend be angry with me? How I miss the convenience of the grotty old, overcrowded tube. I know I used to moan and complain about it all the time, but at least I never had to worry about parking the bloody car.

“Relax your forehead, relax your eyelids, just let go of all your tension and concerns and focus on your body, and your breath as it flows through it.”

My benefit again.

I madly try to unscrunch my face, but it’s pointless. I am not genetically wired to relax.

Finally, we’re brought back to the room (I’ve always been here, though I’m sure some of the others have been off floating through a magical oasis of calm) and taken through our paces. These paces, however, are so far removed from Alan’s pelvic floor gaiety on the gym balls, I might as well be back in kick boxing classes. It’s old school yoga – downward dog, upward cat, warrior pose (the one where you’re kind of lunging and have your arm stuck up in the air, looking up at it) and so on. The last straw for me is when she says “now we’ll do tree pose, but don’t worry if you’re struggling to balance – just focus on a fixed point in the room. Your balance changes constantly when you’re pregnant.” As if my pre-pregnant balance wasn’t bad enough. But to the teacher’s great delight, everyone in the class (excluding me) stands serenely on one leg, the peace of the whole scene broken only by the sound of my food thudding on the ground half a dozen times as my tree continues to collapse. Then we’re doing some lovely ballet-type pose where everyone leans forward, reaching out with one arm and holding onto one leg behind them with the other arm. Again – the teacher is impressed with everyone, and again, I collapse on the floor, cursing under my breath.

Next we all squat on the ground and stand up from the squatting position. This reveals admirable leg muscles amongst the rest of the group – truly, I’m impressed – but just serves to further add to my sense of inferiority.

After all this we’re forced to lie down and relax again, and I sneak glances at my watch, trying to remember when the meter runs out. 11:42 I think. It’s now 12:07. I need to dash over to my grandmother’s after this – I promised I’d be there by lunchtime. But first – I must race home and let the cat out of the nursery, change her litter tray (covering my face with a scarf so as not to inhale any toxoplasmosis-ridden faeces), bring in the washing before it rains again, and send off some faxes for my boyfriend.

“You’re getting heavy, your body’s reeeally heavy.”

I think that might go without saying, but never mind.

I make it out at 12:15, and the parking inspector hasn’t made it to my side street yet, so I’m safe. I start the car up and put my foot down - I call this pose "stressed chicken without head".