How yoga saved my children

Yes, I own yoga pants. And not in the same way that I own a tennis racquet and aquarobics shoes and a sleeping bag and sketching pencils, either. Actually, yoga pants are god's gift to mothers of three - provided you don't wear them right. If you wear them correctly you take the groovy extra length of waist band and funkily fold it down to coccyx height, thereby displaying your navel piercing during Warrior pose and your bum cleavage during Downward Dog pose. But if you have all the shithouse rat cunning and keen nose for camouflage that comes with the unforgivable changes your children (bless them) inflicted on your pre-baby body, you take a different path. You take that extra length of waist band and you gratefully extend it over all the creases and folds and stretch marks that your brood (bless them) so thoughtlessly left behind. And the next time you do a Downward Dog, and your floppy t-shirt flops down and rests on the underside of your (once B now DD) boobs, you can extend your thighs upwards in peace, knowing that the world's most hideous gut is not hanging out there exposed ... ... And instead of spending the Downward Dog resenting every moment of cluckiness, every fertile impulse, every other woman in the universe who managed to just bounce back into shape likethatbitchElleMcPherson ... you breeaatthhee and eexxtteeennndd and thank Vishnu and Rama and most of all K-Mart for the invention of long waisted yoga pants in really dark colours. mtc Bec