Rooted in Both: Teaching Pilates and Mothering

Your alarm goes off at 6am. And by alarm, you mean your toddler toddles into your room and says “It’s wake up time, mama!” On your best days, you have intentions of being the first one awake. You envision making coffee, setting out lunches, opening the blinds, and easing into your morning before the first cries of the new day begin. But today, you are just as content to see your little one and their bed head at the nightstand. 

You start the morning routine. It’s a short one: you take your coffee in a to-go mug and grab a banana and a yogurt on the way out the door. Your partner will be taking your little one to daycare today. Your child asks for extra hugs and kisses in the middle of eating their oatmeal. Getting out the door is the hardest part, but once you’re in your car and sipping on your coffee, you feel more energized than you thought. 

You’re teaching the 7am class today, and this crew comes for a hard workout—thankfully. That is the energy you need to get yourself ready to teach with just one cup of coffee under your belt. One of your regulars is back from vacation, so you chat before class about how it went and which sights they saw. They’re still a little jet lagged and hoping that this class will get them set up for their day ahead. The class starts slowly with breath work then the warm up, and before you know it, your brain has shifted from “mom mode” into “Pilates instructor mode.” You aren’t thinking about the grocery list or buying the next size of shoes. You are in your flow zone, cueing clients through class, and instead, very focused on checking form and thinking ahead. The class flies by and before you know it, you’re receiving a notification from daycare that your little one has been checked in. You send a “thanks for doing the heavy lifting this morning” text to your partner, knowing that getting a toddler out the door and into the car seat can be a 15-minute ordeal. 

Your work day is over in a flash. Three classes, all in a row. You eat your banana and yogurt in between. You are excited for another coffee, thanks to your coworker who is taking orders. With a drip coffee in hand, you are ready to take a look at your inbox and the week ahead. 

You see a reminder email that Friday is a half day at your child’s daycare. This happens every month but somehow it always sneaks up on you. It’s a relief because you teach in the morning and will be able to take some time away in the afternoon. Maybe you will call up another mom friend and schedule a picnic and park date. 

Before you know it, it’s daycare pick up time. You load up into the car (after jumping in every puddle and pointing out every crack in the sidewalk, of course). You arrive home and although the breakfast dishes are still out on the table and the pajamas are on the floor, you get a few extra hours—just the two of you. You have time to make something a little more elaborate for dinner, so you get out the supplies you need to make a homemade pasta sauce for baked spaghetti. Your little one climbs into the toddler tower against the counter and is more interested in testing out the ingredients rather than preparing them. Believe it or not, they are actually very adept at using a child-safe peeler, but the carrots are mostly eaten before they make their way into the skillet. They’re even willing to take a bite of the raw onion. Chewing, deciding that they actually kind of like the tang, and grabbing another slice before it gets diced up smaller. 

You smile to yourself, because this is the kind of dinner prep that takes twice as long but feels twice as meaningful. There’s something grounding about the slowness of it—about sharing your space, your time, your attention. The kitchen fills with the smells of garlic, tomato, and you venture outside to snip some basil. You each take the time to look around for new and interesting bugs, finding even a few on the basil leaves. 

The baked spaghetti goes into the oven, and you sneak in a few pages of a picture book while it bakes—your little one nestled beside you on the couch. You’re both a little tired, in that satisfied, full-day kind of way. When the timer beeps, you both race to the kitchen, your toddler yelling, “Dinner’s ready!” as if they made it all themselves. While it cools, your little one sets the table for the family and even asks if she can set a spot for all of the friends that she wishes were coming over to dinner. 

Dinner is messy. There’s spaghetti sauce on the chair, on the floor, all over the cute dress your toddler picked out for themselves. But you sit and eat together. You ask about their day, and they respond in a language that’s half-words, half-sound effects, but you understand it perfectly. 

Later, after the bath and the books and the back-and-forth negotiations for “just one more song,” they’re finally asleep. You close the door gently, dishes still in the sink, lunch still not packed for tomorrow. But instead of rushing to check off the rest of your to-do list, you pause. You let the quiet settle.

It wasn’t a perfect day. But it was full. Of movement, and laughter, and coffee, and connection.

You sit down on the couch, sip a glass of water, and take a deep breath.

Tomorrow, the alarm might go off early again—or come toddling in with a whisper and a smile. Either way, you'll be ready.