Secret Agent Mom

In yoga class, of all places, I'm having a hard time feeling present. For starters, I've worn the wrong clothes. I've gained a few pounds (all right, 10), so my V-neck T-shirt and sports bra are too tight. There is a very real possibility that one or both breasts could burst forth during downward-facing dog.

But my thoughts are mostly on my 16-year-old daughter, who is here on the mat beside mine. This solo time with her is rare. She has drifted so far into her sports and art and friends lately that I hardly see her any more.

I know this is as it should be. Still, it seems as if only moments have passed since she was a baby and we we're spending our afternoons not in exercise class, but in the park, her stroller laden with toys, books, sippy cups and the little treasure she collected: pinecone, shiny stones and sticks caked with goo that I very much hoped was mud. I'd spread a blanket on the grass, and we would swat at dandelion fluff floating by. In those days, our intertwined future seemed infinite.

Now that same little girl meditates beside me - an athletic, lovely young woman with lithe legs pretzeled, hands resting on her knees, palms facing up. I watch her shamelessly. I can't help it. When she was little, I used to father her chestnut wisps into miniature butterfly clips, Now she wears her hair in a long ponytail that winds down her back. She rises to her feet, and the arms I swaddled 16 years ago - arms now longer and more muscular than mine - stretch toward the ceiling. How could this magnificent being rising on such strong limbs have anything to do with my fragile infant, or with me? I miss my newborn, my toddler, my preteen, all somewhere inside this flexible masterpiece. My heart swells with loss and pride.

Class comes to a close, and we're told to lie on our backs, hands at our sides. Ninety minutes have sailed by, but all I can remember are flashes: the feeling of my weird little toe pressing stubbornly against the mat: balancing in an awkward downward-facing dog, trying to keep my cleavage under wraps; my daughter posing like an elegant stork.

As with class, my memory of her is defined by such flashes. I picture her nestling in my lap as an infant, pointing at an image of the moon in a book and saying "Moo," a preview of the independent voice insider her itching to get out. There she is again, at 8 months, gripping the coffee table, face flaming red, her tiny jaw set with determination. She pulls up all her weight and stands, grinning as if to say, "I can do it myself, Mom, but I am glad you are here."

As the images flit through my mind, I feel a familiar pang. How many times have I wished I could stop the clock?

She looks at me now. "That was nice," she says, smiling, yoga-buzzed and radiant. Her gray-blue eyes connect with mine.

My girl, I think.

I capture the moment and hold it.

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Jill Margaret Shulman is a mother and writer in Amherst, MA.