Mothers strapped with babies to their breasts poured into the Octopus Garden Holistic Yoga Centre on College Street. I was amazed that they could breastfeed standing up and still maintain a reasonably intelligent conversation.

I remember being frazzled when my first baby was born over 20 years ago. The baby carriers then were not as well designed. I would lie down my tiny daughter on the bed beside the dismantled baby sac. Her legs  scrunched up and she screamed at the top of her lungs. I tossed the snuggly thing across the room and pretty much gave up any thought of going outside, convinced that I was destined to stay at home until she was 5.

But these yoga mama chicks today made it look so easy. Are they actually real?

I tried not to be cynical but a flurry of feather light women and men followed  in the heartfelt greetings. People trickled into the studio carrying their toddlers and plastic containers of cookies and healthy snacks. Unbeknown to me, a potluck lunch was to follow after class, and I of course came empty handed.

I showed up with my other middle-aged friends  for this yoga dance class knowing nothing about what was going to transpire. Before I let myself get totally nervous, Christine, the studio owner, greeted me with a huge genuine hug. Her blue eyes looked into mine, she was certain we had met before.  All definite grounds for my first real girl crush.

I slinked into the studio and made my way to the expanding circle on the floor of baby mamas, handsome papas, children ecstatically running around, and geeky looking kids who seemed surprisingly happy to be there. Head shaven and eyes sparkling, Scott, Christine’s husband, welcomed us to their monthly community dance party. His angelic children were seated beside him. Christine smiled as Scott talked about being grateful for our presence, and mothers turned to their children hoping the crunchy granola vibes were sinking into their kids.

My eyes never left a young woman seated across from me. She looked intently at  her 10-year-old son, searching for his reaction to Scott’s feel good words. I smiled like an idiot, with no baby on my lap, feeling more like a square in this perfect circle.

And then the music began to play. Without any prompting we all sprung to our feet, dancing to a South African song. For this was a super special day- a dance dedicated to the life of the  late Nelson Mandela.

At first we danced in the same groups we entered the circle with. But then we let loose. With no one to guide us, no rules to follow, we took our lead from the kids scurrying on the floor around us, twirling, and crawling and hopping.

For over an hour, with barely any words spoken between us, we jumped up and down to Michael Jackson, grinning at one another as we spun around, waving our arms to the oldies, bending and lunging when the moment took us, closing our eyes to feel the music .

As the minutes passed, more people joined in on the fun and sweat. At one point, we linked arms with each- other, swinging our momentary partners around the room, in search of more open arms. A limbo dance even broke out at the midway point but by end, most of the little ones had left the floor, and what remained was a sea of sweating but satisfied grownups having the time of their lives with finally enough time for play.

While I zipped up my coat, Annette, a mother of two, asked, “Are you a yogi?”

“Not really, ” I answered quietly.

On my way out, I passed some bearded hipsters munching contentedly on kale chips, which made me hungry.

“Where do you think we should go for bacon and eggs? “ I whispered to my friend. The beards perked up and pointed the way.