Sometimes my stories may seem like a bit of a stretch

But not these...

Alison buried in goats courtesy M. Burlingame

With this being Alison's senior year of high school, I've taken to thinking of it as my last year with her. Sure, we'll still be related, and I suspect she'll come around every so often after she heads off to college and then her real life. But it's difficult for me not to see this year as the true beginning of the end of my "real" time with her.

So I'm actively looking for ways to insinuate myself in between her study/watch YouTube time, her swim time, her friends time, school and other non-Mom activities. Saturday was our day of yoga.

I didn't mean for us to have yoga sessions in both the morning and evening. I had already purchased tickets for yoga in the Indianapolis "Catacombs" before my friend (and Alison's "Aunt Margaret") asked me if we'd like to join her for Goat Yoga. They just happened to be on the same day.

Ali was attracted to the Catacombs option because she'd really enjoyed our trip through the Paris Catacombs -- a collection of millions of bones of people buried beneath the city. I'd warned her that the local version was bone-free and really an enormous root cellar that serves as a support structure for a community building that's long been replaced by the City Market.

The goat idea earned me a bit of a side-eye that was echoed by my friend Peggy Boehm's remark: "I get the goats. Where's the yoga?"

Let's start with the morning session at the Happy Goat Lucky Yoga session in Noblesville, just north of Indianapolis. On the drive up, Alison quizzed me about what we were in for.

"So, there are goats?" she said around her breakfast taco. "Won't they, like, pee and poop on us?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "Of course not. Well, probably not. Of course, because of the weather, we'll be inside, so maybe. But I'm sure they're prepared for stuff like that. It'll be fine."

(We cut here to me -- even before we'd gotten started -- discovering a pile of poop by my ankle and remarkably millimeters away from getting on me. Alison's "I told you, so" look was classic. She laughed so hard even the goats couldn't hear her.)

"So why are there goats?" she asked.

"Because they're cute," I said. "They're little goats. It'll be fun."

She had questions about biting and jumping and I assured her it would be nothing but fun.

(We cut here to Alison -- laying supine as instructed when one of the five little goats walked up on her torso. It was joined by another and she was giggling and trying to lay still as they came closer to her face. Then, "Ooof!" she exclaimed as third hopped up to see what all the fuss was about. She later informed us that the third goat had landed two of its little hooves on her vagina, which apparently brought her up off the mat and led to the goats' hasty dispersal.)

To get us started, we were given handfuls of goat treats. It's hard to know if the goats appreciate the yoga or the initial pampering and cooing they receive upon introduction. They do, however, fully appreciate the treats.

Having already had a deposit at my feet, I silently questioned the wisdom of stuffing the goats with goat treats before we all laid down on the floor while the animals remained free. Math isn't my strong suit, but I was pretty sure that the time we'd be down there and the time their little bodies would need to metabolize their snackage  was roughly equivalent. So I kept my eyes peeled for poopage.

Already assaulted, Alison,was, perhaps, even more vigilant. She identified -- but did not share her knowledge with the two of us -- which of the five goats was the prime pooper.

"When it came near me," she said later, "I would pray, 'Not that one. Not that one.'"

Her silent pressure apparently worked for all of us. Afterward, though, a group of women assumed the "Table Top" position and another woman positioned four of the goats on top of them for photos. The goats seemed willing, but apparently the ladies took too long to get the perfect shot. One of the goats peed on one of the ladies and the tables quickly collapsed.

It was fun. For us. I can't speak for the goats.

We went to lunch where we learned in full detail about how Alison had suffered hoof prints on her hoo-hah. Ali's stories tend to increase in volume as the drama builds, so I'm afraid all of Courtney's Kitchen learned of the incident, as well.

We came home, rested up, set out candy for the neighborhood Halloween fest before going downtown for our next yoga experience. We were encouraged to dress up, which Ali took to heart and wore a yellow racing catsuit. I borrowed her devil-horn headband and slapped some lipstick on.

We met Julie Miller and Alisha Valentine there -- both much more experienced in yoga than Ali and me -- and about a 100 other people. No joke. So many people signed up for this spooky class that they had to add a later class. Which was great because the class was a fundraiser for the YMCA.

So our descent to the bowels of Indianapolis was good for the community as well as good for us. And it was taught by a yogi in full "Day of the Dead" makeup from a previous gig at the Eiteljorg. We were surrounded by a bunch of people some there in costume and some there just for the yoga.

This was a more seriously focused yoga experience. So much more than our morning session that at one part, Ali and I looked over at each other in alarm/pain. Proofing our genetic and non-yoga-expert connection, we said to each other :"I miss the goats."

Later into the hour-long session, our instructor was telling us to move in a rotation of movements that included "downward dog" "three-legged dog" "cobra" and the "chaturanga" process. At one point, she said people could do what they wanted, work harder or rest. I've been trying to get back to doing "planks" at they gym, so I was working fairly hard.

To my right, Alison had taken the instructor to heart. "I looked over at you and saw you working and though, "Yeah, you go, girl," she said later, confession that she'd taken a long break.

It was, Alisha told us later, a milder form of class than that particular instructor usually offers. I was grateful for the leniency. I'd also always wanted to see the Indy Catacombs, so all in all, it was a great experience. The venue isn't one for a daily work out. The floor is packed dirt, and there are drips from above, some more steady than others. It's chilly, too, and spooky enough that you're glad to have the lights on.

Many of my friends love yoga. I wouldn't say I'm there yet, but the stretching alone is good for my aging body. I don't know if I'll ever be able to breathe from my belly button or roll down vertebrate by vertebrate. Also, after two sessions of yogo and going to and from, in addition to an evening out with the Shells and their friends (super fun but a story for another day) I recorded only 5,846 steps on my FitBit.

Until I can get step credit, I don't know how I can devote an hour a day to yoga.

Unless Alison wants to do it with me, of course.