"I just need to pump a little bit of berry juice for my babies."
By Layah You know you have succeeded in creating an open and natural atmosphere around breastfeeding and pumping when your toddler comes up to you with a nasal suction bulb to her bare nipple and says:
"I just need to pump a little bit of berry juice for my babies."
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By Annie
Dear Last 10 Pounds, Thank you for making sure I hear every time my seven-year-old daughter says something negative about her appearance. The other day she asked if her thighs are chubby. If you hadn’t stuck around this long, I may not have noticed the slight stiffening of her shoulders when she and her playmate weighed themselves on the basement scale, and she was 10 pounds heavier. I may have never even seen her quiet, shaky defeat. Thank you for teaching me to make a conscious effort to compliment my body in front of my children, to resist the urge to tear it down, to refuse to wince when they squeeze the soft pudge of my midsection. To wear the dress that doesn’t really fit anymore, that hugs my new pooch that I hate so much, just because my daughter says we should wear dresses for our girls’ night out. To don the damn bikini and go swimming. "We got into a huge fight because when all the kids were asleep, rather than have sex, I wanted to finish our to-do list instead. We haven't had sex in a month...but it was a really long list!"
"Yep. I've told my hubby over and over, 'The biggest turn on for me is a clean house.' And I mean that." "Yeah, I mean, she head butts me and almost broke my nose! Toddlers are assholes."
By Mandy
I can't say when my anxiety and panic began because I don't remember a life without them. In the past, I had panic attacks so bad that my legs would give out. I simply could not move my legs. My knees would buckle, my legs would turn to jello and I'd collapse onto the ground. I was on the ground at a train station in Italy once for several hours, watching train after train go by, but unable to stand up and board a train myself. I once crawled home from Hollywood Blvd, crawled, because my legs wouldn't work. I couldn't bear weight on them. I've been carried out of theatres and parties, I've fallen to the floor in church, all because of severe panic. Over the years, I've been diagnosed an array of different mental illnesses... Bipolar Disorder, Clinical Depression, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Attention Deficit Disorder... I don't like labels and the older I get, the more I think all my issues stem from PTSD, but the bottom line is that I fight with my own brain... a lot. I've been on way too many psychiatric drugs to list on this blog, but I managed to ween off ALL of them a couple years before I got pregnant. This felt like the greatest accomplishment of my life, no exaggeration. I was so proud to get off those drugs, to "overcome" mental illness. Through a daily earnest yoga practice and regular meditation, I truly felt like I had a new lease on life. I fared pretty well the first two trimesters of my pregnancy. I was honestly surprised I was doing so well. Even though my husband found black mold in our house and we had to move in with my parents while he renovated. Even though I was gaining twice the weight you're "supposed" to gain during pregnancy. Even though I had constant excruciating back pain and sciatic pain. And even though we were flat broke, I was feeling surprisingly stable emotionally. I felt a peace and a calm, and I felt so boundlessly grateful for this precious new life, this miracle baby growing inside of me. Then came my third trimester and, with it, an anxiety that hit so hard and so sudden, it was like being bashed in the head with an iron skillet. The anxiety was morbid and dark. A black hole washed over my very being. The anxious thoughts always boil down to a very specific fear for me: What if I legitimately go crazy? What if I go completely insane and I have to be institutionalized? By Scarlett I just "moved" from Bogota, Colombia to Oaxaca, Mexico, with a short trip to Washington, DC in between, and so have been woefully behind on all of my favorite series (and blog posting). Last night, after putting both kiddos to bed, my husband and I plopped down onto the couch, looked at the clock (it was 8-almost-too-late-to-start-a-movie-o'clock), and decided to catch up on Homeland. First episode was just meh (except for the part where they mauled that hottie bald senator from House of Cards, another series I love to watch). The second episode, however, left me all stirred up and emotional. DISCLAIMER: major spoilers ahead.
By Mandy
As Sofia is fast approaching the six-month mark, it occurs to me that I have never cleaned her infant bathtub. Not once the entire time she's been alive. I juts keep bathing her in it again and again every night. "Sometimes it's really hard not to throw your kids."
By Annie
Motherhood is full of difficult choices. And it never gets easier. For instance, this weekend I watched my potty-training son like a hawk, waiting for any sign that he was about to drop a deuce. Finally, at 8 p.m. Sunday night, while I was holding Midge and talking to my dad on the phone, I heard the telltale grunting from the other room. Sprinting, I arrived just in time to see the easily four-inch-long turd detach from his bare anus. Let it fall or try to catch it? Clean the carpet or wash my hands?? The adrenaline was high. Barehanded, with Midge under one arm and the phone cradled against my shoulder, I dove and made the catch. Judge me if you like; it was a split-second call. I'm pretty sure it was the right choice, though there was a long and complicated moment when I stared at the log in my hand and took stock of my life. By Mandy If being a SAHM is driving you insane, force your baby to do ethnic dancing for you. I chose Irish river dancing, and it significantly reduced my post partum anxiety levels. |
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We love our kids. They drive us crazy. We write about it instead of going insane. Archives
September 2017
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