Grandma.

Namastè.

This morning I'm a wreck.

I visited my grandma this afternoon. Stayed over into the night, actually. Baby Namastè turned 15 months old today, too.

This wasn't the average visit.

You see, my grandma is imminent.

She is dying.

Her body has begun shutting down. She is mostly no responsive, save a few audible breaths and responses to temperature changes in the room.

I never knew just how much of me was tied to her until this moment. I sit here unable to sleep, because I fear sleep right now. Sleep means I won't be at the ready. Sleep means I'll potentially be unreachable should they call.

Sleep means I have to wake up to this same nightmare in the morning. It's only temporary respite.

Awake is not necessarily much better.

I'm left to think.

What if???

But mostly I am remembering.

Grandma taught me everything I know. Long before my Becks and Sammo, my bestie was Grandma. She taught me to grow roses. To be gentle yet firm. To be a gracious hostess. To always serve real, actual cornbread.

I spent a huge chunk of my childhood with her, shelling peas. I especially remember the value she placed on reading.

Grandma is legally blind. I remember she would get her Sunday school books in printed form, and then she and I would work as a tandem to get them transcribed to Braille. I'd read the pages, spelling all the words I couldn't yet pronounce. We always had a dictionary, a Bible dictionary, and an up-to-date concordance on hand.

When we weren't doing her lessons, she was singing. We always had music. She has an incredible voice. High and sweet. Just a hint of the melancholy that makes all the best singers resonate.

I'm hard-pressed to find one word to adequately describe her, or even ten words.

She's been my mother. My advisor. My counselor. Motivator. Friend. Partner in crime. Teacher. Cheerleader. Disciplinarian. Encouragement. Provider.

As I think of what's next for her, I can't help but fear what's next for me.

I don't want her to suffer. Not one bit. But her freedom  means my pain.

I'd feel it a thousand times over for her.

I haven't decided how I'll deal. I feel so lost. This isn't the first time we've dealt with someone passing, but it's hitting me the hardest of any loss I'll ever take.

I know she is suffering, and she's not happy. She doesn't have a lot of life right now. She is literally only breathing. She cannot respond to us, she does not move.

Before she fell this ill, she requested we not take heroic measures. She didn't want tubes or wires. She did not want us to mechanically prolong the natural process of her passing.

I was mad at first. How dare they sign a DNR?! Just let her die?!

No.

I understand now.

Not "let her die," but let her live. She did not want to be kept here, to eat by tube and breathe by machine. She never wanted to be bedridden, unable to have her independence.

My grandma is cut from a different cloth. She's been legally blind for as long as I can remember, but she was strong. So strong, so graceful.

She worked for many years as a seamstress. She built her home from the ground up, never taking a handout and never desiring pity. She raised her 5 children, and many others, as well as (or better than) any sighted parent. She shopped, cooked, and tended to her household independently.

Most importantly, perhaps more so now, she lived with dignity.

People would, at first glance, be inclined to protect her or want to coddle her. She's not very big. She's soft-spoken.

But she is strong and capable.

Now we must draw on her amazing spirit as we stand with her in these last moments.

Little Boy, Long Hair.

Namastè!

Feels like I should be blowing dust off this site! Sheesh. I'm working on a big surprise, dear tribe, so I'm running fore and aft, hither and yon, at breakneck pace.

No matter. I'm here now and so are you!

As you know, Baby Namastè's now Toddler Namastè. He isn't very tall yet (snickers) but he's strong, fat, and adorable. He is the kind of cute that, unfortunately, is often associated with girls.

Drink this in. His lashes are to die for. Seriously, my little king has these big doe-like eyes, framed by a set of lashes that would make any mascara vixen buckle at her knees. His eyes fall in a hazy area between brown and gray--in brighter light, the gray shows more. (Which also prompts people to stop and ask, "What color are his eyes?!")  His skin looks like toasted honey.

Yes, he's a looker.

As you know, either by previous posts (especially here) or actual conversations, I am very big on body autonomy with these gorgeous kids of mine.

This means their bodies are theirs. I don't pierce their ears, paint their nails, or force them to allow hugs or kisses--even from us, mom and dad.

I am also a huge proponent of what I like to call personal autonomy. I don't share their names, anecdotes, achievements, or downfalls publicly. My choices of being a blogger and having social media were mine. While a good bit of it all is indeed about being Amma, I respect that they don't necessarily need all the exposure.

Digression.

This also means I don't cut their hair.

Period.

For Princess, this means shoulder-length hair that she or I can tie and twist into any myriad of styles.

For Baby Namastè, it means we will encounter any one of several schools of thought.  I now present our favorites, the aptly-monikered, "Things People Say to Parents of Boys with Long Hair."

"His hair is so nice. How long will you allow it to grow?"

To which we smile and politely divulge that it is on him as to how long it grows. If he wants it chopped like a freshly-shorn lamb, he shall have that. If he wants to follow in the footsteps of Troy Palomalu, then we will invest in some great combs and a ton of coconut oil.

Ah, then there's the others.

"Why haven't you cut his hair? He will look like a girl!"

No, Debra, he won't look like a girl. He is never dressed in feminine attire. His hair is not adorned with bows and beads. At most I will braid it or connect the tails so they look like braids.)

He generally has a man bun. One tail just at the crown of his head. Completely unfussed-with, a simple measure so his hair doesn't get in his eyes.

He won't look live a little girl, Debra. Project your archaic stuff elsewhere.

"Did you really want a girl, and that's why his hair isn't cut?"

When I was pregnant, I really wanted a sandwich--but I don't dress him in honey wheat bread.

No, I didn't want a girl. I wanted that kid born. He was Frank breech and was not delivered by cesarean. He could have been a unicorn with blue feet; I just wanted him born healthy. Period.

Spoiler alert: I cried tears of joy at the 2nd gender ultrasound. We had two because the first said girl and intuition said check again. So there!

"How will he play sports?"

Who said he wanted to okay sports? Maybe he'll play football, maybe he'll build computers from paperclips and old debit cards.

Hair has little to do with physical aptitude or sports prowess. Believe me. I have done kickboxing and taebo for years, with my long hair (which is generally kept at or just below my shoulders, although it has grown longer if I leave it alone), even competitively. I didn't win less trophies because my hair wasn't chopped, and I certainly didn't win more the one time I did cut it short.

If ability was as simple as a hairstyle, there would not exist so many pacifier trophies and modified and/or beginner leagues. We could all get a haircut and be experts.

"Is he really choosing this or are you?"

We pay attention to our kid's cues. Currently he screeches and is terrified of my husband's electric shaver. I walked into a barber shop, Baby Namastè in tow, one day. He was mortified, probably due to the crowd but also those clippers, shavers, and trimmers. He doesn't appear to want those things anywhere near him. I don't and won't force anything as unnecessary as a haircut.

All that to say this:

He still has time to decide, and it will be his decision and his decision only. We keep his hair clean, healthy, and presentable regardless of its length. (Ironically when it hadn't grown in yet, people asked about that too!) Right now it's long, and long term shall be until our son decides he wants a shorter style.

If the length of his hair bothers you, might I suggest not worrying about it?

Namastè!

Tayè K.

MAN BUN!

Toddler Mama!

Namastè!

Happy Saturday!

I'm a toddler mama.

As you know I've always referred to our youngest little bear as Baby Namastè.

Except...he's now a toddler. I'm not sure Toddler Namastè would have the same ring! 14 months old, our little bear has so much personality, and can do so many new things. It seems as if every moment he is grasping a new concept or hitting a milestone.

I seriously wish I could chronicle every adorable thing they do and share it with y'all, but I'm very big on respecting my kids' privacy and individuality. (Those things were not respected or preserved for me as a kid, so I keep strong boundaries with that.) While they are my little baby bears, they are each also their own individual, a person completely separate from me or their dad.

His little face is still the same, except he was a very pensive baby and now he is a hilarious but still very pensive toddler.

As any mom would be,  I am amazed by his growth. My sweet little ball of Baby is now a 23-pound twig of Toddler!

This has taken some used to, but as we press on to each new stage, this kid, just like Princess Namastè, never disappoints.

Let's see what today holds!

Namastè!

Tayè K. ♡

For My Fellow Breech Mamas: STOP Justifying Your Delivery

Namastè!

I hope you're well-rested and glowing!

I'm not well-rested at the moment. I'm a bit sleepy! Baby Namastè's going through what I hope would be a growth spurt, and he cluster feeds at night.

Yes, he's 14 months old and still wakes occasionally. No, I'm not in a hurry for him to not wake. Fourteen months is hardly enough time to behave like anything but a toddler, and toddlers are entirely governed by their internal cues. Tonight, that cue governs that he nurse.

I digress.

Before I get into this one, let me remind you: I'm NOT an MD and I'm not a doula. I'm a mother, just like a fair slice of my audience. This blog is not a platform to shame or chastise, but to state my opinions and observations. You're welcome to disagree, but do understand the difference between me actually being vitriolic versus me saying something you disagree with or flat out dislike.

I recently returned to my social media! For a brief span I took a break. It burns me out. But as I browse and skim my newsfeeds on what I call the written social media--forums, message boards, and the Facebook--I am somewhat reminded why the hiatus felt so good in the first place.

The MOMpetition.

What?

The MOMpetition. The usually-harmful competitive edict among mothers to have the perfect pregnancy, delivery, then be perfect mothers to their perfect babies.

The most aggravating part of it (at the moment) is what I like to call the birth'lympics. Mothers all but drool over, and will beat themselves up for not having, the perfect delivery: unmedicated vaginal delivery, complete with minimal intervention, flower crowns and flawless makeup (those selfies gotta pop, no?). Bonus points awarded for hiring a photographer, who capture all those glorious moments leading up to the delivery of a cherubic newborn who sleeps through the night from day one and never fails to latch.

Why are these goals? Aside from the safest possible delivery, who added all the stipulations?

Because somewhere, someone deemed it bad or undesirable to have anything except that specific unicorn birth. (Please don't let that term become a thing. I'm barely accepting that we still use natural birth--I'll dish on that later.)

Specific bone of contention?

The fear-mongering doctors and moms alike lavish on those of us who have breech babies!

"Ohhh, was labor long?"

"Not really. I had to have a cesarean because Baby was breech."

*cue breech mama's head drop of shame*

But WHY. WHY drop your head. There isn't anything shameful about a cesarean, whether baby is breech or not. But there is something woefully wrong with blindly trusting a doctor who does not go over all your options. This person is monitoring your health and your baby's so exactly why would they casually suggest major surgery if it isn't absolutely required?

I'm specifically upset about how my breech mamas are basically coerced into cesarean deliveries that may not be necessary.

Note: I really hope this is coming off in the right vein. Every time I mention a cesarean I get an onslaught of emails justifying it. I'm not judging yours, whether you chose it other or it was a necessity! Your birth,  your choice. Ah! CHOICE. The situations I'm addressing involve not knowing you HAVE a choice, and trying my best to bolster the confidence of someone just on the cusp of delivery dismay so she not only knows her choices but utilizes them.

I'm in favor of a safe delivery for mom and baby. Period. Whether it's vaginal, cesarean, or magic UPS truck. What I'm not in favor of is the lack of knowledge, preparation,  and backbone in us moms (and a desire for a quick delivery and paycheck in doctors) that has led to the giant spike in cesarean births. They used to be only given in cases of medical  necessity and now it seems like doctors schedule them as casually as an afternoon lunch date.

See, I speak from experience--I've had both a unicorn birth experience and a not-so-magical experience, and both my babies were breech. I totally understand where the desire to have YOUR personal best birth experience dwells, as well as how a breech delivery can alter that, because I have been there. Twice.

Story time!!!

When I delivered Princess Namastè, I was only 22 years old. I, at the time, knew only that I wanted a healthy pregnancy, an easy delivery, and to breastfeed my little cherub afterward. I got the easy pregnancy (hyperemesis notwithstanding), but the delivery was painful, lengthy, and harrowing. She was breech, presenting head up toward my ribs, feet down. She stood in the womb! I cried. I cried more. But because my doctor never gave me any indication I could not deliver vaginally, I did just that.

After a painful, painful labor and exhausting delivery, my little baby was rushed off to be attended to while I was stitched up. (I sustained a 4th-degree tear--shouts out to that horrendous and possibly unnecessary episiotomy!)

I didn't know I could refuse the episiotomy. I never asked if there was a way to avoid it. In fact, I rarely questioned my doctor about anything. I didn't know I could. Oh, how unprepared I was.

I mean, I took great care to make sure we had everything she would need in her room at home, and my hospital bag was packed in 100% accordance with the list I found in shine magazine or other. I had all the "right" toys and gadgets. Our coming-home outfits were coordinated.

I didn't know I could decline an episiotomy, though. Nor did I not know I had the right to know precisely what was happening on the business end of things in that delivery room. This was my obstetrician's nurse, the person who was trained and skilled in baby delivering! I didn't have a birth plan, I didn't ask questions. I was programmed to believe childbirth was a miserable experience, so the only thing I did to attempt to make it less so was TRUST. I put my trust in the nurses. Not myself.

I delivered her at 1:17 in a room with a nurse who only seemed aggravated that it was taking so long. A nurse  who, despite all the monitors and tests indicating a real possibility of needing that cesarean, did not care.

Recovery was hell. Caring for a newborn is a stretch for any mom those first few weeks, but I had my "fresh ripped new one" and a baby with health problems to contend with on top of the plethora of new mommy emotions and discomforts.

In 2006, I was not an active presence online other than to shop. I didn't get my judgment online. Nope. Got it all in person!

I was in NO way prepared for the judgment. For that first year, unicorn mommies dressed me down for everything from having that epidural to not breastfeeding long enough. (Princess Namastè's nursing was cut short when my supply tanked 8 months postpartum. I didn't have a lactation consultant or a selection of high-end breastpumps back then, y'all.) I didn't feel dismayed by the unicorns, but I was determined that my next birth would go differently. I honestly didn't not feel less thrilled with my induction into motherhood!

Fast forward nine and a half years, to 2016.

When Hubby Namastè and I decided to expand our roster, we researched pregnancy and its complications. We researched delivery options. We decided we wanted to try for that unicorn birth.

When we got the big fat positive, we had already decided we would be seeing Doctor A. I'd have a doula this time also. We prepared a list of questions for both.

Let me tell you--you cannot predict how your pregnancy or delivery will go. Each one is different. I don't care who you are, there are no exemptions.

I had the dreaded hyperemesis, but I knew more about my options. After requiring several trips to the hospital for treatment, I decided to have medication and intravenous nutrition. I was on bed rest 30 of those 37 weeks. My unicorn of a pregnancy turned into a heaving hydra with a belly full of upright baby.

Did I like it? NO.

But it made no less wonderful, the anticipation of our son's delivery.

Baby Namastè was frank breech. After a failed ECV (external cephalic version--a procedure in which a doctor massages and manipulates the external abdomen to turn the baby so their head faces down toward the birth canal), he remained so. The ECV was originally thought to be successful BUT I literally felt him turn back.

Ouch.

When  offered a cesarean, I declined. Baby's vitals were fine. ECV aside (it's a painful procedure, period), I was fine too.

Breech babies do not always have to be delivered by cesarean. (In fact, the vast majority of cesarean performed today are not medically necessary.)

I did not want a cesarean. More power to those who have walked that talk like a boss; alas, I am not among you! I was terrified of the recovery, but even more terrified of having an elective surgery when my body could very well do its job if I just let it.

"Tays, if you really want to do this, you have to trust yourself and me."

My OB is kind of a really big deal for that.

The OB met with another doctor, and then they both met with us. Game plan: we could deliver Baby Namastè vaginally. I consented, armed with information and reassurance, to a cesarean in the event that our baby shower any distress. I also agreed to pain management--I would not take meds unless my blood pressure increased. We proceeded.

I delivered my frank breech baby boy at 10:05 that night. Four ten-count pushes and he was out! He was healthy, and I felt so empowered. Not because of a perfect delivery--it wasn't. I bled, a LOT. I also tore, alas not a 4th-degree tear, thank goodness.

I felt empowered because I made the conscious effort to effect my desires result. While I didn't have perfect selfies or a flower crowns, I did get the delivery that ignorance and blind trust robbed me of before. Essentially, being informed and having a good team who respected my wishes yielded me an amazing peace.

It still wasn't a unicorn birth. Immediately after delivery, I was stitched up. I received an epidural when Baby Namastè was 20 minutes old. (I injured my pelvis in delivery, and by injured I mean fractured--I needed that pain relief, y'all.)

We didn't master his latch instantly. We  didn't take those fantastic photos. My face was not beat to the gods, y'all. Instead I looked like I'd been beaten.

It seems like I took you all around the world, huh?

Nope.

My point is this: The only real differences in my two deliveries was the trust I put in my body and the information I had at my disposal to make decisions. What made the second delivery better was not the absence of pain and discomfort, but the absence of a self-defeating mindset.

I didn't escape unjudged. Moms chastised me.for not getting pain relief. Moms leapt into my inboxes defending their cesarean, as if my avoidance somehow undermined their value. Others still insisted I endangered my son and myself. (NOPE, we were carefully monitored the entire time.)

It boils down to confidence--in ourselves and our medical teams.

STOP justifying your deliveries, breech mamas. You did what you could, with what information and support you had. If you chose a cesarean, that's fine. If you chose vaginal, that's fine too.

Just know you have a choice. That's all I wanted to convey here, that we always have a choice. The first step to asserting that choice is finding your voice, getting the courage to stand up and ask questions. Get information. Don't be passive, not in pregnancy and not in planning and executing your delivery. You

Namastè!

-- Tayè K. ♡

My Take on Social Media

Namastè!

Top o'the morning to ye!

I had an interesting thought this morning.

I'm in the midst of a few reviews, and reviews involve pics. The products I'll be writing about are toys, things my littlest bear is currently running around with whilst doing his toddler things. I find his antics adorable. Alas, Kids Namastè are notoriously camera shy at times and it's hard to get "that" photo.

Like millions of other moms, I have that Instagram. You'll find food pics, quotes, and photos of interesting stuff that I opt to share.

What you won't find is perfection.

(Except the hashtag.)

My presence in social media is just like my food--organic. By that, I mean this: I'll naturally choose the best shots, but I won't stress or go to great extremes for those double taps.

I'm not a clebrity. I'm not a model. I'm a mom with a blog.

I focus far more on the grammar, spelling, and syntax in my blogs than I ever would on getting a "perfect" photo. The only reason I have that Instagram, is to allow my tribe a glimpse of my world (if they're so inclined to see) and stay relatable. When I first started writing, one of my partners told me, "Tay-tay, you seem mythical. You gotta bring some more personality."

Naturally I was a little taken aback. I write, and I have some (incredible) readers, so how was I "mythical"? Every blog post is something straight from me. These are really my ideas and experiences. What's mythical?!

I hate social media. I hate the pressure to be perfect and the way it tends to suck people into a cyclone of popularity contests and unreal expectations. I didn't see how I, who boast all of 40 Facebook friends and a petite 12 followers on Instagram, would even make a ripple there.

"Well, you don't post enough pics and you don't use names. People need a little more of you or your blog will sink."

Oh.

I'm not really keen to hold an entire press conference on my kid's outfit of the day or give a riveting account of how my face mask is saving my life. I pretty much just wanna write. That's my contribution to positive mommy'ing.

As an introvert myself, I love reading. When I'm in the thick for the long days and sleepless nights of this motherhood thing, it's not likely I'll call someone. I hate the phone. However I will grab my tablet or phone and read until my eyes are heavy. The moms behind my favorite blogs  (besides my own, obviously) are my friends. My pen sisters! They reassure me. Make me laugh. Make me think. And most of the time they do so with just their words. Their pictures, if they have them, are just icing on the cake.

That was my initial approach.

...then the epiphany.

I can absolutely evoke the same solidarity. I can share myself without compromising my commitment to staying true to myself. (I'm an introverted, shy, silly gyal--after I'm around people I need a nap to recharge.)

I'll never ever be that ratio-monger (988K followers BUT only follows back 200) and I'll never skew my life to make it better for likes or worse for sympathy. I set out to write, and if social media is a part of that I'll play along. I just won't play myself. I'm not here to be a perfect cookie cutter image or guru--I'm just here to share my experiences for the other happily Imperfect moms out there.

Namastè!

-- Tayè K. ♡

ProductReportCard.com

Namastè!

If you've followed my social media any length of time, you've seen me speak of my ProductReportCard.com adventures.

Now I think I have to go into some serious detail, because lots of people ask me about it. Plus I talk about it pretty often.

ProductReportCard.com is a website that matches consumers (i.e. us) with companies for online studies, paid surveys, and in-home product tests. They pay real money, not website currency or credits. You  an elect to have that money transferred to you via PayPal, Amazon giftcard, or an actual paper check.

Personally I do the PayPal option, as I use it for my little Etsy splurges and other shopping.

ProductReportCard.com pays pretty well, y'all. I just completed a study worth $100, and I get emails for surveys almost every day.

To request payout, you need to get your survey bank up to  $25. You get paid for registering products you own as well as the surveys and focus groups. They even offer offline opportunities as they are available. You are paid for every single survey. If you don't qualify for them, you receive a dime for simply attempting. A dime isn't much BUT we are online a lot anyway and we do that for free. Those dimes add up--those likes on FB and IG don't though.

The name of the game is, BE ACTIVE.

I'm fairly active on social media anyway, so as I'm clicking and giving my opinions, why not make a little spending money in the process?

I recommend checking it out. For me, it's  an ouchless way to fund my Etsy and other online shopping. But who couldn't use an extra stream of income?! No pyramid, no sales, no calls, and no spam. It's truly that simple.

I'll be giving another in-depth look at this in a bit. I have some videos and pics I wanna share so you can see it's totally real.

Namastè!

-- Tayè K. ♡