Ten Selfish Reasons I Breastfeed

Namastè!

Note: This is a post extolling my lighter reasons to breastfeed. While the title is tongue-in-cheek, there's nothing selfish about this endeavor. I would say I hope it doesn't trigger anyone, but the title is pretty clear that it's about to be a breastfeeding praise-athon; proceed in awareness, is all I'm sayin'...

While my little baby Tiger Lily sleeps, I'm up a-pumpin'! In 3 years I have yet to miss more than 2 feedings--I pump when they sleep or are otherwise too indisposed to latch. It's been this way since 2016. While I'm not always excited to plug in or latch a kid, I'm always firm in my resolve to give them my best...

...I'm one who steadfastly believes that fed is required but BREAST IS BEST. Science agrees.

All that said, ten reasons come to mind every time someone asks why I choose this very demanding route. (Breast is best but it ain't easy by a long shot.)

1. After researching pregnancy, childbirth, and everything in between, I didn't want to research food too. Breastmilk is my baby's perfect food--it's nutritionally, developmentally, and even immunologically specific to her little tummy. All day, every day. Every latch, every meal.

2. I never had to do the guesswork of affording a suitable formula. Formula is EXPENSIVE, breastmilk is free. My wallet, brain, and patience are,have been, and will remain safe from that harrowing section of Publix, thank you kindly.

3. I'm not shy about feeding my babies anywhere they get hungry. Because we didn't need to haul bottles, my diaper bag ALWAYS stayed pretty light--and cute.  Never needed much fiction so I could focus on form. (Hi, Coach bag!) I actually used a little backseat organizer thing, *chuckle*

4. Breastmilk heals practically anything a baby can come down with, from baby acne to eczema to teething. We do many milk baths, milk tinctures, and milk popsicles to soothe the itchy-ouchy uncomfortable bits of childhood.

Note: Consult your pediatrician. We did!

5. The convenience. Period. If I'm in the mall and she needs a feed, BOOM. If I'm in the park and she wants a quick snack, BOOM. I always have everything I need on hand, in perfect quantity, to satisfy that tiny tummy.

6. The versatility! Exclamation point. I've yet to encounter a situation where nursing didn't immediately comfort my baby. While it doesn't exactly kill pain, breastfeeding decidedly calms them down. It soothes them when they're out of sorts. It hydrates them. It (obviously) eliminates their hunger pangs. Because of this, I literally don't need gripe water, teething meds, or any of the diaper bag fluff--only when nursing and the accompanying cuddles don't work, do I need to look into other remedies. A fresh diaper and nursing take care of it 9 times of 10.

7. It's their perfect food. It literally adjusts itself to suit whatever my baby needs. When it's hot and summery, my milk ups its water content to ensure her hydration.  Should she be coming down with a cold, the bioexchange created (in the vacuum between her saliva and my breast during feeding) signals my body to send her an immunity boost: I literally make milk for her filled with antibodies to fight whatever she's developing. She's never had problems feeding, gassiness, or reflux issues. Nor did her brother. Touching back on they immunity thing? The babies have never had a major illness. My aunt gave my son strep when he was about ten months old, and within a few days it was cleared without any ill effect--strep usually takes at least a week and has aftereffects. Tiger Lily has never been sick at all.

8. I sleep more. From birth on up, those nighttime feedings are exponentially easier and quicker when you don't have to fix/wash/sterilize bottles. My babies have nursed without even fully waking. Even if it takes us live to get to the "sleep all night" age, we still get our winks.

9. It was a perfect reason to cosleep. With Tiger Lily, my postpartum anxiety was through the roof. I couldn't shake the feeling that something would happen to her, so I kept her so very close. Because I didn't really care to explain how anxiety works or how it made me feel, I just used breastfeeding as my reason to cosleep. After all, she had to be closeby to get her milk,  and people always assume breastfeeding is super hard so no one really bugged me much beyond that.

10. It's freeeeeeee! That means all the money I saved on bottles and formula, could be spent (or saved!!!) for other fun things. My babies generally have big birthdays, for one. We celebrate many festivals throughout the year. We travel, a lot. More practically tho? Our grocery budget, while obviously increasing when the babies got on solids, didn't take that multi-hundred dollar hit each month for formula. We didn't have to adjust our finances much.

Note: While there are lots of pumps and gadgets (and I've got many), a mom doesn't need to spend money to breastfeed. We only need a baby and a breast. ♡

All in all, I chose to breastfeed because I knew it'd be easy. (Minor speedbumps aside.) Even with an adjusting period, I knew this would work for me and most importantly, my baby. Any adjustment was worth knowing they would get the best possible nourishment--and those other benefits weren't too shabby either.

I'd do it again in a heartbeat!

Excuse You? Mind Your Face!

As you know, my tumbly toddler tiny tot is a big brother.

He isn't quite three yet, so we haven't taken away his toys and sentenced him to hard labor in the rock yard.

Nah.

Our little guy still gets his juice in his preferred cup. He gets snuggles and bedtime stories. It isn't uncommon to find him curled up with his blankie and his Baboochi, either resting from his usual toddler rush or simply recharging his little spirits by way of his loveys.

If he falls asleep in the car, we carry him into the house just as we always have. (Yes, he'll outgrow it eventually--but he's every bit of two years old and if it pleases the jury, we will take what fleeting time we can; it all passes too swiftly.) The double stroller awaits if his little legs get tired while we are zipping about the mall or he needs a break from walking during one of our city explorations.

He isn't expected to behave like an adult or even an older child.

One, because he's two.

Two...well, he's TWO.

There are actual adults, people eighteen and up, who need more support and concessions than my toddler. They have the right to it!

What irks me is when people see our son indulging (I can't think of the exact word I need here--how is he being spoiled when it's our job to nurture and protect him?!) in our good parenting and feel the need to point out X-Y-Z. 

We are perfectly capable of nurturing his emotional needs without handicapping him. Having a younger sibling does not negate the fact that he himself is still a younger sibling!

The key word is, we do it without handicapping him. He is a sensitive child, but he is not being held back or overly-coddled. His cognitive and developmental leaps attest to that...

He dresses himself--fully! Underwear (because at age 2, he is completely potty trained INCLUDING nights, and he can clean himself up too), shirts, pants, AND shoes. He knows his colors and numbers, and is beginning to recognize some words. He speaks two languages (he's GOOD in Tamil and developing in Hindi) in addition to English. Speaking of speaking--he speaks in full sentences. While he still has what I call the toddler accent, there's usually very little confusion when he's telling us something.

Emotionally, he's fairly even-kieled to only be two. He will actually tell you if he is mad, sad, sleepy, or hungry. He's still prone to the same fits and fury as any other toddler, mind you, but he is not bratty. He still has some separation anxiety, but most kids his age do--the world is big, probably more so when you're coming into the realization that it's not only bigger than you, but also Mom and Dad. He sleeps best with mom and dad (we cosleep and you're welcome to not join us!), and he's got a blankie and a couple plushies for comfort when he sleeps in his own space.

Even though he is well loved and gets all the cuddles he can handle, he's still a wild man. He climbs, ribs and makes all kinds of crazy games with his little squad. He's even beginning to recreate adventures from his books and current favorite show The Lion Guard.

His days are just as full of active play and exploration as they are of reading and cuddling with us. He's attached to us, but we are his safe spot--we aren't a ball and chain, we are his base. When the adventures get scary, he knows we are here to comfort him and build him up, a solid recharge for the next round.

He's petty well-rounded. Turns out, we've done a decent job with him. Didn't snuggle the smart out of him at all!

...that being clarified, YES. YES WE DO. We still coddle him a bit. We still snuggle him. We still hold him. We still consider his comfort. We still make an effort to address things he cannot quite articulate yet, to make him content. We teach him empathy and compassion by modeling it.

We aren't sending a hard ass into the world. He won't bear the toxins of being forced to stifle his needs or feelings simply because he's of a certain age or because he's a boy. We have enough kindness and affection to go around (more than enough times) and we try to give each of our kids exactly what they need, whether it's a little more one on one time with mom or dad, or more time to figure it out on their own. Right now our son flourishes under a more attached approach.

All 3 do, and while it's exhausting at times,  we're up for it.

So yeah. He IS a big brother. He IS almost 3.

He IS our son, and he IS going to get as much affection and attention as he's willing to receive. Being his (and his sisters') mom and dad is our best and most rewarding work, so we don't mind putting in work.

You're welcome to not worry about how much we coddle him. Cordially invited, even!

Doula Me, Baby!

...mommy'ing is done hard work.

Delivery is the toughest of the preliminaries.

I have yet to experience an "easy" delivery. While my babies have always been healthy, they've never been in any hurry to turn themselves the right way (ahem, dear Brother Bear), slow their progress so my body could adjust (Hi, Tiger Lily), or even be born at all (what's up, Princess?).

What made me crazy enough to go through it three times, besides the face that hubby and I make beautiful little people? Why do I know I'm willing to do it again in a couple years?

Doula me, baby...

A doula is a pregnant mom's best friend.

While the medical team is there for the technical aspects of a delivery, the doula is there specifically to comfort and help advocate for the mother. She does not provide actual medical care, only support.

Support is freaking crucial.

Your doula will be the one helping make your birth plan a reality, or as close to it at possible. She will be the one to soothe you. She'll help push you to your goal of a natural delivery, or she'll advocate for swift relief if you want meds. She comes bearing ice chips, warm towels for massage, and a soothing aura.

She's your voice. She's your eyes and ears. She supports you and baby, and her interests lie only in making sure you and baby are as comfortable and happy as possible.

Giving birth is not an easy task, even in the most ideal circumstances.

My Tiger Lily was my easiest delivery, but also my most painful. Because I knew my OB was all about extra interventions and didn't exactly support my desire to go as natural (read: intervention free) as possible, I decided to labor as long as I could at home.

Home became even moreso my happy place after battling hyperemesis as an inpatient--I was beyond elated to have gotten a reprieve from my doctor, because the last week or so of my pregnancy, I saw no doctors, only my midwife and doula. I was able to relax as much as I could in my own bed, with my own linens and pillows. I had birthing ball available. My doula was my support person along with Hubby Namastè, and my midwife was on-call for me, for when we headed in to deliver. (As badly as I wanted a home birth, I would end up going in anyway because I had to address my hip--pregnancy and degenerative joint disorder aren't really good together.)

As apprehensive as I was about the hospital, having my midwife and doula there made it all much easier to handle. My midwife did everything she could to make sure baby and I were safe, and my doula made sure my wishes were acknowledged.

I didn't have an elaborate birth plan though. I just wanted minimal intervention, NO obstetrician interference unless we absolutely needed it (my OB would not have "allowed" me to labor naturally, and it would be purely for convenience on his part because there was never an indication of need for a cesarean), and an uninterrupted golden hour. Because we knew Tiger Lily was healthy, we wanted as little poking and prodding as possible during that first hour--all she needed was to have skin to skin and breastfeed, and anyone would have to fight me tooth and nail to interrupt that time with her.

Postpartum anxiety often manifests itself antepartum, before the baby arrives. In my case, it definitely did. I desperately needed the golden hour, actually the whole period immediately after delivery, to sort of ground myself and bond with my baby. I needed to hold her and stare at her, feed her and snuggle her, so I could really get in sync with her. I was absolutely convinced I would not be able to bond with her because the whole pregnancy was so tough.

My doula made sure we had that time, and it was pretty amazing. It was love at first sight (and confidence eventually showed itself). My baby had a beautiful latch with no coaching! She looked right at me with those big Karunanithy eyes like, "I know you. You will take care of me."

I probably would have missed that if my OB had gotten his way. I would've been sedated and the baby would have spent that crucial time in the nursery with strangers.

The baby was definitely right, by the way. I definitely would take care of her. I was able to, part by instinct, part by desire, and part because my doula gave me little comforts that led to a big boost of confidence.

Even though Tiger Lily is our third baby, every delivery experience has brought its own challenges and circumstances. I didn't have a doula before, so I didn't understand just how important having your person could be. Because she was there specifically to comfort me, my husband was able to focus on the baby. (He was a huge comfort to me as well, but while I focused on our delivery, he could make sure everything else was in order--he could advocate for the baby too, which gave her a team of 3 right off the bat!)

Tiger Lily came into this crazy world almost exactly as we wanted: peacefully, without unnecessary interventions like excessive meds (I didn't have any) or an unwarranted interruption of bonding.

I can definitely say having that bit of extra during delivery helped pave the way for good bonding. Tiger Lily and I had a wild road, but there isn't a sweeter baby girl to be found. She looks at me with those big Karunanithy eyes and I just melt.

Thanks to my doula, I didn't worry during labor and delivery. No more than the typical stuff. Because I knew this person was here specifically for and about me, without any responsibility the other things my Hubby had to take care of, I felt like I had an ally.

Note: Again, I stress that my husband was there every step, from me peeing on the stick to us leaving the hospital together as parents of three instead of two! It's just that he had to be responsible for me, our older kids, the paperwork, and of course the new baby too. My doula literally only had to be concerned with me, my comfort, and making sure I was okay every step of our delivery. The difference is clear: hubby took care of the family, but Doula Wonderful took care of me.

As a woman who lives largely without women (my mother-in-love and sisters-in-love live too far to have been available without some heavy planning), my doula was as necessary as air to breathe or food to eat. I needed that connection. I needed to be mother ed as I became a mother, if that makes sense. Doula Wonderful provided that,  and if I had to do it all again and pay her triple, I wouldn't hesitate.

...

I believe doulas should be standard for women giving birth.

Heal YOURSELF.

This parenting journey--WHEW!

It's really wild. You go from being responsible for yourself only, to being at the helm of an entirely separate person's development.

As moms and dads, we are responsible for how our spawn view the world. Their first impressions depend largely on how we present situations, people, and assorted things. Their interpretations are peppered with remnants of our own. They inherit our fears, anxieties, and prejudices right along with our hair color, nose shapes, and eye color.

This is why is absolutely imperative to make sure we address our own personal traumas, ideally before we bring kids into the mix but definitely as soon as those traumas become an issue.

For me, this had meant healing the divide with my biological family. While it's still quite a work in progress, and I admittedly have way more "WTF" moments than AHA moments or affectionate moments regarding them, I am reaching a point where I'm not silently--or loudly--grieving it.

I was not raised by my biological parents. That was a conscious decision they made, that had very little to do with new and everything to do with them simply not wanting to raise a kid at that point in their lives. They were stable enough. They weren't strung out. They just didn't feel up to the task.

As I got older and realized how different my household was (I had Grandma while other kids had Mom and Dad), I was curious about it. The situation was never sugar-coated or brushed under the rug. While she couldn't really pretend my parents were some unfortunate fairy tale type tragedies, she did level with me: They were not ready to care for you properly, so Grandma did.

She also let me know she would never have chosen anything different. While I'm sure she would have preferred enjoying her retirement or perhaps not having to navigate PTA meetings and extracurricular activities at a time when she should have been doing whatever it is grandmas do, she never made me feel like anything other than a regular, cherished kid.

Turns out, that didn't stop those feelings of abandoned from creeping in sometimes. I in particular hate Mother's Day and Father's Day. I don't really care for any holidays, actually. (I observe and participate for the kids' sake--they don't have the same issue as me so they aren't subjected to the effects of it!)

Perhaps because I'm naturally kinda reserved anyway, and shy, I never exactly acted out. I was never that kid who screamed or cried over it. I didn't cut up in school. I didn't develop any self-harm temdencies. For all practical intents and purposes, I was a normal kid. Possibly more bookish than most, and definitely more introverted, but nothing about me stood out as, "Hey, I'm hurting."

It did and does manifest though. I have been an overachiever since I was born--if I do it, I have to do it beyond my best or I'm not satisfied. I'm very slow to bond with anyone; I make friends easily enough but I always expect that they'll leave. (I'm not entirely unbothered, but because I expect it, I don't get flustered.) I guard my heart fiercely. I go above and beyond as a parent, perhaps as a way to prove that broken things can work just fine.

Know what, though? I proved to myself that I could be the mom I didn't quite have. I made it! It was scary, but I did (and do) it. My babies are my world. Because I've also addressed my issue, I won't pass it on in the form of a generational curse. They won't bear my cross.

I'm very careful about negatives. I don't label anything or make excuses for things that I know are manifestations of Little Tayè not having. Because I got some good old counseling, and eventually began applying the principles and working through the steps said counseling, I've been handling it all a bit better.

It's painful and uncomfortable, but I had to address it head on. I have to, still, as it doesn't go away. The...I don't know, itch? The itch to have that closeness with them still lingers sometimes. I have siblings. Nieces and nephews. I don't know these siblings as adults, because I'm only familiar with them as children. We didn't and still don't spend a ton of time together so it's awkward. We share the water of the womb but not necessarily the blood of the covenant.

I'm, in effect, an only child, because I don't fit in and I don't exactly desire to anymore. I needed to address the chapter and I did. I try not to put more into it than that, because they don't. They don't miss me, nor do they pine for my presence. They lead their lives and I lead mine, two paths that rarely meet. There isn't any ill will, just a disconnect none of us can fix. I imagine we don't really try!

We've reached a comfortable if not ideal spot, and that's enough.

This is why I say, healing must occur. It isn't just for your children, at first. It's for you. You cannot foster healthy relationships, self-image, and coping tactics in your kids if you don't possess these same tools yourself. You can't guide them through their own experiences if you're still lugging around baggage from your own unresolved messes. You'll poison them.

Don't pass along generational curses. Don't force your kids to bear and dwell in the same stuff that stunts you. Get healing--counseling, therapy, a hobby? Address it.

OHIO it. (Only handle it once.)

Dealing with the Elephant OUTSIDE the Room...

Namastè!

Holidays mean family.

Family means no one gets left behind.

While the second statement is true, it doesn't cover those who willingly walk away. Family means no one gets left behind, but it's not a hostage situation. Those who choose an exit, can typically go without much ado.

As you probably know, Dad Namastè is actually not Princess Namastè's biological father. He stepped up to the plate when she was pretty young, and never wavered, so make no mistake: HE IS HER FATHER. Appa. Dad. Pops.

He's the real McCoy and honestly, it's better that way.

While I won't go on a bashing spree here, I will admit that over the years I've sometimes grappled with how to navigate this blended family of ours. I certainly and wholeheartedly encourage the bond between Hubs and Princess, and that bond is incredible. (It's everything I wish I'd had with my own biological parents...another post, another day.) He teaches her. He cares for her. He disciplines her. He supports her. He spoils her. He will be there to walk her out for debutante and also to cheer at her graduation(s)!

...her biological father has (and will likely never) taken the time to do any of those things, at least not consistently. Because we had a difficult journey to this point, we did not master effective coparenting. Due to the absence of an actual relationship, we never set our own lives apart to create a space of "wr" where raising her was concerned. He went about his bachelorhood and I endeavored to raise her. There was no drastic breakup or even break down.

I don't paint him as a bad guy. She's always known who he is. We've never given her any false hope that someday she would have both biological parents under one roof or even in the same city. Perhaps at too early an age, she knew her other parent had a life that she would not be a big part of, and she adjusted.

As such, I have never pushed for visitation or financial support. Before my marriage, I managed on my own. I missed a lot--preschool programs, milestones, et cetera. In the name of providing for her, I reasoned it all out as minor sacrifice. Because her biological father was not around, and I was doing the parenting thing solo, I kept at the grindstone. Overcompensated like hell at times, but what can we do? *shrugs*

Her biological father always had access. He was welcome to visit, provided he respected the structure of our home and didn't sow discord or bad vibes. Up til mid-2015, he was a fairly present part of her world. He didn't visit often, but he did call and text. (I gave her a phone line when she was 4, so it could never be said that I was impeding his contact.)

The first few months after he stopped dealing with her at all, were a nightmare. Hubby and I were preparing to welcome Brother Bear, and a proverbial and very sudden shit storm took us through the wringer. Hubby lost his brother. We became caregivers to four other kids in the wake of that. We lost our home (fire) and had to adjust to a new and very odd normal. Princess was only 9 years old, and it shook her core.

She acted out that year. Sure, she was still a darling girl, and she still had Hubs there supporting and loving her without ever mentioning step--there was literally never any separation, she was and is simply his kid, just like Brother Bear and Tiger Lily. She didn't have that connection to her biological father though  and it bothered her. Understandably so, because I've been through the same. I was raised by wonderful people and enjoyed an incredible closeness to my grandmother, but I always kinda craved the love and I don't know, approval? I wanted my biological parents to see me and be proud, but I never felt like they did and I never felt like they were. As great as my life is, that shadow still looms sometimes--along with the guilt that crops up because it seems ungrateful to wish for a connection to people who did not want to raise me when I had most of my life with ones who did! I know she had to work through that.

Coming to the present moment, when she's thriving under the care of two parents who have made a definite, irreplaceable spot for her at the center of their life, I feel we made the right choices. While we still don't press for support or even involvement, we leave the decision of keeping the door open, to Princess. It is her decision as to if she allows those people in her life. She decides if they get to be part of her world. She decides how she feels about them.

We don't influence it. We only talk about it is she brings it up. While we are honest, we don't bash them or speak ill of them. At no point is she allowed to be disrespectful to them, but she is allowed to decide when she speaks with them (or attempts to) and if she visits them (so far she has not, although we would pay for it) or not. She is 12 now. Not a baby, not a toddler.

There are still no visits, and only sporadic contact. Hubs and I still maintain that separate phone line for Princess so it can never be said that we don't allow a connection between her and that part of her family. (They are her family, even if only by blood.) We don't speak of them at all. What would we say? We don't hate them or harbor any ill will. His refusal to participate in her upbringing has left us free to enjoy every bit of it. We get all the hugs, smiles, and AHA moments as she learns to navigate this life. We get to cheer her on as she wins. We get to comfort her as she learns to take her Ls. We get to watch proudly as she becomes herself instead of just our baby girl. We get to guide her! While none of that is all rainbows and butterflies (spoiler alert: the preteen years can absolutely BLOW), the rewards are still the same: immeasurable joy.

In our case, the blended family just means keeping an olive branch. Not necessarily extending it, but having it at the ready in case things ever reach a point where we can extend said branch without looking stupid or bringing undue pain to our first girl! Our only concern is making sure she is balanced, supported, and loved properly, not just as it is convenient...which is the same thing we do for our other two littles. We are only here for what provides the greatest benefit to them, and perpetuating discord and unrest doesn't factor.

She is definitely kept. Not kept away from them, or denied a meaningful connection, but decidedly away from the typical daddy issues. We won't let her feel like she has to beg for a relationship with them. We won't ever let her think any of his refusal to be her father, is her fault.

We also don't shield the truth. We just make sure she receives it in manageable bits.

That's what parenting is--PREPARING FOR the world but PROTECTING FROM the bullshit.

The Line

Namastè!

I have had some interesting discussions about being a mom blogger since I jumped in the ring. While it's generally pleasant discourse, there are so many incorrect, inaccurate, and flat out wrong impressions of what it is that I do.

Because I like to shed light, I'll crack the surface here.

Note: I can only speak for myself. Please bear in mind that I can only speak from my own experience. There's no "industry" expose here, just me. The WE comes in because I hate too many "I" statements--that's self-absorbed and I'm not that girl.

1. We aren't all fame hungry.

I like recognition sometimes--who doesn't! But I blog for self first, not the Machine. I don't martyr myself for ugly cry points and I refuse to humiliate myself or my family for squints and giggles. I'm too reserved for the typical viral stunts and too much of a dork to suss out how to balance fame with going to Target undetected.

2. We aren't "the next" anyone.

I'm Tayè. First, last, and only. Period.

3. Not every blogger is the tell and show all type.

I personally am not, nor do I see myself becoming, the tell-all type. I'm not ashamed of anything. I'm ridiculously proud of my family. My kids are amazing, beautiful little people!

4. I don't do everything.

Blogging is my little baby. I keep it sheltered, separate from the regular thrive drive. I am not juggling the hats of being a crafter/chef/model/singer/dancer/spokesperson/photographer. I can do all these things, but my main purpose for creating this space is to have an outlet. While it is shared, and I do promote it to my readers, it is not a job. (That'd be exhausting, trying to squeeze all that in, or manage the logistics of each thing while still keeping my blog as an outlet!) Nor do I want it to be.

5. It isn't as easy or as hard as you think.

Only when one delves into the corporately-manufactured side of blogging does it become difficult--when it is your job versus your passion. (This is why I personally cannot operate on the fame/money/sponsored content alone--even the very companies who pay for those posts, get weary of seeing a blog that reads like a long-running commercial.) Only when you find your niche and plug into it, can blogging be truly easy.

When I sit down to the computer and the words don't flow freely, I get my butt up.

6. We aren't a clique.

While some of us are really adamant about only connecting with equally *insert adjective* bloggers,  a lot of us are just moms in yoga pants, hoping to connect to like minds. Naturally people with similar interests tend to bond, but there's no rule.

7. We aren't all trying to tell you how to live your life.

I can't wear the life coach crown, bruh. I can teach you about breastfeeding, make you laugh, and share a funny or sweet anecdote two. I can definitely share my slice of the woman's experience! But I won't even take my hat near the ring of the actual life coach.

That Grass

Namastè!

The grass is greener on the other side.

Or is it?

I'm a married, work at home mom. (WAHM) I homeschool. I don't have a babysitter. I don't have nannies. (Yet.)

Because my husband's got the goofiest to schedule known to man (it is not uncommon for him to work many 16-hour days straight without an off day), I'm often responsible for entertaining the kids as well as myself. I get cabin fever easily, so it's imperative I have at least one or two outings a week.

I get my fresh air fix in the form of Mamastè, my mommy group.

We are basically just a group of moms (and dads too--our dorkiness is available for all to enjoy) who want a little socializing with their playground workouts. While the kids run around and learn to climb the big slide or absorb sunshine in their strollers, we wrangle the attempted escapes and dish on life, "off the clock."

Because we've all got a similar lot, we're used to fielding jabs and questions from "outsiders." (In this sense I mean, people who aren't a part of our group outing.)

The grass for WAHM/SAHM isn't greener. It's just the way the light hits it, I promise.

While we don't necessarily have to leave the house to contribute, our sacrifices are worth noting.

We Out of Towners Want You To Know...

Namastè!

Do you have out of towners in your family?

Sure you do.

The holiday festival season is upon us. Actually it's sitting its spice-scented buns right on our kitchen counters whispering wonderful phrases like "cake," "pie," and "gift cards for Targetttttt."

It also comes with that bevy of invites.

You know the ones.

"Join us for dinner!"
"Y'all should swing by!"
"Bring those babies to see us!"

I cringe.

Not because I don't want to spend time with the ones I love, but because I am an OOT. Out of Towner. As in, I didn't just leave the nest--I left the nest, jumped about six point two trees over that way, and built my own nest. I do travel often enough to other trees, because all work and no play makes Tayè a dull bird, but I also really dig plucking around and tweaking at the nest we bust our tailfeathers to have and keep.

After all my tree hopping and forest ambassador'ing, I usually want to corral the hubby and kids and relax. We've created or own traditions while still managing to participate and inculcate those of our families.

But it's not reciprocated.

As such, this year we won't be the OOTs--because we're staying in our own nest.

The biggest issue with OOT life is that people will travel and go as they see fit, up until it's time to visit the OOTs. We don't get visits. We get guilt trips about how if we can go to New York for a birthday, we can spare a day or two for visiting the family!

We don't deny this.

It's just, because no one in our family is bed bound or unable to travel, we have stopped running delivery. We explained this once.

• "I don't have a car."

Ok, cool. However! When we offer to pick you up or provide transit, you find 50 excuses why you can't come.

• *insert impossible travel stipulations*

You live more than two hours away--you seriously want us to come get you, clock watch all day, and bring you back before dark?! It gets dark at 5 pm!

• "You need to come get me."

Not a problem. However...I need you to not wait until I'm halfway there, as in, I've already crosses the state line and am making pretty good time, to call me and cancel.

• *turn the journey into an errands blitz*

I'm a helpful so and so. I'm absolutely cool with making a run or two before we hit the road back toward my abode. However! We won't be doing a million honey-dos. Let's get the holidays out the way and then I'll make a day for you.

• "Y'all live too far out!"

Okay, fair enough. But that same "too far" applies to you now, too! Do you not realize we don't have a time warp? We feel the same constraints as you when we travel.

...

In my family (it would be the Tayès, *smirk*), it's just excuses. The same people who travel as much, if not more, than I do, suddenly develop the "can't-moves" around this time of year. I'm not sure if it's because they want to be "that house" in my grandma's absence, or if they really truly don't mess with my branch of the family tree like that.

I just know this OOT won't be bending any highways this season for anyone who hasn't made that effort for me.

MLM? NOO.

Namastè,  all.

Today I got asked a new question!

"Why are you so against MLM companies? Don't you think people moms should support each other?"

Because I'm pretty vocal about my disdain for MLM companies, I decided that one deserved a fair shake. After all, I don't spout things I'm not willing to expound on, and since it is a fairly regular topic (especially this time of year) I played ball.

Why am I against multilevel marketing companies?

Because they suck.

Do I think moms should support each other?

Of course.

Unconvinced,  my friend pressed harder.

So I caved.

Here are those reasons, in list form.

1. They are annoying.

I really don't want to sound rude, but those sales pitches are annoying as heck. No, Susan, I am not interested in paying *insert amount* to *insert next latest rage in MLM* to secure a spot next to you on this bench in Target, harassing the heck outta people who likely did not come to Target of all places to be sold a dream. I most likely just came to escape responsibility for a moment; the paper towels, tissue, detergent, and assorted clearance items in my basket are just incidental. *chuckles*

2. I have never met a person, as in been in the physical presence of a person, who had actually made the six figures from MLM.

NOPE. Those unicorns only exist in conventions and recruiting scripts. Although I did meet a guy from Primerica one time who claimed he was some double important marketing leader. He said he was making the six figures and had vacation homes all over Georgia.

Yeah, I thought so too.

But it was nice chatting with him and his quarter-important assistant, who had achieved four figures and secured national brands in her grocery cart versus the generic stuff.

I even gave them my jumper cables when their '87 Honda Accord beat-around refused to crank in my driveway. Didn't even flinch over the river of oil they left behind.

3. They saturate social media to the point 3 of any 7 posts are trying to sell you a commitment. Not a product, a commitment.

I like my blog's reach. I legitimately have readers all over the world, and my Insta gives me a quick way to interact without too much hassle for them or me. I can comment their photos and kinda share in their lives just as they share in mine when they read or subscribe my blog.

But those MLM posts?

Go away. They're always the same--paint a picture of how this product changed your entire life, then sell it to me. (I get this part.) But then! AFTER you've hooked me for the 99.95 per month subscription, offer me a discount. (Now I'm not only hooked but practically typing in my payment info; I want this thing!) Tayè, is what we call, GOT.

Then you ruin it all by turning the life-changing product into a darn recruiting position. Your pretty IG picture with the epic smile and filter, and inspiring caption, just went all the way sour. I would have bought that thing but you turned a happy purchase into an entire commitment. Why? Why couldn't you let me treat myself?! Tayè is now, what we call, pissed.

4. They make the already-terse mom social-scape even more a minefield than it already is.

I purposely avoid these people, and I'm not ashamed or timid to admit that fact. While I fully support humans in supporting themselves, I'm not interested in joining the downline. Period. I will purchase from you, directly, no subscription. However I will not feed into a cash cow from which you will only ever taste but meager droplets of milk.

People take this sentiment rather personally. They assume that your lack of interest in their endeavor, is a lack of interest in them. WRONG-O.

When I lived in Douglasville, I had an opportunity to meet a wonderful, vibrant-spirited friend. She was sweet and her energy was just contagious. I loved her! I just knew we'd be friends for life.

*other shoe drops*

She started in with her pitch and at first, I LISTENED. I actually gave her a fair shot to see why she was so passionate about this company. It was important to her, so it was important to me to see her vision. (Aha! See, I bet you came into this looking for proof that I'm a jerk--worry, wrong chick.) I sat with her a while, over coffee and cake, and we actually discussed this Primerica thing. Not because I was thinking about it, but because she confided that her metrics were struggling and she needed some encounters.

Not only were the metrics struggling, but so was my sweet friend. Unfortunately she fell for the hype after "earning' her way to a convention. (I wish Hubby's job took us to Disney--we just get a catered meal or a picnic on the quad. Not too shabby, but Disney it is not.) She gave up her job to chase this, but realistically sales is fast or feast, and her feast period simply wasn't happening. Which brings me to the next thing...

5. THE "EMPLOYEES" OFTEN DON'T MAKE ENOUGH ONLY TO SURVIVE, from this job alone.

Y'all, I've been a single mom. (Wasn't born, married--and I certainly didn't have the opportunities then that I have now!) I know if someone presented me an opportunity to be home with my daughter even part time and still bring home the bacon, I'd jump at it.

However, the time spent in training, plus the time spent shadowing your upline, is unpaid. The time spent promoting your product online, isn't paid. There is no financial gain unless you make the sale--many times. (In my friend's scenario, the commission from her sales, the ones she pounced the pavement to secure, trickled down to no less than 5 people before she ever saw a cent!) You've taken days worth of hours to simply get started, shelling out precious funds (the additional childcare alone...oy!) as well as time you'll never get back,  WHILE not getting a salary! Other people are taking bites from your slice of the pie before it even reaches your table.

Now things are falling behind. Your family is suffering. You don't have the financial boost the company so  promised. Nah. You're even farther in the proverbial hole than when you started. Or perhaps you've decided the entire program is just too much for too little. It happens all the time, although these companies won't tell you that. They are actually very secretive about fail rates and...

6. They LIE.

These companies feed a great line about starting your own business, which you then repeat to everyone within earshot--except it isn't starting a business. The business is already well-established and you are now the next generation or wave of peons feeding it. You're paying to become a contractor of theirs. You file a 1099 form for taxes (independent contractor form). You work all these hours, yet have no benefits, your salary is commission only, and you aren't even an employee outright.

In Georgia it costs $100 to file articles of incorporation as an LLC. If you are enterprising and have the entrepreneurial bug, start a legit business. You'll work long hours without pay at first, and nothing is ever guaranteed, but isn't that better than paying to affiliate yourself with a company that does nothing for you?

...

I feel irritated when I'm approached with MLM because I make it clear that I'm not interested...and they usually keep trying. Keep pressing. Keep selling. While I can appreciate a good sales tactic, I don't like the guilting and cajoling. I don't like you using your conditional job to jab at people with real ones under the guise of riches you're not even close to seeing.

Can I make my Target run, or check my inbox, or scroll my feed, without it for a day or two? Can I rest?

More importantly, can you not try to connect with me for recruiting purposes? (I'm not interested in your downline or anyone else's.)

I'll buy your leggings or whatever because they're cute. I'll buy them if they aren't cute, because it's you! I want you to be as mom boss as possible, because I rock like that and so do you.

I can support you without joining you.

Just my thoughts.

Be agreeable to my sentiments OR mad enough to tell me off on my FB, IG, or good old-fashioned email.

PLEASE STOP Passing This Tip Around...

So...as you know, I'm a breastfeeding and pumping mama.

I pump many times a day, so any time I come across a tip or hack to make those sessions easier, I'm usually all aboard to try it. If it works, I pass it along to other moms.

One in particular irks me.

Pumping is time consuming. Exclusive pumping mamas have the added responsibility of cleaning/sterilizing bottles and pump kits in addition to feeding baby and all the parts parcel to that.

You'll be tired, needless to say, and wanting to save any time possible.

The worst tip I ever read regarding time saving?

"Refrigerate your pump kit between sessions to save time during the day or night. Just pump as usual, then put your pump kit in a freezer bag in the fridge until you need it again."

...ewww.

Theoretically it sounds ok. If there's milk in the flange, it won't go bad because it's cold. The kit is in a bag, which could be considered a semi-sterile environment.

But BECAUSE pumping is so challenging, and breastmilk is so precious, I feel a little more diligence is in order. You work hard to get those ounces! Also, because many moms who pump, do so to either effect a better supply or because for whatever reason they cannot/do not feed at the breast, it seems pointless to cut a corner that might potentially render your milk unpotable. (I.E., baby cannot consume it because it's been compromised.)

I'm sure everyone knows someone who does it and everything turns out fine. (Isn't that the base defense for most if not all "left of good" practices?)

Think about it this way.

That flange and bottle, touch your baby's milk. That milk goes right to your baby. You clean and sterilize every other thing your baby uses (I hope)--wouldn't something regarding their food be at the top of the list to be fastidious about?

Would you feed your baby from a bottle and then, to save washing time, just pop that bottle in the fridge to reuse a few more times? Would you be okay with your caregiver doing this? If you received donor milk, wouldn't you cringe a bit or seek other accommodations entirely in the name of protecting your little one from bacteria? (Looking at some of the requests in my donor groups and message boards, I KNOW you wouldn't--those requests are so specific sometimes, it's almost comical, and cleanliness SHOULD be at the top of that list because the first thing people skeeve at with donor milk is that they believe it's somehow gross.)

(Full term or not, does not matter.)

I know it's a lot of work, because it's work that I personally do. In addition to pumping for my littlest two, I am a milk donor. I wouldn't dare send out milk that had not been pumped and stored in the cleanest possible conditions. I clean, sterilize, and replace (when needed) because l believe in guarding my milk like the treasure it is.

That likely sounds drastic, but the milk goes to babies. Babies need clean, safe food just like anyone else.

Some shortcuts aren't worth it.

...and to end on a positive, there is one pump kit shortcut I employ: Keep at least two complete kits (in my case, 4) for each pump. When I'm pressed for time or need a breather, I toss one in the dishwasher and have another at the ready for backup. I don't have to wash immediately after use but still have a clean kit at the ready for my next sessions!

If that's out of price range, just keep some Medela QuickClean wipes or spray in your pump bag for quick cleanups. They remove milk residue from parts as well as bacteria, and they are alcohol free. While it doesn't absolve the responsibility of the cleaning task entirely, it makes it much quicker. Hence, a timesaver.

Just make sure you hit those parts with some soap and water, y'all. It's not that big a deal. The few minutes you save by not washing the parts in between sessions equate to not even an hour a day.

The Red Box of Happiness

Namastè,  all!

Are you elbows deep in good tidings?

As holidaisical as I am not, I look forward to them for one reason in particular...

My in-laws are Indian and Sri Lankan. They have a million beautiful festivals and traditions, especially between October and December. As they exchange greetings and pleasantries, they also exchange THE RED BOX.

The. Red. Box.

*swoon*

The coveted red box contains an assortment of the best and most loved dessert pastries and candies. (I think we can call them candies--I legit just call the box MINE 😂) Whenever a sweet aunty or uncle, or the gorgeous Ammaji and wonderful loving Appaji, comes to visit, they bring this amazing box.

...and Tayè is happy as a lark! 😍 My favorite treats are the kaju katli, gulab jamun, and jalebi, but I'm fond of each piece in the box for a myriad of different reasons. If I catch Ammaji or Appaji at a quiet moment when  the kids aren't monopolizing their hugs and attention, I snag a hug or two of my own and ask about the history of a certain piece.

Their eyes get that faraway glaze of nostalgia and they tell me about it--perhaps it's a childhood favorite, or a wedding memory. They have the best stories, but when they share their life experiences, it makes me feel so much closer to them, and the kids like listening. Nowadays we don't really get to know our grandparents as people with their own set of experiences and perspectives. We know them only as Appama or Appapa, Abuela or Abuelo--the kind, loving grandparent we adore. There's an entire layer beyond all that, and I hope my kids are learning to take full advantage of their time with them, as it's so fleeting.

Photos and selfies are great, but the shared stories and conversations, peppered with wisdom and absolute joy, don't translate across a picture. Video only captures half the story. There's just something about being in the moment that no type of recording can ever capture, but the heart never forgets.

Big get-togethers are rare at Castle Namastè--our schedules are ridiculous and everyone we would share them with lives either in the next county ... or the next country. *sighs* So this time of year, even as I'm dredging through a bout of blah, I like to make sure I'm getting everything in order so the kids can build the same wonderful memories I enjoy!

It's a tall order some days.

The red box of happiness sits on the shelf in my mini fridge though. Yes, I'm spoiled and have a personal stash! Ammaji looks out for her best girl, yes? (I'm sure she calls all of us that, but I still like it.)

The red box of happiness gives me another reason to smile.

The red box of happiness symbolizes the best parts of family--the love, happiness, and pure togetherness that brings one set from overseas, one set from New York, and other seta from all over, to celebrate one more festival.

...and eat one (or several) red boxes of happiness.

I may or may not be on my third box.

You may or may not be jealous. *chuckle* If you could come by, I'd totally share!

Just not my personal stash...those are for me.

Dammit!

You ever attend a family get-together and there's one weird branch of the tree?

Crap...it's me. *chuckles*

Growing up we always had one aunt who was way more eccentric than the rest. Her life was a glamorous mystery, shrouded in a haze of WTF and wow.

I don't think my haze is quite so magical--I just do things my way versus what's traditional.

My biological family is the typical family I guess. Bottles and rice cereal, no postpartum rest periods, and babies fed as soon as they hit six months. The moms in the fold are quick to let you know "We are a Similac family, nothing else ever worked for any baby here."

Babies go to daycare at two weeks old, it isn't uncommon to have several sitters in rotation, and as soon as they begin attending daycare, they also have overnights with relatives.

(No shade to them, just illustrating why holiday visits are so weird for me...)

And then there's me...I am a breastfeeding, baby-wearing, homeschooling, revolution-believing mama who alternates between a salwar kameez or saree or jeans and a sassy black girl magic tee. Bonus points if I've got on the dupatta or headwrap. My kids have never had sitters, they don't stay overnight anywhere without me or Dad, and I could not tell you which formula any of them could take because they've each only had breastmilk and then food.

Speaking of food...I feel like the last weirdo standing here as well. My babies aren't fed by age. They've so far been little milky monsters who had limited interest in anything but their milk until well after six months.

The reason any of this is relevant is because it's holiday season. Even though I'm NOT feeling it, I do occasionally reach out to my biological family and extend an olive twig. (Haven't worked my way up to a branch yet...Baby steps.)

I always feel like I'm under a microscope though. They tend to treat my little unit a little differently, and it irks me. We do things the way we are comfortable, but we don't force it on anyone else. I mean, sure, my kids like kale chips (ewwwwww, BTW...weirdos!) BUT they also have a crazy fondness for those little Gushers fruit snacks and will demolish a bag of Doritos in two seconds flat.

I guess my point is, most parents are NOT doing what they do to feel superior or more than the next.

Nah.

We're trying to get through the day!

Even  so, I'm still bracing for a rousing round of the following...

*You're gonna wean soon, right?
*You're going to do public school for high school though?
*Oh, a little *insert food the baby CANNOT have, because she cannot physically eat it* never hurt anyone.
*Aren't you tired of wearing them in that pouch?
*We formula feed and it was wonderful.
*We never coslept, and our kids are fine.
*Rice cereal helps them sleep!

...oy vey, we may stay home.

Seriously.

Albany Chronicles

The Albany chapter has been the single ugliest, most untalked-about chapter of my adult life. I thought the biggest part of motherhood was learning to take care of my kids and meet their needs, but it turns out there was another part that I never gave a passing thought to. I thought I had it mapped out, even if I wasn't perfect...

Backtrack, because there's a lot that happened leading to that ugly chapter that I deliberately blocked out. I need to catch you up, first, before we go hurtling into that iceberg.

After my grandma passed, my days were pretty dark. I was just like a robot--going through the motions of parenting, wife'ing, you name it, I was just doing it by reflex. I've always had some anxiety but it ramped up about twenty times when I realized I'd be going through the rest of my life without my number one supporter/teacher/guide.

Don't get me wrong, I have a good life, and I enjoy it fully. My husband is greater than the sum of wonderful. My kids are super awesome. Yet as a borderline latch key kid, even adult me has always clung to Grandma. She was my security, my safe place. She chose to mother me and give me the building blocks for life, whereas my biological parents essentially (and actually, literally) chose their own lives over creating anything beyond a framework for mine. Where they left blank spaces and question marks, Grandma filled in great memories and lessons, as well as fostered the traits that I'm sure paved the way for every success I've enjoyed over these 34 years.

...coming closer to the present day, though...

As we will all do, she passed away. Nothing has hit me harder. I still kinda lose my breath when I realize she isn't can't back. I wasn't able to sleep well in the house, despite loving it months before. I became pretty absent-minded. I became withdrawn. Nothing felt authentic, nothing felt wotely satisfying. I alternated between hiding crying jags and panic attacks from my family and being the classic over achieving super woman.

Exhausting.

There's not enough sleep to make up for how tiring that kind of life is, y'all. I can still sleep 36 hours straight, given the chance. I needed a healing, and it wasn't gonna come as long as I was still in the same spot my world caved in, leaving a big empty crater of WTF.

My husband's family is pretty deep in the hotel/convenience store business. He also has his regular career. While the two jobs paths are generally separate--we manage the store closest to us, but we don't heavily involve ourselves in much else on that side. Hubby is too busy and I just don't, because it's too demanding. We agreed that since he makes a far larger chunk of money, I would be home with the kids as much as possible. In the absence of financial strain, that means I get to be full-time WAHM. It's a privilege I don't take lightly, but it's been long fought and hard won.

Digression.

Let me drop a gem here...

"You can't outrun grief. When you arrive at your sestination, your grief will be there to greet you."

When we arrived in Albany, we had a cute house (a bit smaller than our typical digs--I like sprawling spaces) and all the plants i could tend in one lifetime. Hubby would have a commute of 30 minutes versus 3 hours. We would have our regular dinners and outings as a whole family, not just "Tayè plus kids and ever-present camera to capture moments for Dad." I was optimistic for the first time in a while, because I had a fresh canvas. I even had a shop now--one of my passions is natural hair care, and we had a building less than 3 miles from our house that I could use to open my dream salon.

Fun times. (Really.) I didn't particularly care for Albany even then,  but if there was something I could do to fill those hours previously occupied by panic attacks and crying fits, I was on board!

Didn't work out that way.

Third pregnancy was by far the most physically difficult. In Albany, my OB/GYN was essentially a belly doctor, with no concern for anything above or below the bump. Because I knew I couldn't realistically travel 3-plus hours to see my regular doctor, I tried to tough it out. After all, Healthcare providers are just that, people we hire to provide healthcare. No more, no less.

I kept that mantra until right behind hyperemesis came symphysis pubis dysfunction--which was compounded by degenerative disc disorder. At 34 years young, I was on bedrest with those wedge pillows you see in nursing homes! Because my doctor kept "forgetting" to send me to an orthopedic specialist, and my hip kept deteriorating (partly from supporting the weight of pregnancy, partly from lack of proper therapy), I was a sad case. I couldn't eat, drive, or even shower by myself because my legs were unstable. Plus hyperemesis has its own delightful effects--for me, it's hair loss and an inability to eat even the most bland, basic foods without hurling til my throat bleeds. So I couldn't manage breakfast, let alone prepare for the new addition (bless her sweet little heart, I'm so profoundly glad she escaped harm despite living in my broken, malfunctioning body) or properly parent my two bears.

Shit.

I went to Albany to escape trauma, not to meet its big brother and get bashed around on those jagged rocks too!

So...

Losing mobility which meant also losing independence, was the end of the road as far as that place was concerned. At no point had I ever been reduced to crawling around the house to care for my kids, y'all. And I legit feel robbed of a happy pregnancy experience with Tiger Lily (another post for another day) because I was so consumed with just trying to NOT fall apart, mentally, physically, or spiritually, while existing in a place where I had no friends, no outlet whatsoever.

Speaking of friends... I used to have a whole Mom tribe. I had friends, y'all.  Imagine! Except they were real people who I had no real common ground with once I hit that rocky spot. Theu were living, but I was just kinda existing. I didn't feel like my authentic self either, and I was trying to sort out what I even felt comfortable sharing. It was hard going from "the one who has it mostly together" to "the one who cries at the drop of a pin and doesn't have it in the same room, let alone having it mostly together." withdrew and withdrew til I was basically an island. It was ok at first, even if a bit lonely. If I stayed to myself, I would not have to try to curry understanding on those difficult days, or field a million questions about said bad days on the few good days. Everyone was used to me being the uplifter, the teller of like it is. The one with the plan!

Bruh. After about six weeks in Albany, the only plan I had was my afterlife and insurance policies. I was convinced my mindset plus my physical state would equal an untimely demise, probably sooner than later. (Morbid as heck, but to go from being a healthy, happy, and independent me to an unfortunately ill, depressed, and unable to even take a shower by myself me--yeah, I felt like I'd either gather some superhuman strength and magically survive OR fade away in a bitter wisp of irony.)

And no, it wasn't an image I wanted to protect. I don't have an image! I did not want to go from friend to charity case. I didn't want to dominate every chat with my issues. I didn't want those pitying smiles. So I pulled out and clammed up. Shut down my personal social media, stopped everything really.

I tried to make that place work. I hate failure, y'all. I really do. And while I'm sure the physical problems may have cropped up regardless, I still couldn't shake the feeling that I didn't need to endure them in a place I already hated. I should have taken more time to just be, versus moving 3 hours from everything remotely familiar and safe.

Again, you cannot outrun grief. Write that down. Don't forget it.

That part of motherhood I forgot to prepare for, to do?

I forgot to take care of me. I didn't address my grief the right way. I tried to push it back, hide it away till it didn't show. If nobody saw it, eventually I'd forget it too.

So I thought. Or hoped?

The tiny flame of grief can either ignite an inferno of healing OR it can incinerate everything you touch. Yet despite being a tiny flame, it never burns out. It's always there. If you feed it with the proper fuel, you can light something good. I tried to smother it, which was the absolute wrongest fuel, and it damn near torched my whole spirit.

I thought I had the tools. I'm spiritual as heck and I meditate heavily. I take care of my mental and spiritual health, as best I can.

But I needed to rely on something stronger than simple positive thinking. I needed to go home. And deal with it.

So I did.

Slow process but it's worked. I'm not broken down now. I'm legitimately happy about things and legitimately not happy about things, but neither consumes me.

I know how to take care of my kids and my home...

...and I know how to take care you entire self too. Not just the sunshine, but the rain and gloom.

To Bathe...

My kiddos have been tucked in their beds for a few shakes now. They had a quick snack, their nightly bath, and now they're snoozing. The best feeling is looking at the monitor view pad and seeing my little loves all cozy and comfy. We made it another day.

We have a routine around here, and the nightly bath is an integral part of that.

Why am I yammering about baths?

Wel, I stumbled across an article today where actress Kristen Bell shared that she had been "shamed" for not showering her sons for 4 to 5 days. They were on a camping trip, so it's natural that they didn't have access to much more than a basic field latrine. Read: porta-potty.

Because I myself have been on trail rides, camp outs, and cattle counts, I know being in the field usually means you won't get a shower for a day or maybe more. That's common. Normal. Expected. No one roughs it while lugging around some luxury bath equipment. At best, you'll get to wash in a stream. At worst, you dig a hole for your business and make do. (BAD pun.)

The comments on the article kinda grossed me out though. Here were hundreds if not thousands (I didn't read them all--it was just before bath time and I am the supervisor of that magical hour.) of women proudly announcing their days and in some cases weeks without basic hygiene.

I get it. Mommy'ing is some of the hardest, most demanding work we can undertake. It's often  thankless. We don't get time for luxurious soaks unless we have hired help--and even some of us who have help, still don't get an hour or two to loaf around because we're either at work or in the trenches with our hired nannies and sitters.

...but to just not wash?

Nah, I can't. 

I know all about immunity building and proper skin care. I know soaps can be very drying. I know the average infant or toddler who does not spend large clusters of time outside the home, exposed to multiple strains of who-knows, does not require a full sanitization every ten minutes. I know newborns don't need much bathing at all, save the wipe-downs and sponge-offs needed to keep them fresh and comfy.

I also know that "not bathing" thing is NOT for my family. We don't get into bed in clothes we've worn outside, and we wash at each day's end. Because of the nature of my husband's job (he's around people and their germs all day every day), he washes as soon as he comes in every evening. As for the kids, we give them baths at night to help them relax for bed (beats drugging them with supplements, inebriating them with essential oils, or fighting the nighttime fussies) as well as let them burn the last bit of energy from the day.

We don't toss them in the tub even ten minutes. That'd be crazy. We don't freak out if a child falls asleep before bathtime and is too tired to get a wash.

But again...

I don't comprehend how a person can be comfortable just kinda festering in their own dirt.

Before anyone points out the various reasons I can't speak on it, allow me to say this:

If I don't have time to wash myself, I don't have time to be on Facebook or any other social media. I don't have time to defend my choice. I don't have time for something as basic as simple hygiene, so I don't have time to chew the fat about why it's cool or okay.

Of course,  now someone will point out the fact that my husband is a present, active figure.

This is true, BUT he works 16 OR MORE hours per day. When he gets in, he does help out with whatever childcare chores remain. But I generally prefer he rest. After all, he's bringing home the bacon. I work as well, but my work is in the glorious home, which allows me to be the primary caregiver for the darling kids. It's demanding and I work the same 16 OR MORE hours per day--but I can take a nap or go to the playground during my shift. He can't, such is life. He's simply not home enough for anyone to throw up the "but your husband helps you get a breather" card.

I guess the lack of hygiene thing irks me because the newer parenting trends seem to lean toward dressing the kids up, but not really raising them up. If they aren't taught cultural norms like hygiene and manners, how will they navigate life beyond the crib?

Moms are so busy trying to have boozy popsicles and Pinterest-perfect nurseries and dinners, or Instagram-shattering lifestyles, that we are losing sight of what we have been so blessed to do: raise these kids!

It's a heavy crown being responsible for fostering and forming another person's entire belief system, from anders to hygiene to work ethic, but let's wash our hair and do it anyway.

To Bathe...

My kiddos have been tucked in their beds for a few shakes now. They had a quick snack, their nightly bath, and now they're snoozing. The best feeling is looking at the monitor view pad and seeing my little loves all cozy and comfy. We made it another day.

We have a routine around here, and the nightly bath is an integral part of that.

Why am I yammering about baths?

Wel, I stumbled across an article today where actress Kristen Bell shared that she had been "shamed" for not showering her sons for 4 to 5 days. They were on a camping trip, so it's natural that they didn't have access to much more than a basic field latrine. Read: porta-potty.

Because I myself have been on trail rides, camp outs, and cattle counts, I know being in the field usually means you won't get a shower for a day or maybe more. That's common. Normal. Expected. No one roughs it while lugging around some luxury bath equipment. At best, you'll get to wash in a stream. At worst, you dig a hole for your business and make do. (BAD pun.)

The comments on the article kinda grossed me out though. Here were hundreds if not thousands (I didn't read them all--it was just before bath time and I am the supervisor of that magical hour.) of women proudly announcing their days and in some cases weeks without basic hygiene.

I get it. Mommy'ing is some of the hardest, most demanding work we can undertake. It's often  thankless. We don't get time for luxurious soaks unless we have hired help--and even some of us who have help, still don't get an hour or two to loaf around because we're either at work or in the trenches with our hired nannies and sitters.

...but to just not wash?

Nah, I can't. 

I know all about immunity building and proper skin care. I know soaps can be very drying. I know the average infant or toddler who does not spend large clusters of time outside the home, exposed to multiple strains of who-knows, does not require a full sanitization every ten minutes. I know newborns don't need much bathing at all, save the wipe-downs and sponge-offs needed to keep them fresh and comfy.

I also know that "not bathing" thing is NOT for my family. We don't get into bed in clothes we've worn outside, and we wash at each day's end. Because of the nature of my husband's job (he's around people and their germs all day every day), he washes as soon as he comes in every evening. As for the kids, we give them baths at night to help them relax for bed (beats drugging them with supplements, inebriating them with essential oils, or fighting the nighttime fussies) as well as let them burn the last bit of energy from the day.

We don't toss them in the tub even ten minutes. That'd be crazy. We don't freak out if a child falls asleep before bathtime and is too tired to get a wash.

But again...

I don't comprehend how a person can be comfortable just kinda festering in their own dirt.

Before anyone points out the various reasons I can't speak on it, allow me to say this:

If I don't have time to wash myself, I don't have time to be on Facebook or any other social media. I don't have time to defend my choice. I don't have time for something as basic as simple hygiene, so I don't have time to chew the fat about why it's cool or okay.

Of course,  now someone will point out the fact that my husband is a present, active figure.

This is true, BUT he works 16 OR MORE hours per day. When he gets in, he does help out with whatever childcare chores remain. But I generally prefer he rest. After all, he's bringing home the bacon. I work as well, but my work is in the glorious home, which allows me to be the primary caregiver for the darling kids. It's demanding and I work the same 16 OR MORE hours per day--but I can take a nap or go to the playground during my shift. He can't, such is life. He's simply not home enough for anyone to throw up the "but your husband helps you get a breather" card.

I guess the lack of hygiene thing irks me because the newer parenting trends seem to lean toward dressing the kids up, but not really raising them up. If they aren't taught cultural norms like hygiene and manners, how will they navigate life beyond the crib?

Moms are so busy trying to have boozy popsicles and Pinterest-perfect nurseries and dinners, or Instagram-shattering lifestyles, that we are losing sight of what we have been so blessed to do: raise these kids!

It's a heavy crown being responsible for fostering and forming another person's entire belief system, from anders to hygiene to work ethic, but let's wash our hair and do it anyway.

Happy Day!

I am seeing an orthopedic doctor ASAP.

Why's that happy?

Well, because I need this hip replaced/repaired.

In my family runs a gene for degenerative joint disorder. That gene is present and unfortunately dominant/active with me. I would normally have been on top of it much sooner, as in not waiting months to get it addressed.

This ties back to my former OB in a big way. Remember I was posting about how we (women in particular but everyone) have to keep pushing when we know what we feel but doctors keep dismissing it?

Around the 8th month of pregnancy 3, what had been written  off as round ligament pain and hormones was finally diagnosed as symphysis pubis dysfunction. (That's where relaxin causes your pelvis to spread too soon. It happens naturally before delivery, but in SPD it occurs too early and leaves the patient in pain and in bad cases, unable to bear weight on the pelvis--which includes walking.)

The pelvic pain was one thing--but my right hip was an entirely different matter. It got to the point where I could hear my bone grinding when I walked. (This is a symptom of SPD as well--but SPD does not involve your hip. The pain can radiate, but radiant pain does not cause audible cracking and popping of a joint.) The bone burned, and it kind felt like the joint was made of velcro! It would stick and catch whenever I was bold enough to walk.

Somewhere after week 30, I took to crawling around the house. I couldn't bear standing on the leg any more than absolutely crucial. I couldn't drive. I couldn't get down in the tub for those warm soaks my doctor recommended.

And it was depressing. I lost so much mobility and quality of life in those last weeks. No cooking. No baking. No running around with the kids. I couldn't do any outings with them. And when hubby had to work longer hours, I'd be in bed hating every second.

Anxiety had its way with me. What if I couldn't walk anymore? What if the pain, which was in a class all by itself, never went away??? Early 30s is a bit young to be worrying about all that. Especially when my kids are still young and fairly needy.

I woke up one day. It was a Sunday. Right before Halloween. My hip had spasmed all the previous night, felt like a dang bowling ball. It was hard to the touch and I felt like I'd been running all night although I had literally not moved from my pillow nest. (I gave up sleeping in my bed by this point--too hard to get in and out of it.)

We went to the ER. (No choice, as I  couldn't even move.)

...and a doctor finally listened. She did not do x-rays due to my pregnancy (they are safe in certain instances but she opted to forgo them, and I appreciated the concern). She took a detailed history of what I was dealing with! including how I had to crawl and roll to get around in the house, and the cracking and grinding in my hip.

As it turns out, the cracking and grinding was my actual hip and not an imaginary hormone hallucination. The cartilage had worn down. She could feel the friction just by touching my leg as I tried to move. What's more, she actually heard it. The hip is a ball-and-socket joint (think your shoulder) and should move freely and fluidly through its range of motion, but I could only move my leg directly forward and directly back (like a hinge joint--think a door, or your knee) without a jolt of pain. Because I was being monitored, she could read the spikes in my heart rate from moving. She also noted that my blood pressure readings were elevated, quite likely due to pain. (It literally hurts all day, every day--even at rest.)

...and I was honest with her. She asked why I hadn't gotten treatment before now and I told her, because my doctor is generally only concerned with my pregnancy. If it's not a direct effect of that, I don't get any airtime.

...and nowwwwww we wait! I have never been so excited to know I might be facing a painful recovery.

Key word: RECOVERY.

...Because I Am A Whole Person, NOT A Portal or Means to An End

So...

I've begun the process of unpacking all the "baggage" from my third pregnancy. Compared to the first two rounds, it was much harder on me emotionally. Physically, I had my discomforts for sure--a hyperemesis gravidarium stint worse than any I've had before, a traumatic season of life events, and anxiety that sorta complicated everything else. I could manage those fine.

It was the feeling, and actuality, that the person I trusted to care for me and the little bean, did not at all.

While I pride myself on being the easy, pleasant patient, I also make a point to be well-read and informed about my health. I read medical journals. I follow research. I try to stay in tune with myself. Probably most importantly, I stay the heck away from Google when something is amiss! I also have an advantageous professional background, having worked in the field for a few years, not so many years ago. This coupled with my hubby's experience means I have a great grasp of what doctors do, as well as what they should not do. And I know how to advocate, to use my voice to make sure I'm getting the care I need.

As such, I have often been called the dream patient. I've never had an issue with doctors before, because even as I advocate for me, I respect their position. (I've never been a doctor, for clarification--while nursing is its own difficult, the two jobs do not exactly compare.)

Before I get too far into it, let's be clear: My former OB was never mean to me. In fact, he and his staff were amazing. They would always be warm and welcoming, even playing with my toddler and entertaining him during my appointments. The practice felt more like a visit with friends than a medical building.

But maybe that's where the problem began.

Because they were so kind and warm, I was reluctant to entertain the idea that my OB was not really listening. Not just failing to listen, but failing to care for or about the woman carrying the baby he'd been tapped to monitor and deliver.

My anxiety was written off as simple hormones and stress. Not unbelievabale--I was setting up base in a different town, away from everyone I knew, to open a new busimess. In addition to number 3 (now known as Tiger Lily), I had two other kiddos to care for; my husband works crazy long hours so it's often just me with a side of cute small fries. When I asked the good doctor to refer me to a counselor or a doula, I was told I didn't need those Hollywood things and to just relax, that my pregnancy needn't be a production with an extensive cast.

When I developed symphysis pubis dysfunction--a condition where the hormone relaxin softens the pelvic ligaments and joints to prepare for delivery. My body did not adjust well to this new stretchiness and responded with hip, lower back, and pelvic girdle pain that left me walking side to side when I was able to at all. Good doctor didn't see an issue with this. Again, written off as a normal discomfort. Didn't hesititate to try to ply me with pills to shut me up though. I'd never heard of SPD and was only properly diagnosed once I transferred to a doctor 3 hours away.

My hyperemesis was not taken seriously until I lost 15 pounds. I was a sad, sad sight--dark circles, skin and bones. I was done. This was the final straw for me, and I transferred back to my doctors in Atlanta. It's one thing to ignore my discomfort, but if I couldn't eat or get nourishment, there was no way my little bean could thrive. Babies draw their nourishment from us, and my reserves were tapped out. (Admittedly I still have nightmares of my little bean in there, starving, meanwhile instead of the IV nourishment my doctor shoves pills down my throat so "it won't hurt.")

Anxiety, sure--I've lived with it for a couple years now and can manage. I have resources and know when to draw on them. The SPD? NOT a common occurrence for me but I'm fine with a wild card as long as I can get what I need to deal with it. (In this case, some actual treatment--turns out I had a severe case of SPD as well as degenerative joint disease in my hip, and would need surgery to even address the latter.)

The hyperemesis, I could not play around with, as it has always led to hospitalizations and bed rest for me. IV nutrition and anti-nausea meds delivered through a port, via a pump, which I've always gotten no later than the 14th week. I desperately wanted to avoid a hospital stay, but even with a late yet intensive course of actual treatment, I was still too far behind my usual curve to not end up admitted for inpatient care.

The good doctor took it personally upon finding out I would be delivering elsewhere. Had I stayed in Albany, there would be a chance that he'd end up delivering my baby anyway, as only one hospital has labor and delivery. That meant either he or his colleagues would still be responsible for me and my bean at some point, and that was a risk I simply refused to take. Thanks to his lack of concern and ability to make me feel as if I were overreacting, whiny, or both, I needed to get out.

Anxiety does not directly affect the baby unless it is unhecked. SPD has no bearing on a pregnancy besides potentially debilitating the mom. But hyperemesis...that can be deadly for both baby and mom.

So, after a particularly harrowing visit where my blood was lost and my blood sugar readings were erased from my pump, I threw in the towel.

Why wait?

I waited because I needed to be sure my anxiety wasn't driving me toward hypersensitivity over the new doctor. I didn't want to make unnecessary waves. I didn't want to be a fuss bucket. I didn't want to go through a pregnancy and delivery three hours away from my family.

Why leave that practice, then? Couldn't I just grin and bear it?

I transferred because I didn't want to suffer any more missed diagnoses or patronization. I didn't want to suffer period. I didn't want me or my little bean to die.

My husband was more than happy to come back to Atlanta with me. The kids just wanted their real mom back, and a healthy baby sister.

That doctor in Albany treated me as a portal, a means to a delivery. I was not a person, just a vessel for a baby. I'm pretty sure our outcome would be more than grim had I not stood up and spoke out.

I'm NOT just a portal. My baby was not just a number.

Toxic Masculinity

May I take a moment to express a thing that bothers me lately?

I'm not really one to be bugged by people, as I've never had a problem sending them on their merry way.

As you very well know, my little guy, my Bop-Bop, my Bud, is almost 3. (Time,  you can slow down any minute...getting out of hand here with the birthdays, sheesh.) But before I digress and start crying because my little boy is getting so big...

He's the best little boy in the world, full of wonder and surprises and noise...and dirt. I really dig his little personality. He's strong, he's swift, and he's really carving out his own niche. (He's outbumbered--there are more girls in our house now, thanks to our tiebreaker Miss Tiger Lily.)

He's also the perfect mix of big boy and snuggle booplesnoot.

While I haven't steered him toward any particular interest set, he loves his cars and Mickey. He likes watching the school buses in the mornings. He enjoys a good dirt fest with his Tonka trucks. Also, it's a good thing I'm not particularly afraid of critters because he loves bringing me different bugs and things to identify when we're outside. (It's perhaps a better thing that I'm willing to chase said critters for a pic or two, because if he can't get to them, he expects me to!)

On the other hand, he loves to snuggle and read a story or ten. He likes being in the kitchen. He enjoys a good yoga sesh, although he's only just learning poses besides downward dog. And he is an emerging empath--if he senses sadness or pain in any of us, he feels it too and will cry of his hugs and sugars don't help.

He's everything I dreamed a son would be. I wouldn't change a thing, even that hot little temper he's got.

But what irks me badly is, when an adult tries to foist their views of masculinity and/or what a kid should be like...

...on a kid who doesn't flipping belong to them!!!

I have this discussion a lot with a member of our circle. He isn't some hard ass dude himself, actually, which confuses me a LOT. (He isn't "girly," but he is a far cry from tough, and he's a good bit more sensitive than most men.) He has a difficult time NOT telling my boyo to not cry, and he seems to forget that the kid is a person entitled to the same feelings he himself has.

Needless to say it pisses my grits.

One, he doesn't have any biological kids, so while it's for the most part appreciated, his input and opinions--along with those of anyone besides me, hubby, and kid in question--simply do not matter.

Two, he's not necessarily the example for the behavior he seems to expect. He doesn't just accept what people say, he expresses his stuff whether anyone wants to hear it or not, and he doesn't embody a lot of the traits the average man holds dear. (As a woman, I can't judge--I only know what makes a woman, and even that varies by lifestyle and experience. I've only lived my own story so who am I to dictate?!)

That's not a jab or trash talk at him, just an example. Because of how he was raised, that's the masculinity he thinks is correct. Even though he himself doesn't display the traits, he feels that he can impress them upon the male kids he's around.

He's a great dude but misguided.

There's no space for toxic masculinity here.

1. Boys can cry.

2. Boys can express their feelings.

3. Boys do NOT have to automatically be rough and tumble, dirt and rumble.

4. Boys do NOT have to conform to some archaic model of masculinity.

5. Boys are HUMAN, FIRST. Quit projecting your own insecurities about your masculinity,  or lack thereof, on kids who are barely old enough to know. They're not puppets.

I'm not a gender neutral parent by a long shot. I jist know my limitations. As a woman, I know I can't really direct my son in the ways of dudeness. I'm cool with that. My primary job is not to project what I think a man does, but to raise a decent human. I know exactly what decent humans do, from personal application!

He's got his dad for that dudeness.

His dad totally rocks that shit, too. He's a hard-working, strong, honest, fair person. He believes in earning his way. He doesn't wait for an opportunity--he creates them. While we have definitely had our share of struggles, he's never voluntatily left me to the dogs or watched me fumble through a problem.

THAT'S the kind of masculinity I want to embosom to my son. I hope he always creates his own way, and I hope he is never too timid, too stubborn, or too lazy to realize that won't be easy. I hope he has the perseverance to get it on his feet versus live on his knees.

*sighs*

Right now, he's navigating the seas of toddlerhood as he approaches preschooler-dom. That's enough for his little Mickey plate, for now. He's got his whole life to define what kind of man he's gonna be. I just declare it's a good one, that he'll be more than a talker--after all, it's the walkers who run, and change, the world. Not the ones who merely have opinions about it.

Being a man is a lot more than thunderous voices and muscles. There's no manual for it. Even with my hopes and dreams, and Dad's guidance, Bop-Bop will have to sail those seas for himself.

As a woman I still adamantly affirm that I can't say what makes a man. I can just avoid what I know makes a toxic one. I can keep those at bay, because children emulate what they see, NOT what they hear.

Adults do as well, whether we own it or not. Why else do people still need to look at the GPS screen when the directions are audible?!

Why I DON'T Want to Know Your Stance On...

Circumcision.

I don't want to know what decision you've made about your son's anatomy. I don't want to discuss why you did it. I don't even care, because it's your son, not mine.

By the same token, I won't be engaging any conversation about my own kid in that regard.

I do have opinions and such. It's almost impossible not to! I read the pamphlets and brochures and talked to the pediatricians. It's all over every mommy message board and group, and discussed at play group with the same casual segues as current gossip.

...can we say, "Weird as shit?"

(I don't apologize for cuss words. Judging me for the occasional emergency word says more about you than it does about me.)

I discuss coffee. I discuss potty training. I discuss breastfeeding. I discuss food--all the foods, yums. But I don't discuss my son's penis. I don't compare it to other babies' penises. That would be creepy at best and pedophilic at worse, and that's exactly how those conversations and arguments ring as far as my opinion goes.

I don't get why it's cool to discuss something that personal. It isn't even your body, it's your kid's! You're literally posting (and probably arguing) with total strangers about why you like a mushroom or a turtleneck. Doesn't it feel kinda awkward to discuss your kid's penis anyway? In most forums I've seen, the majority of the ones speaking won't even refer to it by its actual name.

It isn't a peen. It isn't a whacker. It's a PENIS.

UGH.

Do it or don't, that's fine either way. (I wouldn't dare judge you. Especially since I won't let you tell me anyway. *chuckles*) But the need to trumpet it is just creepy to me.

But an online forum isn't the best place to get help making a decision like that. And most people share their stories to sway you their way.

Just ask a nurse or pediatrician, WELL BEFORE DELIVERY, and weigh your options.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T and How We Embosom It To OUR Part of Generation Now

*cues the late great Aretha Franklin*

Respect is a huge topic. With regard to raising little ones, it's possibly divisive as well. Many argue that recent generations have no respect, are entitled, etc. (I definitely see this--remember, I'm 34! While the body still bangs and the melanin still pops, I'm still a fair bit older [and thankfully a lotta bit wiser] than I appear.)

But before we can even teach respect, we have to break down what it is we're really instilling. See, it goes a lot deeper than "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am." And it doesn't equal total, blind compliance with whatever they're told.

Today's culture is a hypersensitive mess. People are inclined more toward pity, coddling, and participation points than anything substantial, and it's down to a lack of respect. Words like shame, trigger, and bully get tossed around too freely now. In a culture that promotes excess, nudity, and ignorance, society has basically become a rave at which the more practical, modest, intelligent are not welcome. If you're willing to show enough skin, be outlandish enough, or pretend your thought chamber is empty enough, you'll make it BIG, right?

Depends on what you're willing to concede.

We don't want our kids to concede their respect--that from others but most importantly and specifically, that which they have been raised to have for and within themselves--so we have to work at it daily. We've got a boy and two girls, and respect is a coin we constantly press both sides of to make sure they don't just get it, but embosom it, believe it, and keep it.

In our house, we don't subscribe to what's popping outside. The stuff we can't shield them from--what we call the microwave society--is not swept away, but instead counteracted with what we call the home cooking. The home cooking has three elements, which combine and overlap in a brew called RESPECT. The "magic" elements are: consent, assertiveness, and awareness.

I don't have to tell you what a big deal consent is, especially in the current climate. We must inculcate the principle of autonomy and the idea that consent about their bodies and personal space is theirs to give and/or rescind at any time without consequence or repercussion to them. They don't have to give hugs. If something belongs to them, they aren't required to share it. If they say NO, whatever they are refusing (within reason obviously--health, safety, and hygiene aren't negotiable) must and WILL stop. They don't have to go with anyone they aren't comfortable with, and in the event they are out on a social call and request to come home or be picked up, Dad and I do not hesititate. They are being taught that their boundaries are to be respected--and also that they must extend this same diligence to others.

Assertiveness is my favorite. See, I was a very shy child. I didn't make much fuss and I generally went along with whatever was happening because I didn't like to make waves. I'm raising my kids to be the exact inverse of that. They are to speak up. If they aren't content, they can let us know. They can say NO without being punished, even (or perhaps especially?) to adults. They have/are developing the confidence to assert their stances and advocate for their own interests. They are not allowed to be little Barbarians, but we definitely do not encourage pushover behavior. They aren't allowed to go along to get along. They won't be the next participants in generation Boot Lick. Because they are being equipped now to deal with others in a productive manner, I might not have to die of embarrassment from them resorting to name-calling instead (I would seriously, almost literally pass away if one of inexpensive ever uttered or typed SNOWFLAKE) of stating confirmed facts and moving along. One can, and does, hope.

Lastly, the kids have to be aware. They need to be educated on their rights and fully ready to exercise them. Too many times we think respectful kids just go along with the program. We don't like for them to disagree or buck the establishment so to speak. So we punish or chide them into compliance. A child who is respectful does not necessarily equal a child who just goes along. Personally I think that "go along, do exactly as told without question, EVER" is brainwashing at best, abuse at worst.

...so no, I haven't raised my kids to be that way.

When kids have a good grasp of how consent, assertiveness, and awareness work, they are also generally respectful. How?

Because when they know and understand how to properly apply these qualities for themselves, they can't help but simultaneously apply them for others! My kids won't likely be bashing around like a bull I'm a china shop where another kid is concerned, because they won't equate that as "how things go."

Again, one can (and does) hope.