YES, My Son Has Long Hair. NO, Your Input Isn't Needed or Wanted.

Namaste!


As back to school season charges forth, I'm meeting the wave and getting into the swing of it all by attending activities and enrichment programs with my kiddos. We homeschool, but we still get out quite a bit for socialization. (For those who always mention that particular bullet point to homeschoolers--knock it off, because those of us with well-rounded curricula do actually socialize our kids. Plus, they don't do that lab rat state testing the public school kids lose their marbles over each year. NYAH! *raspberries*)


Maturity lapse aside...


We hang out at least two days a week. We do our lessons in the morning. Or afternoon on storytime day, which is each Tuesday.


So I dress the kiddos, load up the truck, and off we go. For the most part, our interactions with people are pleasant. We smile and chat, or run around the park.


"She is such a spry little thing!"


*needle scratch*


Because my tween is about as far from spry as a person can be without being actually comatose, and Tiger Lily is too small to be considered spry or even mobile, I know immediately it's happened again. *face palm*


You've overlooked the athletic gear, in masculine colors. You've completely ignored the shirt that reads, BEST BROTHER EVER.


Yep, You zeroed in on his ponytail.


My son has a beautiful floof of curly hair. Because he won't be getting it cut until HE decides it's time, I keep it pulled back most of the time. When he's running around playing and being a toddler, I usually just wrap it in a ponytail or tuck it in a man bun so it doesn't get into his eyes. While that hair flip he does is absolutely to die for, I figure he probably wants to play unfettered, unbothered by his wayward curls.


He isn't wearing bows or embellishments of any kind. His hair band is black. There aren't any intricate parts or style techniques that would suggest he's anything but a boy with a ponytail instead of a Cesar.


I get aggravated by people who assume little boys with hair are effeminate. If a woman has short hair, the average human won't run around saying that woman "wants to be a boy" or "looks like a guy." Nope.


It's problematic to me because it's usually either men who aren't exactly shining examples of masculinity themselves OR women with hair envy.


His hair is long because he actually likes it. His hair is long because I like it. His hair is long because not only am I not willing to force a haircut onto a toddler, but because I'm also willing to maintain it.          


I'm not willing to hear anyone's misinformed conjectures about it though.


Save that and massage it into your scalp--then you too, can have luxurious curls. *chuckle*

Differences

Namaste!


Happy Monday!


We are getting ready for story time. (It's actually tomorrow, but I'm doing laundry today and will be going over the rules and such throughout the day so my little guy is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.


One thing I love about our area is the diversity. There are families across the board--different nationalities and races. The income level is the same, but kids generally don't care who's mom or dad has a 401K Because our little corner is a fairly well-appointed piece of the Georgia pie, our local library is pretty sweet. It's accessible, which means all the kids can participate and enjoy. It's colorful and fun and just a really neat little place!


As such, my son has gotten the opportunity to meet and mingle with a very adorable circle of kiddos.


In particular, his friend Florence and her rock star mommy.


Florence is my little guy's favorite playmate here. She's not much bigger than he, and they get along really well. They play with trucks. They race the matchbox cars on the little city rug. They even sit together at snack time.


They have a good time, and it's completely organic. They were never "pushed" to sit together. It just sorta happened, and when the kids expressed a preference for the little red chair and the little yellow chair, we just let them be great.


This isn't even a spectacular tale--well, unless you look at the facts behind the faces. As you know, my little guy is two. (Almost two and a half!) Florence is almost nine.


*needle scratch*


Yep. They are almost seven years apart. They're also roughly the same size--Florence is a tiny wisp of a girl.


SO how is it that they are together at storytime?


Florence is autistic. She is homeschooled, and in addition to knowing her mom from co-op, we also meet up at storytime. (We go to the library once a week, and Florence and her mom are there on the same day!) Because Florence understands the same things my little guy does, at the same level, it is a unique opportunity for her to get social development and just have some fun without worrying too much about "fitting in" or "Standing out."


My little guy LOVES Florence. They have little conversations and do high fives. They are both into
Word Party and Daniel Tiger.


But the real reason I mentioned Florence is because her mom is a rock star.


See, she shoulders a heavy load when it's time to introduce her princess to new people. Florence does not speak much. She is very shy. Because Florence is so small in stature, she's often not treated like an equal by the kids in her therapy groups. Sometimes her mom lets people think she is younger, to avoid the judgment from her size and to avoid all the tips and advice people unload on parents of autistic kids.


Admittedly, I'm impressed by her because when we met her, she did the coolest thing ever.


She introduced Florence by saying, "This is my Florence. She doesn't like to be called Flo."


As we chatted, she did eventually tell me about Florence's autism, and how it has affected her. I learned about their days and all the therapies Florence receives to make sure she is as ready for the world as possible.


She didn't bumrush me with all that at once, though. She let me meet her kid first. Not the diagnosis.


I am never intimidated by a child who looks, acts, or is different than mine. I am, however, intimidated by moms and dads who introduce the condition first, then their kid. Instead of telling me little Terry likes cars and trucks like my kid, they're giving me a rundown of all the ways Terry is NOT like my kid.


It's important to know--but are they raising a condition or a child? Is my child meeting Terry, or is my child meeting autism, ADHD, and bipolar disorder?


The only disability we contend with is a physical one, so I can't say I'm well-versed in knowing what those parents deal with in their day to day interactions with "normal" families. (Is there such a thing?) I won't dare compare our physical therapy to their intensive occupational, speech, and physical therapy. I won't compare my anxiety over milestones to their absolute frenzy about mastering simple day to day activities. It would not be fair.


One, because I don't believe it's a competition--I don't even WANT to win the contest for saddest mom story or most challenged kid. I really just wanna develop a mom circle, hang out, and hopefully our village can raise kids who aren't total assholes.


Florence's mom is the mom I wish all special needs moms could be. I know she has her troubles and worries (will Florence be able to have independence? Will she be able to follow her dreams? Will she know how to navigate life in the event her mom is not there anymore?) , as we've spoken about them. We talk a lot, actually, and I find that while she definitely has a set of worries unique to her situation, she's no different than any other mom.


She wants her child to be successful. She wants her child to be happy. She wants her child to be healthy. She wants her child to enjoy childhood, while preparing her for adulthood.


In my travels, I've run across a lot more parents like the fictional Terry's, than the very real Florence. And it's always on my mind to ask them why, except they've already martyred themselves and I don't want to add on to that. I almost feel like it isn't my place to say anything, although I'm quite sure they would have an easier time if they could relax a tad.


The thing I admire most about Florence's mom is her willingness to let the world see a child first. While it's not easily overlooked that Florence is different, it's also not the thing that jumps out at you. I noticed her neon green sweater first. (She wears a sweater most times because she likes the feeling of the fuzzy material on her arms.) It's really bright--like the smile she flashes when you acknowledge her favorite item. She also has more cars than dolls in her backpack, which makes her a rockstar in my son's eyes. He has cars in his backpack too!


I'm not blind to the differences in kids. I see and acknowledge each as it arises. I know that even if you took 10 kids born at the exact same time on the exact same day in the exact same hospital and cataloged their personalities, you would STILL end up with ten different people. Some differences are physical. Some are developmental. Some are practically invisible.


...BUT ALL ARE DUE, THE SAME DIGNITY.


Which starts with the way we introduce them. The way we treat them. No one can see strength when all you point out is weakness.


Just my thoughts!

Gratitude Attitude!

... not difficult to do, but nearly impossible to have a peaceful home without.

For all my outspoken-ocity and brass, manners are a big deal to me.

Note: For the record, being outspoken or ballsy does not necessarily equate to being rude. Even as I'm making my opinions known, I still choose what I deem the appropriate time and place to share those opinions. That's tact as well as polite. Digression, complete.

A cornerstone of manners is gratitude. Gratitude itself cannot exist without humility. Neither is a congenital trait.

As you might know, 2015 rained its little piddle cloud on Family Namastè. We utook losses left and right, beginning with a fire that gutted our home and left us scrambling to put together some semblance of normalcy.

Because we had only the clothes on our backs, we had to adjust quickly. When I tell you it was difficult?!

We were insured--every loss was compensated. It was just hard to be thankful or even mildly grateful when we woke up that morning with a beautiful home and our own EVERYTHING, only to be left with nothing mere hours later. There were only a few items salvageable from that house. None of which made a huge difference besides sentimental value, to be honest.

... which is where my family and I had to be humble and show gratitude. We also had to toughen up a bit. While we don't love a particularly glam life (we have our moments), it felt like we got knocked down six or seven pegs.

Let me tell you--it is a beyond bitter pill to feel pitied. We've always worked hard for everything we have, and we've never taken handouts, so it was extremely hard for us to accept anything from our inner circle. We weren't being prideful peacocks...

...but to go from having our own things that we chose and paid for, to politely sifting though kind (and extremely generous--our circle is wonderful) donations for that day's outfit or shoes, was a really tough dose. I was heavily pregnant with Brother Bear too: enter, hormones. I cried way more tears than I care to admit. And I felt badly for doing so, because while we lost everything, we still had what mattered. We never wondered where we'd be resting our heads and we never missed a meal. We landed at this ultra posh spot in Atlanta, so I felt so convicted for weeping in my creme brulée.

The hotel room was super nice, but even the pretty views of Buckhead couldn't take my mind off the house on the mountain. And where would we even settle next?! I wanted our home, not someone else's. I didn't want to get used to new surroundings or new neighbors. I didn't want to be living in someone else's memories.

Again, I had to check myself. While I wasn't in my home, I still had one, or at least a base. While the kids weren't nestled in their own adorable bedrooms at night, they were sleeping in a safe, comfortable space. I wasn't whipping up my usual homemade meals and treats in my own beautiful kitchen--but one, I wasn't starving and two, it is seriously difficult to not enjoy resting your laurels in a place where practically any food can be delivered!

No, it wasn't a vacation. (You lose a bag on vacation, not your entire house.)

I had to get over myself and my plans.

The universe laughs at plans.

It's obviously a bit easier to look back on those days now. (And no, it didn't take us experiencing a season of loss for us to appreciate what we had or even what we rebuilt and have now.) In the thick of it, I had to count it all handled and keep my game face up because I knew our princess was watching, feeding off our reactions as she processed everything.

Sometimes people would remind us that it could be worse--we could be grieving loss of life instead of loss of items. We could be uninsured! It could be worse. Instead of weeping into that delicious dessert at the W, I could have been crying it out at the bus stop.

I didn't need those reminders. I just needed to decompress and process what was going on, so I could handle the needful.

Fast forward to now...

I'm definitely walking in my gratitude attitude.

It took me a long time. I had a lot of hurt to let go of, and a lot of unresolved anger to wade through. I hated feeling like I was being punished for trying--my husband and I had put in hundreds of hours and thousands on thousands of dollars to live where we did, as we did. We both worked our butts off. We spread good karma whenever we could, so it didn't make sense that we were in such a snowball effect of misery. Couldn't the rain cloud shift for just a moment?

It did.

Turns out, approaching things with gratitude has made the journey easier, even if the practice isn't.

When I'm inconvenienced, I still have to takea moment to refocus. I still have to check my collar when my patience wears thin. Lately I'm way more zen, partly because I've learned to have a chill pill.

Not an actual pill...just some gratitude.

Now...let me go exercise this gratitude attitude while I'm in traffic! I have to make a Publix run to stock up for the tot soccer pizza party. *heart eyes*

Namastè!

♡ Tayè K.

Ice Pops! (A Fun Summer Recipe)

Namastè!

It's HOTTTTTTTT.

Seriously.

The sun is teabagging Georgia. *chuckle*

Because I can't stay in the Tayè Cave all summer, I decided to pull out some of my favorite standbys for staying cool. One of those is the classic ice pop.

While most people just freeze whatever juice they have available, I like to go a bit more festive with ours.

What's abundant during summertime,  besides sunshine and warm days?

Fruit!

Today my sweet Brother Bear (ah, can't I just call him Baby Namastè still?! Never mind we have another baby who's actually still a baby...I wasn't ready for him to grow into a toddler yet!) had the time of his life riding his trike. Because it's super warm, I figured this would be a good day to introduce him to one of my favorite things.

To make our version of ice pops, all you need is:

☆ An ice pop tray (We got ours at Walmart for a dollar and it holds 8 pops!)
☆ 2 cups fresh fruit (We recently had strawberries and cherries!)
☆ 1 quick dash of lemon juice
☆ blender or food chopper

(For variety, we sometimes add: almond milk, coconut milk, shredded coconut, pieces of dried fruit for texture [only for older toddlers and up!], coffee [for my latte pops lol--no kids allowed], vanilla chips, chocolate chips...go wild!)

I don't add sugar to ours, but you can of course.

Taste your fruit to be sure it is sweet--I like to use the sweeter bits for ice pops so I could skip the sugar. Blend the fruit til it's pureed.

Stir in your add-ins.

Once everything is mixed, pour it into your ice pop tray.

I sit our tray on a cookie sheet and put it in the deep freeze for at least two hours.

Then...we eat. There's a pic of my little Big Brother Bear on FB, enjoying his trike and ice pop.

Namastè!

-- Tayè K.

Age Differences...

...can really suck.

The summer has settled upon us and I'm now juggling three schedules. Which isn't an impossibility--it keeps things interesting and leaves little time for tantrums. (Mine or theirs.)

The issue, if we can call it that?

There's no way to really merge the activities of a tween, a toddler, and a nursling. The tween could care less about tot soccer,  the toddler is allergic to naps, and the nursling is only interested in nursing and refuses to borrow a flip to give about dance or soccer or any of that jazz.

...which brings us to the parents, who lovingly (and by lovingly I mean, "We paid for this so we may as well smile and enjoy too!") chauffeur the gas-moneyless kids to and fro.

I kid about gas money.

They can't afford to fill that tank. *chuckles* They're broke.

But in all reality, while I do love letting them have their respective sports and hobbies, I do kinda wish they had one together too.

While that seems crazy, look at it this way--our tween will be 12 this year. Which means when the toddler is a great big almost-out-of-elementary kid and the nursling is a kindergartener, the tween will be old enough to vote, drive, and take the garage apartment. 

Admittedly we don't push the whole move out thing...most days, anyway. At 18 I was honestly only barely ready to decide my own dinner, let alone my own life. While I survived and did pretty well, I won't necessarily push my little birds out the nest so soon.

But back to the age difference...the tween has a whole 9.5 years between her and her little siblings. She doesn't exactly bond with them over music and common interests because, well, there aren't many. She is much closer to our nieces and nephews, who are closer to her age. Which we don't begrudge at all, because she definitely loves the two smallest bears. She's a wonderful big sister. The years are there and can't be ignored, though.

The main thing they share is parents.

We take pride in annoying them all equally, by the way. It's a tough and thankless job but darn it, we signed up for it and boy do we dee-li-vah. (Deliver, sheesh.)

So while they're all developing their separate things, it makes me wish they had one together. *sighs* I understand my own timing as far as their birth order, and I wouldn't dare change it, but at the same time I catch myself imagining if they were a bit closer in age.

But then again, my tween takes hours in the bathroom and currently takes great pride in stealing my clothes. (Either I'm a short adult or she's a tall 11...at any rate, she's already 5'4 and rising.)

We should probably start a band or something before she (the tween) deems us too uncool to be spotted with in public. Can't you see it? We'd have this epic tour bus and everything.

No?

Well, now you're acting like the kids. *scoffs*

PPD

Post-partum depression.

It's more than occasional tears or random bouts of sadness.

No.

It goes deeper.

It's utter hopelessness. It's emptiness. It's the ability (?!) to look beyond every blessing,  every positive, every comfort  to see the nothingness on the other side. It's looking at your new baby and wondering how you will ever manage to keep them alive, let alone happy, because you certainly cannot manage to feel alive or happy yourself.

Women with PPD are horribly undertreated.

Because it is an emotional problem that crops up after one of the most physically and emotionally draining events a person can experience, PPD symptoms are typically swept away in the files of postpartum discomforts. After all, childbirth is hell. Nobody goes through something that major completely unscathed.

So until a major breakdown occurs, women are either over medicated, under treated, or simply told that it will all pass.

Should she dare speak about her symptoms--the sweeping despair, the inability to get out of bed, the desire to be anywhere but where she is--she's reminded of her precious new baby and how blessed she is. She's told to cheer up. She's given a quick hug and assured she isn't alone.

But she is--because when a person does not seek to understand you, there is no way they can ever really be there for you. They can give only surface comfort. A bandaid to a bullet hole.

See, depression isn't a flesh wound--it's a wide, gaping hole. Postpartum depression is that same gaping hope with the added sting of guilt.

You just had a baby. You're a mom now! Why are you sitting here staring off into space? Why doesn't that baby fill you with joy?

The thing is, that baby probably does fill you with joy. You're just so clouded with grief (yes, depression does this--you will alternate between grieving your normalcy and grieving the emptiness gnawing at you now) that joy is a distant cousin who simply doesn't visit you much.

When a celebrity speaks about PPD, they are brave. They're showered with affection and positivity. They're reminded how strong they are and how much the world needs their particular light. "Hold on! Stay strong. You're so brave for telling the truth and getting some help."

When a regular Jane speaks?

Her Facebook statuses are ignored--they're too sad. She's attention-seeking. Her visitors dry up, because no one wants or is comfortable to sit with a sad sack very much. Invites out don't happen because when she can't drag herself out of bed, she's deemed antisocial; when she can, again, who wants to he around a sad sack?!

It's a lonely condition.

Her doctor might give her pills. 

Or they might call DFCS.

Being honest about depression is a mine field--on one hand, the doctor might be very understanding and offer counseling, medication, therapy, or a combination thereof to help her bridge from existing to finally being alive. They might even

On the other hand, the doctor may deem her a risk to herself and her kids. She may be sent to a mental treatment center against her will, with social workers swooping in to divide and delegate childcare.

...but generally she'll fall somewhere in the middle. Far too many OB/GYNs are not well versed in spotting PPD, and even fewer understand that the treatment must be more than, "take two of these and call me in the morning." As a result, unless the woman can afford top-notch doctors or muster enough energy to raise a holy enough stink for her own doctor to take her seriously (which, let's be blunt--completely and utterly sucks that this is even a possible scenario), she will dance frantically on the line between surviving another day and caving in to the despair she lugs around every waking moment.

Friends disappear.

Family keeps their distance.

She's stuck with herself.

Only herself.

...at least, it can feel that way. When a person lacks the energy to entertain, the average person either does entirely too much or flatly not enough. Forcing them to talk is bad. Ignoring their voice is also inherently bad.

There's no way to tell which is which, because depression changes a person to the point that who they were is moot to who they are in this moment. They aren't the same and can't really be handled the same.

A strong one will crumble. One usually full of laughter will brim over with tears at the slightest. The life of the party shrinks away into a wallflower in the smallest corner.

Ask A Milk Donor!

Namastè!

One of the gray area of breastfeeding is milk donation. When a mother is unable to breastfeed her own infant, instead of formula she may turn to donor programs.

Curious about how that works?

Say less.

I have donated nearly 275K ounces in just under 2.5 years, so I know the ins, outs, and caveats of milk donation. I'll share the most common questions I get, and as always you are welcome to email me or find me on FB if you have additional inquiries.

Brass tacks...

Is it safe?

Donor milk is safer for most babies than formula, especially in immuno-compromised infants.

Aren't the moms afraid their baby will get sick from donated milk?

For my own peace of mind, as well as additional comfort for my milky recipients, I am tested and cleared through a donor program. I update these tests every 3 months. I keep a detailed food journal (for my own purposes as well) so we can identify any potential allergen or irritant.

Why do you do all the extra work?

It isn't really extra work for me. I have an oversupply, which means I make far more than my own baby could drink. My freezer stash often overflows if a milky recipient is even two days late picking up their portion. Plus, the milk has a shelf life of one year if deep frozen. I don't like to think how much I'd have to throw out if I couldn't share with one who needs it.

Do you worry that your baby will run out?

My baby's stash is kept separate from the donor stash, and because my baby also latches and feeds directly I am definitely not worried about running out. Milk is supply and demand, and due to me actively nursing as well as pumping for comfort (while it's not good to pump to empty with oversupply, it's still very difficult to sleep on rock boobs so I have to get a good amount out) I am sure we will have more than enough. Our personal stash is at 500 ounces so far anyway, more than she'd eat and bathe in, in two or three months easily.

It seems kind of gross.

I guess that's a matter of personal opinion. I find cow's milk and beef repulsive, but I don't call people gross for indulging in milk or eating a juicy cheeseburger. I'd much rather give my baby donor milk than possibly dance through hoops to find the right chemical formula. *shrugs*

Are you freelance or affiliated with a hospital program?

Both, actually. I have helped three babies (in addition to my toddler) meet the one year plus mark via freelance or peer to peer, and I don't even know how many have received my liquid gold through the official donor programs I periodically ship coolers of milk off to.

Is it expensive for you?

No. I purchase my own bags in bulk (yay, Amazon!). The milky families often gift me bags or pump parts. I have several sponsorships with my pump companies as well, so very rarely do I actually need to purchase anything. It can be time consuming, but I'd be doing the same amount of pumping anyway.

Does it pay well?

I wouldn't know--I only donate my milk to babies. I refuse to sell, and I'm not compensated through my official (read, not peer-to-peer but hospital lab) companies. I do receive nice tokens of appreciation sometimes (I've gotten gift cards, baby gifts,  my favorite foods, and even flowers), but that's not required either. At the risk of sounding cheesy it just feels really good to help another mom meet her goal. Again, I'd be doing the same amount of pumping even if I wasn't a donor.

How long will you do it?

I'll donate milk as long as I am actively nursing and pumping. Working on my third year and haven't slowed up much yet!

As long as you do your due diligence--i.e. making sure the mom's diet does not clash with what your baby can handle, agreeing to set pickup times, and just generally getting a good understanding with your donor mom--the milk donation process should be seamless.

In case you missed the link above, you can read here to find out how I began and what programs I affiliate with, as I press forth being a milk fairy mama!