Author Archives: Jo Taylor

About Jo Taylor

Sarcasm is my middle name, Poetry & I fell in love sometime back in middle school, & my books are some of my best friends. Writing is an old lost form of intimacy & reading is a relationship. My eyes were never the window to my soul; I promise you these words I write are worth way more. Joy Taylor is just my pen name. Joy is my real middle (irony isn't lost on anyone there) and Taylor is a homage to my disabled brother. Instagram: @tiff.joy, where I occasionally post some poetry amidst the craziness that is my life.

Jul8

Keep your Judgment, Keep your Breast Milk.

Posted on July 8, 2016 by Jo Taylor

Standard

The Ann Arbor Art Fair week is almost upon us and while I look forward to it every year since the morning after it ends the previous year, I am not excited to see the breastfeeding promotion signs. After I had Evelynn, nursing was a struggle and I only lasted a few months. For the first month or so, my nipples cracked and bled and I still have scars from the gouges pumping and nursing gave me. I never had a great milk supply and had to wean Evelynn onto a partial formula diet. Yet, the first thing many women asked me was, “You’re breastfeeding, right?” As if it was their business and it was the only acceptable form of feeding my child. Like the picketers outside abortion clinics and planned parenthood—which is also used for contraception and other topics regarding sexual intercourse, though people seem to often forget this while sitting on their horses on guard duty—the judgment is often misplaced and does more harm than good. As the pro-lifers do not motivate the expecting mother to walk away from the building with a sudden urgency to risk her health to have the baby, the mom does not whip out a wand and suddenly present luscious breasts filled with milk. I should not be asked how long I breastfed. And I should not be asked if the bottle I pulled out of a diaper bag or cooler is filled with formula or breast milk. I am the mom. I make the best decisions for my child. But sadly, sometimes, fate and the universe force my hand.

I assure you, most women who don’t breastfeed WANT to be able to breastfeed as it is beneficial for the mom, too. Not only does it help to lose the baby weight faster, but it also has been known to reduce the risk of breast cancer. And lets not forget the knockers and cleavage we suddenly might be blessed with after years of having small boobs—I, for one, liked this once in a lifetime perk I was granted. Walking in a parade, proudly holding that sign to promote breastfeeding is fine, until judgment is rained on those who chose not to or failed—terrible diction, by the way, but I’ll use the judger’s word choice over my own here—to last a year. For the next person who asks me, “Well, did you try pumping next your sleeping baby?” or “Did you eat oatmeal? How about that breast milk tea?” I’d like to present you with my child and the healthy baby she is turning out to be, along with the lack of hospital bills not stacked on my kitchen counter.

May14

Cheers to Stubbornhood.

Posted on May 14, 2016 by Jo Taylor

Standard

I like to believe I come from a long line of strong females. Independent, fierce, and inevitably stubborn—stop thinking that’s a bad thing. My mother radiates all of these qualities, and for Taylor’s sake, she doesn’t have a choice. In a room full of doctors and nurses strongly suggesting to follow a certain path of care, she will stick to her guns and order them to do as her gut tells her. Oddly enough, it is when she doesn’t follow her gut that trouble arises and Taylor declines. Those nurses at the University of Michigan who have previously cared for Taylor, know the routine and respect her wishes, while those who are new will be forewarned before entering into the room. With 40-some medications on his allergy list, many of the nurses will double check with her before administering the drug. On multiple occasions, the pharmacy has disbursed the wrong medication, or one containing dyes (he’s strongly allergic to all dyes), and the nurse will have to return for the proper drug. My mother doesn’t sleep on these overnight trips to the hospital, living off the makeshift bed in the room and once spending over three months in the hospital. When Taylor is admitted, she doesn’t leave. But it’s not like she gets any better sleep at home.

With routine meds taken every three to four hours, along with the constant disruption from getting up to suction out Taylor’s lungs, its no wonder the only full night’s sleep she gets is on vacation. Her last vacation was a few days trip to Boston. Three nights of freedom from being woken up to a dozen times in the night. Three nights out of 365. And you thought the newborn baby routine is difficult. Naps are out of the question. Fed through a g-tube with the use of a food pump, twice a day, the machine likes to disrupt any peace by beeping and demanding to be reset. And let’s not forget them seizures, the sucking of the lungs, the repositioning in bed…

My mother is a real-life zombie.

Or so you would expect her to be. Surprisingly, she’s not most days. Lord knows I would be. Nineteen years of no good sleep, I’d be begging for eternal sleep at that rate. That’s a torture technique: waking up the victim just as they fall asleep or just after negatively impacts the mind. It harms the senses and blurs reality. Imagine: tortured in your own home by a lifestyle you wouldn’t dare change because the only other option is to neglect your child. Makes you feel a little bit better about that once a week, maybe, 4:00 A.M. wakeup call after only three hours of sleep I bet.

I grew up living with my grandmother during childhood. For years, as the head ER nurse, she worked long, strenuous hours to provide for her family. Now, retired, she resides on a farm doing the work she once did as a child. She’s a working machine who, like her daughter, doesn’t know rest. Yet, somehow, I always mistake her age because lord knows she still looks to be only in her sixties to me. She’s not, definitely not. I’m blessed with good genes in the family, thank you.

Evelynn wasn’t an expected pregnancy. She took me by quite the surprise. I’m not the most nurturing person on the planet. While I often babysat during my teenage years, I don’t handle tears well and I run from discussions regarding….feelings. That’s never been my strong suit for conversation topics. But I was excited to be a mom. Scared, most definitely. But I was full of excitement that bubbled energetically beneath my skin. It amazed me people couldn’t tell, how they would ask me if I was okay with it rather than congratulate me. Or worse, ask me if I was keeping it, as if they didn’t expect me to want her. (Scroll down the blog to a few posts before for my thoughts on abortion and why I’m pro-choice.) I’ll admit, I’m one to rarely show excitement over anything; even a trip to Florida won’t have me squealing in glee like a twelve-year-old girl at a One Direction concert.

It’s not a secret that I moved in with my parents during my pregnancy, mostly because I was jobless shortly after the first trimester ended and then increasingly because the pregnancy proved to be a difficult one. However, many people wrongly assume that because I live with my parents, and am juggling work and school, that I don’t provide for primary care. It’s like any other family situation, but as a single parent, I’m extremely lucky to have parents, a stay-at-home mom, who is more than willing and happy to provide for free daycare. And why wouldn’t I want Evelynn to be watched by her own family instead of paying a facility when I’m against daycare?

People often talk behind backs and closed doors. I’d like to use the human nature excuse but we all know its not human decency. When I broke it off with Evelynn’s father, I was the target for judgment. But nobody was willing to ask why or if I was okay with it then. I was relieved and thrilled, and for that I am labeled the selfish bitch. I’ll shoulder it and continue to, because it was best, for me and for my daughter. I set out to set an example of never settling, in career, in love, in life. And I intend to do that. I’m already doing that. And with great female role models growing up, I’m not worried about doing wrong.

My daughter eats healthier than most adults I know—for that I’ve been told I’m not letting her be a child. If I don’t comment on the preservatives and dyes and artificials you feed your child, please refrain from the healthy nature I’m instilling in my child. Besides, she likes and eats the food I give her. I changed her pediatrician because we got in arguments over Evelynn’s water consumption—they wanted me to cut back in order for her to eat more while I wasn’t willing to do so when she looked fine, they were more concerned with the numbers on a scale and how she matched up with other babies her age. News flash: she was born small and society’s average baby build is consistently getting bigger. I only breastfed for a few months—my milk supply diminished on its own. I shouldn’t have to defend myself on this topic yet people always asked, “Are you breastfeeding?” and followed it with, “Well, you should try to hold out at least a year.” I’ve no comment. No response on this would be deemed “acceptably nice.” The best is when I’m told I need to date for a father figure in Evelynn’s life. She sees her dad once a week most weeks, and she has her papa for a male role model. Thank you. Besides, haven’t you heard? I’m supermom.

Here’s to the two women who have repeatedly proved stubborn is one of the best traits a mom can be. Go ahead and call me stubborn, I’ll gladly take it as a compliment.

May11

Tattoo Neglected

Posted on May 11, 2016 by Jo Taylor

Standard

Come here. No, closer. Let me prick you—not poke. I am not that needle which injects your flu shot or draws a vial of blood from the crook of your elbow. But I may steal some. Have it smeared on your skin. It’s up to you and your intoxication, you’re responsible for the amount you bleed—let’s hope you didn’t lie on that permission form sheet with your signature. To which do I owe this pleasure? A false identification and the need to rebel? A craving to be under the pinpricking, rhythmic needle? Peer pressure and insecurity? Liquid courage? Oh, never mind. It hardly matters.

Your body is my canvas, unappreciated by others—don’t worry, those idle judgments from yesterday have not caught up with the times, still living in the olden days, pre 1970s. I’d like to thank MTV and pro athletes for implying my permanent marks are cool. And for organizations, like the Alliance for Professional Tattooists, for cleaning up the industry, finally—finally!—realizing “safer practices protect the clients—and the tattooists.”¹ Thanks for saving my job but the help was uncalled for; I have been surviving in traditions and on outcasts for many years before the general public was willing to accept what I do, who I am.

Before entering jail cells, before parlors popping up on main street meant whorehouses next door²—irrational fear if you ask me—I was the sacred instrument to grant Dhegiha women “their proper place in the cosmology of their community.” I was fired from that honorable role by the mid 1950s.³ I simply couldn’t have the best of both worlds when mainstream, my sudden popularity, shot it—the private, quiet, treasured practice I performed for the Dhegiha—to hell and people suddenly began to seek out this form of expression.⁴But I am fashion crazed, wanting nothing more than to please (except for the judgers—screw the judgers). And am entirely dependent on the needs of my artists and victims—that first bite from the needle always relinquishes a response, no matter how ready or willing one is, and I crave that intake of air, irregular heartbeat, or first bead of sweat. I am a machine, made of many-pointed needles holding the ink within my layers and puncturing the skin—what a lovely, lively canvas—so the ink can be drawn down,⁵ permanently marking, embedding itself in that smooth and enticing skin.

It’s this permanence they—the incessant and relentless judgers—can’t stand, the desecration of God’s perfect image forming my best canvases.⁶ In my mobility—the walking portraits of my artwork—I am greater than the brushes of Van Gogh or Picasso,⁷ for these “symbols of ownership by, devotion to, identification with, and protection by a deity or master can demonstrate the image of god.”⁸ My audience is greater. My persistence and prevalence over the years are slowly but surely wearing these horror-stricken Christians down. It helps that my creator, Samuel O ‘Reilly, modernized me back in 1891 when he invented the first electric tattoo machine; and certainly, Thomas Edison deserves my gratitude, for it was his embroidery machine that the invention was based on.⁹

Don’t deceive yourself into thinking I’m only a century old. When I was first born, I was mostly made of needles from bones. To the Polynesians who inhabited Hawaii, I was better known as kakau, guarding their health and spiritual well-being. My depictions of lizards, greatly respected and feared, and the Hawaiian crescent fan, to distinguish society’s highest-ranking members, were revered. Their bodies were further adorned with intricate tribal patterns and designs on the hands, fingers, wrists, and tongues for women; arms, legs, torsos, and face for men. I was only “a needle made from bone, tied to a stick and struck by a mallet” to apply pigment to the skin. After each use, I was destroyed. The secrecy of the practice was so highly guarded.¹⁰ (You didn’t hear it from me.) For the Inuit in the American Arctic, I was nothing more than eyed-bone needles and pigment-rubbed sinew stitched through their skin.¹¹ But it was the Tahitians who gave my work a name, derived from their tatau, “to mark.” First used by Louis Antoine de Bougainville, the French Navigator, in 1771 to describe my decorations on the body canvas. He translated my name to “tattoo.”¹²

Responsible for these markings, I am the identifier of lost sailors. In their fear of shipwrecks, I was called upon to ensure their Christian—yes, the irony!—burial. I was the badge for the prostitutes’ profession. For prisoners, I am the favored way to rebel against society and express their protests. Then there are the SS men—the bloody bastards!—who had me mark their blood group on the inside of their upper arms. My least favorite role, though, was playing slave to the Nazis, forced to permanently ink numbers on their victims’ arms.¹³ Keith Underwood may have clipped the cord, revolutionizing me into a battery-operated machine gun.¹⁴ What a terrible term. I despise the accuracy that negativity—“gun”—can convey. For the surviving Holocaust victims, I am the gun that triggers their memories with the worst artwork imaginable.

I told you I have existed much longer than the simple, cordless machine, as I am most commonly recognized. Since the Neolithic Period, some 5,300 years ago, I have been producing artwork on this earth.¹⁵ Please, don’t judge my age. My work has survived centuries. Didn’t you ever hear of the frozen corpse found trapped in a melting glacier in the Otztaler Alps back in 1991?¹⁶ No?! What do you mean No?! That’s a damned shame. I survive in the memories of Holocaust victims—in work I’d love to erase—but am neglected for traversing time and honoring traditions.

My popularity is no longer derived from tradition and honor, but rather controversy and personal experience. It’s the negative biases people have that I cannot forgive. I am harmless. Despite the nightmares the sight of my permanent mark may give Holocaust survivors. Or the cringe I receive from people who sought out my artwork in haste to showcase a love that didn’t last or an intoxicated decision they can’t remember. I do not discriminate. Soccer moms, veterans, athletes, rock stars, sailors, prostitutes, convicted felons. I have done them all. They do not deserve my rash judgment when I don’t know their stories. And I am worth much more than the harshness afforded me over decades by those who don’t know mine. But now you do.

Notes

Berkowitz, Bonnie, “Tattooing outgrows its renegade image to thrive in the mainstream,” The Washington Post, February 8, 2011, accessed November 1, 2015, http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2011/02/07/AR2011020704915.html
Berkowitz.
Betsy Phillips, “Unearthing the Secrets of North America’s Tattooing Traditions,” Think Progress, March 2014, accessed November 1, 2015, http://thinkprogress.org/culture/2014/03/17/3410711/native-american-tattoos/
Phillips.
Rachel Feltman, “Watching a tattoo needle in slow motion reveals the physics of getting inked,” The Washington Post, September 24, 2014, accessed November 1, 2015, https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/speaking-of-science/wp/2014/09/24/watching-a-tattoo-needle-in-slow-motion-reveals-the-physics-of-getting-inked/
Lorne Zelyck, “Under the Needle,” Christian Research Institute 28, no. 6 (2005). Accessed November 1, 2015, http://www.equip.org/article/under-the-needle/
Janet S. Fedorenko, Susan C. Sherlock, and Patricia L. Stuhr, “A Body of Work: a case study of tattoo culture,” Visual Arts Research 25, no. 1 (1999): 105-114. Accessed November 1, 2015, http://www.jstor.org/stable/20715974
Zelyck.
Zelyck
“Skin Stories: the art and culture of Polynesian tattoo,” PBS, 2003, accessed November 1, 2015, http://www.pbs.org/skinstories/history/hawaii.html
Phillips.
Fedorenko et al, p. 105.
Fedorenko et al, p. 106.
Keith A. Underwood, 2003. Tattoo Technology. U.S. Patent US6550356B1, filed September 15, 2000, and issued April 22, 2003, accessed November 1, 2015, https://www-google-com.ezproxy.emich.edu/patents/US6550356
Fedorenko et al, p. 105.
Fedorenko et al, p. 105.

Apr9

The False Fad.

Posted on April 9, 2016 by Jo Taylor

Standard

Gluten free is not a fad yet the market is exploding as more and more people request gluten-free options at restaurants and purchase gluten-free products in stores. Many of these people are not required to follow such a diet—they don’t have celiac disease or gluten sensitivity. Like other diet trends before, people are misconceiving gluten-free as a healthier option. Often times, unless they seek out information on the diet and are careful, the consumer lacks sufficient fiber, vitamins, and minerals. What is gluten? It is the proteins found in wheat, barley, rye, and oat. Abstaining from eating gluten is neglecting the other nutrients that gluten foods offer. So why are people going gluten free who don’t have celiac or gluten sensitivity? Gluten can be hard on the digestive tract. For some individuals, limiting gluten can help increase bowel movements and reduce constipation. For others, eating less gluten can lead to a decrease in migraines or fatigue. However, it is the misunderstanding of “gluten free” automatically meaning healthier that has lead most of the gluten-free diet population to refrain from consuming gluten.

Mid-January 2015, I came across a past coworker’s post on celiac disease. It had been a year since she was diagnosed with celiac. We used to constantly discuss fatigue, battle it out for who required more sleep, and regularly complain to each other of the weekly migraines we endured. I decided to look further into the disease.

Every year in high school, I was required to write a letter to the principle, requesting not to be held back due to absences and getting signatures from my teachers agreeing that I had the academic performance and grades to continue. Once, I missed an entire week of school due to a migraine. I’m fairly certain my professors in college assumed I was irresponsible or uninterested in their class. The absence policy in one class turned my A- into a D+. Friends were lost as I consistently cancelled plans due to migraines and fatigue. Bosses became annoyed as I often randomly called in to work sick. I grew up with a “weak” stomach. I didn’t gain weight during my pregnancy. A week before I was induced, I quit Jimmy John’s—my coworkers never knew I was pregnant, the tiny belly bump hid so well behind the apron. When I went in to be induced, my already low platelet count plummeted. My daughter was born at the 7^th percentile. After giving birth, I lost weight quickly from breastfeeding, or trying to. Getting my milk in and then keeping up a supply was a hassle, and I only lasted a few months. My weak stomach became weaker, causing a dwindling appetite.

I called my doctor. The internet is great and all for finding information, but I wanted an educated and valuable opinion regarding this celiac disease I had stumbled upon. I wanted to know what was true and what was false. I wanted a credible source. My doctor recommended I remove gluten from my diet. Test it out. She was old school—and old—and the only test she knew of to test celiac was invasive. Removing gluten was my only other option. After two weeks the changes became apparent. The migraines came less often and food was kept down. When I visited my hematologist after five months of gluten free living, my platelet count was the highest it had ever been. He was thoroughly impressed. And perplexed, the man didn’t know what to make of the drastic change until I informed him of my new gluten-free diet. The full effects of gluten are still unknown as researchers and doctors continue to learn about celiac disease and gluten sensitivity. Twice a year I get blood drawn to monitor my count. If it remains up come October, I might be considered “graduated” from his care. After a couple months on my new diet, I saw a gastroenterologist who specialized in celiac disease. As I was already on a gluten-free diet, I underwent genetic testing which only required a simple blood test. It was negative. Celiac was not my diagnosis.

“Or” was my new enemy. I could be sensitive or intolerant. Doctors don’t give enough information regarding what foods contain gluten. It’s in everything: dressings, lunch meats, pastas, dips, soy sauce, ice cream, pop. The list is endless. Reading labels became a must and my already health conscious mind grew a new ego. Nothing was overlooked on any food or drink package—good thing I love to read. Contamination was not to be ignored and a family member informed me of marshmallow root, a wonderful dietary supplement that can reduce any pains that might occur from gluten contamination. In fact, when her son wanted to indulge in a gluten delicious donut or pizza, the pills would allow him to eat without dealing with the consequential pain. However, simply because he doesn’t feel the pain doesn’t mean the damage isn’t being done. He had celiac and the pill can’t prevent from damage being done to his intestines over time when he does choose to indulge. The intestine will still become inflamed but like Advil can reduce swelling for a sprain, the injury still occurred.

After I found out I didn’t have celiac, I decided to savor a cinnamon donut—not roll—and two to be exact. It was pure heaven. There was no pain. But a month later, I was still fighting fatigue and migraines again; proof the marshmallow root was only a short-term relief. When I went in for my next blood draw and visit with hematology, my platelet count had gone back down (still slightly higher than my previous average). I learned the severity of my intolerance. I had to buy a separate toaster for me to use and all my condiments are labeled “GF.” Contamination is kept to a minimum but for a safety protocol I take marshmallow root daily. Despite popular belief, my gluten-free diet does not keep me thin.

My choice of a plant-based diet and lack of snacking is why I’m thin. I don’t drink my calories away. I eat when I’m hungry and not when I’m bored. It’s no preservatives and none of the artificial trio (sweeteners, flavoring, coloring). I listen to my body. If I’m feeling shaky, I up my salt or sugar intake. If I’m feeling queasy, I lay off any spices, sauces, and oily or greasy foods. I eat one serving of meat a day. I incorporate nuts into granola or salads. I aim to drink mostly water. I refrain from relying on rice as my gluten substitute—no thank you arsenic. I don’t eat out. Most of my meals are home cooked and prepared from scratch. Most importantly, I don’t buy into the assumption that gluten-free baked goods are healthy—they are still baked goods! They can be, given the right substitutions. However, it’s a safe bet that the gluten-free option of a product is less healthy than its gluten counterpart. But to make sure, read the nutrition facts label and the ingredient listing. If you don’t know what an ingredient is, google it. If you can’t get service because grocery stores are notorious for having bad reception, try to pronounce it. If you can’t sound it out, chances are it’s artificial or an unnecessary ingredient used to make it taste better. You should be knowledgeable of every ingredient on that list.

Before embarking on any diet, education is important. For example, it isn’t uncommon for novice vegans to neglect consuming necessary complete proteins. They have to be knowledgeable of adequate supplements or plant food combinations. Unless it’s printed and the restaurant is known for providing gluten-free options, I won’t consider the menu. At the last establishment where I served, I had to ask the head cook what menu items were gluten-free and his response was simple: “Well, gluten is anything with wheat, barley, and rye, so your breads and your pastas. Tell them they can have anything that doesn’t contain pasta, a hamburger without the bun, the salads.” The reality is gluten-free diets are much more complicated and I’m surprised the guest didn’t call back with a complaint—he had warned me of his severe sensitivity. Rice flour is commonly substituted in gluten-free products and meals but there is a concern regarding arsenic because it is so easily absorbed into the rice. Unfortunately, the best gluten-free tortillas I’ve found are brown rice tortillas. I’m not a fan of many of the corn-based products, like noodles, as they can taste gritty. When baking, almond flour can be a decent substitution among many others. Research is key.

In one of my health classes last semester, my group was asked to rank four different yogurts from healthiest to least healthy. Another group member and I disagreed on the appropriate ranking because we recognized we had different dietary needs and preferences. Whereas she was more concerned with sugar and was willing to consume artificial sweetener, I have a strict no artificial rule I follow and prefer more natural ingredients.

More gluten-free options may be popping up on the market, but that doesn’t mean you should be flocking to consume such products simply because of a “GF” label. It’s a learning process. Research what the diet entails. By definition, “diet” does NOT mean “healthy,” it simply refers to the food you consume. If you want to eat healthy, do research and listen to your body. The random aches, changes in bowel movements, sudden eczema or acne issues, or increase in migraines could very likely be due to the food you eat. Lunchmeat once a week doesn’t bother me, but if I eat it consecutively, I will get a crippling migraine. I love sandwiches but my body doesn’t. Gluten free may be popular, but your body might disagree with that assumption.

Only a small percent of people have celiac disease, and many are undiagnosed. The only way to know if you have celiac is to get tested. There are multiple screening options available for an individual to be tested for celiac. As for those who are sensitive or intolerant, know your body. With all food consumption and physical activity, it’s important to understand your body, the limits you can push and the boundaries set in stone.

Mar29

Put down the picket & backpack.

Posted on March 29, 2016 by Jo Taylor

Standard

“Murderer!” the picketers ruthlessly scream because at about five weeks in the fetal development, the baby’s brain, spinal cord, and heart begin to develop. It’s during the third week, arguably, that the zygote develops into an embryo. For my government class back in high school, I spent the better part of a term researching abortion and the various methods. I lost my appetite. I couldn’t eat when my mom called for dinner. Just shy of seven years later, the stick was positive and I found myself in an unexpected pregnancy. I wasn’t ready. And I sure as hell didn’t believe myself capable. I wasn’t exactly known for being motherly or nurturing.

No lifting more than 20lbs. you dependent weakling. Say goodbye to coffee in the morning because there’s no caffeine. I hope you love migraines; they’re the friends that eat all your food and never leave. Good luck coping after a rough day at work because there’s no drinking alcohol in the hot tub. Instead, get ready to greet your new therapist twice a week as she helps to realign your spine. Think twice if you plan to dye your hair. Stay away from the sushi, deli meats, soft cheeses, and artificial sweeteners and coloring. Hope you prefer your eggs scrambled because that yolk will be fully cooked. And you can forget about your medium cooked steak or hamburger. Double check with your doctor regarding all your medications, previously prescribed or not. Don’t you dare sleep on your back—can’t put pressure on that spinal cord—but you best be getting that recommended nine hours each night. More likely to have serious car crashes when pregnant, you may not want to get behind that wheel. Or at least drive like the grandma you will be one day because the male in your life has an even higher crash rate.

Say hello to swollen ankles and that teenage acne that is coming back like a long lost best friend. You might even want to break out the matches for the constipation, and have fun with road trips, considering the constant need to urinate. If you don’t want cramps, stay away from the ice cream—it’s just willpower, those cravings don’t mean anything. Mind over matter and all that bullshit. And if you didn’t work out regularly before, you sure aren’t starting now. It’ll have to wait at least six weeks after birth when your doctor might give you the clear. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait even longer. You think that baby is magically popping out on your due date? WRONG. You may be induced early or it may come two weeks late. You want an epidermal to deal with the pain? Well shit, your platelet count better be high enough. Otherwise, you’re breathing and cussing your way through that natural birth. But let’s not forget that average minimum thirty pound weight gain. Hell, you might as well not even get out bed. Might as well learn to love that bed rest while on maternity leave.

I didn’t know the rules. For the five days between the night I found out and my doctor’s appointment, it was a self-educating process. I had a sandwich from Jimmy John’s because that’s what we always ordered for lunch at work. I didn’t know. I was a server; my tendency to lift a heavy tray was a daily habit. Habits die hard. I prefer my eggs dippity style. What the hell am I expected to eat for breakfast? My ex (boyfriend at the time) lived across the state and had a DUI; the driving to see each other was all on me. I sleep on my stomach but suddenly my little bump wouldn’t allow it; the body pillow became my new best friend. And the morning sickness was not just the first and second trimester, and it definitely was not just in the morning. That shit did not discriminate. It partied all day for all three trimesters.

If you wield a picket sign outside an abortion clinic, you sure as hell better have gone through a complicated pregnancy because not all are a happy dance in the sunshine. And even if it is a glowing pregnancy where everything goes as planned and expected, the mother still gave up a lot. Oh, you’re a man? You can’t get pregnant? Get a backpack and fill it with thirty pounds of weights and strap the bastard on—to your front. You, sir, are in for one hell of a backpacking trip. And don’t even think about taking it off when you sleep or use the loo. That shit is glued to you.

It is not possible to force a woman to continue with an unexpected pregnancy. Pregnancy is a highly selfless act and the expecting mother must be prepared to follow through with all the limitations, eat her daily vitamins, and educate herself on proper pregnancy care. Reality is not all mothers are willing, even those who are elated and want to be a mom. Then, how can you expect a mother who doesn’t want children or who isn’t ready to undergo the battle? Because it is a battle—them hormones can be a bitch, the cravings can cost a pretty penny, and it’s useless fighting the tears.

Abortion was never an option for me, but I will never understand the abortion debate and I will always question the integrity of pro-life picketers. Pregnancy is one hell of a commitment, even if it goes as planned, the mother is “glowing,” and it’s considered a healthy one. By no means do I think abortion should be a form of birth control, and it is highly unfair that unwanted babies get aborted everyday while other couples grieve over the inability to conceive, but if a female wants to terminate a pregnancy, I doubt she is willing to provide a healthy womb for the baby.

When I was five months along and my doctor prescribed me to eat ice cream everyday because I couldn’t gain weight, Worry began to nag. When she called me at 9 P.M. to tell me I had to be at the hospital at 8 A.M. the next morning to be induced, Worry took root. When my doctor told me my platelet count was too low for an epidermal, that they were concerned my blood wouldn’t clot if I bled, Worry rammed me like a freight train. After I gave birth and my doctor told my mother it was a good thing they induced because my amniotic fluid was unhealthy, Worry was finally derailed. Worry was constant during my pregnancy and I followed every recommendation given to me. It was deep-seated and the hormones didn’t help. The pregnancy wasn’t expected but my daughter was wanted. I couldn’t imagine being in that situation as an expecting mother who didn’t want the baby, the pregnancy.

It’s still unclear as to whether I should ever undergo a pregnancy again. My doctors have no idea if it will be the same battle or different results, if it would be detrimental to my health or if the baby would survive, but that doesn’t change anything. Abortion will never be an option for me, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to condemn those who choose to exercise their right. Every pregnancy is different. And you never know the battles another is facing.

Mar21

I do it all for me.

Posted on March 21, 2016 by Jo Taylor

Standard

There’s a dispute among body types, even as we dismiss society’s view on “the healthy body” or what qualifies as beautiful. People use demeaning arguments to defend their weight: no thigh gap is one step closer to becoming a mermaid and overweight means harder to kidnap and real women have curves. Some misconceive skinny as healthy, when health has nothing to do with body shape or form. Some girls are blessed with curves and others are graced with a high metabolism. Guys think girls want to hear “you’re so beautiful” as if we need the affirmation—hint: we don’t. I can’t post a picture of my legs to Instagram without a guy asking if I will wrap them around him. I don’t workout and tone for you. I don’t even shave for you. I do it all for me.

Six weeks after I gave birth to my daughter, I went out with my boyfriend (now my ex) and a few girlfriends to celebrate my 25^th birthday. I adorned a mini-dress and I looked stellar. I turned heads. And I should be able to say that without being labeled conceited. By that time, we had been dating for almost 18 months and he had never called me beautiful, but that night he told me multiple times and it was nails on chalkboard to my ears. After a complicated pregnancy, I lost all the weight and then some. 5’ 5” and I weighed 118 lbs. on a good day (bad days: 115 lbs. or below). The last time I weighed that little was my sophomore year of high school. As an ex of his walked into the bar, he warned me, “Don’t break up with me because all my exes get fat. It’s karma.” I wanted to be fat. It had never bothered me how he would comment on how “hot” a friend of mine or a coworker of ours was until it took me to lose weight for him to say it to me. And I didn’t want to hear it. I had never considered myself overweight before pregnancy. Looking back, I still don’t consider myself as having been overweight. I was a solid 140-143 lbs. I was healthy. I could outrun most girls (and boys) and I made healthy eating choices. I was a boss at soccer, could score off a corner kick, and played multiple times a week. I didn’t have high blood pressure and wasn’t concerned about diabetes. I started working out when I was in middle school. I had muscle. But suddenly, I wanted to be fat. Overweight: 1. Skinny Me: 0.

Working out has been a rollercoaster. For the past year, I have worked hard at putting on some weight. And for me to utter that sentence would be offensive for some people who can’t lose weight. How dare I? I’m not allowed to complain about not being able to gain weight. That’s unspeakable. But strong is the new skinny. My health is more important than any label given, doused in another’s insecurity. I realize I could easily eat unhealthy, consume preservatives and the artificial trio (sweetener, coloring, flavoring), sodium nitrate and MSG, and I’d quickly gain weight, but I’m not willing to eat junk and risk heart disease and diabetes. The seesaw of gaining muscle and burning calories is tipped in the wrong direction. Overweight: 2. Skinny Me: 0.

I lied. I want to be tone, not skin and bone. To my daughter, I am all bone. (I don’t care what other people think.) When she was younger and only weighed five or ten pounds, I could easily fit her along my body without my clavicle or rib cage or sternum—mine points outward compared to the flat norm—poking into her. As she grows older and taller, I’m not always the one she wants to curl up with. It became apparent early on that I have to wear a sweatshirt or a thick sweater to rock her to sleep most nights. Even then, some nights, it’s not enough. There are nights she cries because she wants the cushion her grandma can provide for her but she wants the comfort of her mother. Overweight: 3. Skinny Me: 0.

Look in the mirror and be thankful you’re overweight because your baby loves the cushion you can provide, not because you feel the need to defend yourself against society. Better yet, look at yourself in the mirror and accept your body because it is your body. Who cares if the girl on the train is skinnier than you? Who cares if your best friend has gained a few pounds? Are they happy? Are they healthy? Why do we have to follow up questions of “Did you lose weight?” with “You look awesome!” when it doesn’t matter. Tell them they look amazing. Tell them they look strong. Tell them they look confident. Tell them they look HEALTHY. People may label me as skinny—or as having an eating disorder because how else could I not be able to gain weight?—but I can promise you, I am so much more and I will not demean other body shapes by giving an excuse for mine. Society: 0. Me: Kiss my boney ass.

Feb26

No Thanks, Superman (I’ve got it covered).

Posted on February 26, 2016 by Jo Taylor

Standard

It’s my spring break and I joined a dating site. Well, three to be exact. What a hassle. I’m not entirely convinced I don’t want to end up alone. Dating as a single mom is more complex than people seem to think. The assumption seems to be that I would want to replace her father, gain a partner to tackle parenthood with, jump on the idea of a date to get out of the house. These people are wrong.

Everything I do is done with my daughter in mind.

New Years Eve 2014, when my daughter was only four months old, I broke it off with her father. It was not a decision I made with little thought. Becoming a single mom was not something I decided to do on a whim. I never wanted my child to grow up in a home where her father didn’t reside. That wasn’t a goal of mine. Yet, I hit a point in the relationship where I could not imagine beginning the New Year, 2015, with him. I wanted a clean break, a new year.

When I date a guy, I am letting him into a world where previously, my trust was greatly broken. I am giving him the privilege and honor of meeting this little girl who means everything to me. Our future together isn’t a given and I refuse to jump into a marriage simply because a guy is willing to date a single mom. I may not be happy about my past following me, the inability to leave my ex in the past where exes belong, but I deal with it because my daughter deserves to know her father.

Dating a guy doesn’t mean replacing her father. It means my daughter will be lucky enough to have two dads. It means one day, if she wants, she will have two dads to walk her down the aisle, two dads to report amazing news to, two dads to treat her like the gem she is. And unfortunately, dating a guy doesn’t give him the allowance to make decisions regarding my daughter when we have only been dating a few months. He doesn’t get to jump into every mother-daughter activity after only a couple weeks or even a few months. And unfortunately, time isn’t something I seem to have a lot of these days, between my daughter, my studies, and subbing. When I’m forced to choose between the two, it’s almost a given I’ll choose time with my daughter. Some people can’t understand this concept of why I’m not willing to immediately allow for the guy to spend a lot of time with my daughter. I’ve been told it takes at least a year to get to really know someone. I’m not willing to have my daughter get attached to a guy when the relationship may not last. This isn’t pessimism speaking, it’s realism.

Everything I do is done with my daughter in mind.

I’m not willing to be disappointed by another man.

I’m not willing to allow a man to disappoint my daughter.

My pregnancy was a difficult one ridden with worry and constant sickness. I had to drag the father to two of the appointments. I got more checkup phone calls and texts from people I rarely talked to or hadn’t seen in years. We easily went days without speaking and unless I brought it up, he never asked how the checkups went. I was alone in a complicated pregnancy.

When I got the call late at night telling me I had to be induced into labor because they were worried about the baby, the father wasn’t going to be there. His boss told him to come with. I had to drive from Grand Rapids to Ann Arbor to be at the hospital in the morning and he was planning on having me drive it alone. He chose to not see his daughter for six weeks because he wanted to manipulate me into moving across the state. He sacrificed seeing his own daughter.

Everything I do is done with my daughter in mind.

It’s a given for there to be complications and drama between parents who are no longer together. It’s a given that there will be days of frustration. The last guy I dated understood this to an extent. He assured me I could talk to him about it but instead I would get the silent treatment in return. He was jealous when my daughter spent time with her father. Her father became jealous when he found out I was dating someone and stepped up in seeing his daughter more and not cancelling on her last minute—not that she’s old enough to know if he cancelled, anyway.

Unfortunately, when dating a single mom, the guy enters into a relationship with the father as well. With me, that means he’s expected to take the high road. There is no talking shit about her father in front of my daughter. I don’t accept anger because my daughter deserves to know her father. That is to be respected. I have this end goal that her father and I will reach a point where our future families can take vacations together so my daughter doesn’t feel left out or forced to choose. I refuse to put her in the middle of any dispute. This also is to be respected.

I wasn’t lying about the complications and drama.

I may be a single mom but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to settle for any guy. I’d rather remain single than be in a loveless relationship. There are days I’d love to share with a partner, but reality is the world of dating is complicated tenfold when a child is added into the equation. I would never want my daughter to settle, so why should I?

“You’re making a mistake.”

“You’re lucky I was even willing to date you.”

“You think I want this drama.”

“You’re a single mom, it’s not like guys are lining up.”

Some of the shit that comes out of people’s mouths amazes me. Being a single mom doesn’t mean I need help. It doesn’t warrant judgment. Being single and being a mom are two separate labels—I hate that word. When combined, it simply means I’m Superwoman—that’s what I keep telling myself anyways.

I’m not looking to be saved. I don’t need Superman. (I’ve got it covered.)

About Jo Taylor

we were a threaded musical

of tangled limbs & twisted sheets,

violent strokes of horsehairs on cello strings,

a crescendo of slick sweat & heated kisses;

a sloppy passion ignited

over bar stools & tequila shots,

extinguished in a single

rush of hot air when you broke

the captivating silence of the night

with talk about a forever–

that’s not how this goes.

I could spend my life behind closed lids

& bundled in your old sweatshirt, soaking

in your smell–why didn’t I ever learn

the type of aftershave you used?–

pretending I’m wrapped in your arms.

I could spend my life under closed lids

& leave the photographs in boxes–

two-dimensional images won’t bring you back–

next to your favorite running shoes.

I could spend my life inside closed lids

but not in this bed, in these sheets,

where you last kissed me on the forehead

before leaving for work–I can’t handle

these emotions, want to bottle them up.

I could have spent the rest of my life with you

but now I’ll settle for closed eyelids.

Don’t tell me you’re over him

when you look in the mirror & still see

everything

he said was wrong with you,

every flaw & every scar–

I promise you, he never

looked close enough–

instead of all the reasons why

I love you,

all your beauty & all your strength–

those scars are proof.

Don’t tell me he’s in the past

when you refuse to believe

you are good enough,

you are

enough.