Category Archives: Motherhood

Sep30

The Motherload (no pun intended).

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Tuesday was marked with the motherload of meltdowns starring me, party of one. And I don’t cry. Wednesday followed in a broken-down mood as I attempted to overpower it with a dominating attitude. Thursday was the lost soul that led up to me waking up this gloomy Friday morning in clarity—and dropping out of my MA program at Eastern Michigan University. But that phone call brought sunshine to this rainy day.

I’m not a gal who cries. I can count on one hand the number of times I remember breaking down in tears over the last decade. Unless I’m watching The Voice—there’s something about watching someone chase their dreams, don’t judge me, and that’s just a tear brimming on my lower eyelid anyway—I’ve got the round the clock dry eyes to match the resting bitch face. But Tuesday I bawled for a good hour and had the running mascara and puffy red eyes and migraine to prove it. My breaking of the dam and unlocking of the backup floodgates was a major concern, for me and for my parents. (Mom: “Well, I’m concerned. You’re not one to cry. We need to do something about this. We can’t just let it go.”) So I looked at my life and all the stress and Tuesday night I went to bed defeated, under the expectation that I could do nothing about this.

Wednesday, as I drove to my night class on the opposite side of Ann Arbor—forty minutes of allowance to purely stew—I wondered why I’m so hard on myself. How I can console and accept it when friends cry but think it childish and weak and entirely inappropriate for me to do the same. I told myself it was okay. I was allowed this once in a decade break.

On Thursday, yesterday, that was no longer okay. Why was I settling for that unhappiness? Why was I even pursuing a MA program degree that is heavily and disappointingly misrepresented? The Written Communication program I was so excited about being accepted into last spring and beginning this fall turned into a program heavily geared towards Technical Writers and defending the 90 percent focus on this particular field. Forget the design and social media organization and blogging and professional writing aspects. Those were insignificant. And those were the reasons why I was initialing pursuing this field.

This morning I went through the list in my head as to why I was unhappy and everything boiled down to this course of education. I couldn’t let the fear of people viewing me as a quitter or the pressure from family to further my education make me stay on this course. I NO LONGER WANTED TO BE ON THIS COURSE. I wouldn’t want my daughter to stay on such a course if it was the source of not just stress—that can be overpowered—but depression. My god, and I don’t do depression. Three days and I was done.

For two seconds after I withdrew from classes, I panicked—What did I do? What will people think? Why do I care? I didn’t. Third second in and the relief blanketed me. I looked at a future not ridden with financial strain, tuition payments, apologies to Evelynn for not having time, cancellations on friends due to last minute homework, constant yawning at work and leaving early for class…I was ecstatic for my future. I looked at a mostly open weekend and was elated. It was euphoric—the relief and lightness. I didn’t know how heavy I was until I realized how happy I could be without the burden from one course of action.

I’m not quitting, I’m flying.

Aug1

Confession.

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IMG_9006Lately I’ve been feeling like a shitty mother. & it has everything to do with lack of time.

One of the main reasons it didn’t work with her father was our differing beliefs. Whereas I don’t believe in putting anything before Evelynn, he had gone six weeks without seeing her for one reason or the other. But this past week, I hate how I’ve been feeling like a hypocrite. Between two part-time gigs, I haven’t been able to spend much time with Evelynn. & it’s hitting me hard. Dedicating fifty or sixty hours a week to work has greatly reduced time spent with Evelynn. I didn’t see her for almost 48 hours because of how my shifts were set up. Typically, I have a “rule” of always being home either in the morning or at night everyday, but it didn’t work out that way last week. It was depressing.

My mother is the most stable person in Evelynn’s life. She’s a stay at home mom who can rarely leave the house due to Taylor’s situation. There are times when Evelynn only wants her grandma and it’s painful to watch. I had set an entire day this past week to Evelynn, but instead I spent it in Grand Rapids recovering from the previous night’s escapades. I spent the day close to tears and feeling like a failure. It was the third time this year I had gone out with friends I hadn’t seen in months. I know I deserved a night out and away but it didn’t make me feel better. It still doesn’t. I got home with time to say goodnight to Evelynn and not much else to spare. I begged coworkers to work my morning shift so I could spend it at home with her. They couldn’t. After a long day of both gigs, once again I didn’t make it home until after dinnertime.

What do I keep telling myself? The “creating a life” and “financial stability” excuses don’t work for me. I might spoil the hell out of Evelynn but none of that means anything if I can’t spend time with her. No, it’s the setting an example to chase dreams. It’s the idea that if she were in my same position twenty-five years down the road, she wouldn’t let being a single mom hold her back from accepting work positions and doing well. Because I don’t ever want her to settle, not in anything.

Jul14

Single Mom Hypocrite.

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I am a hypocrite. For I do not date single fathers. Those I have known over the years & those I have met more recently do not give the great single dads a good name. Parenting is not based on DNA. Donating the sperm that lead to the birth does not make one a parent. Even if done unknowingly. It does not automatically give a parent the right. I have listened to men complain of exes having majority custody but then choose to drop the kid(s) off with a relative in order to hit up the bar. Or when with their child(ren), spend it on their phone instead of interacting. Or they nap. It is a turnoff. & I hate this negative view I have against single dads.

When I hear them complain, I question their honesty & wonder if it’s simply a place of rejection or lack of control they are coming from. I have been the pregnant woman alone in bed, curled in a ball, wanting nothing more than to surround my baby with all the love I could give. & then more. Despite being in a relationship at the time, I was very much alone. I lied to friends & family about my happiness of the situation and the relationship when I feared the future and single parenthood. Sympathizing with the guys’ ex is automatic for me & I wish it wasn’t. I know the frustration of being judged on a title, a label. But I am a hypocrite for immediately casting off guys because they own the same title as me, one that I hold very proudly: single parent. Being a single mom is rewarding, knowing I don’t need a guy to make it.

But it can also be lonely.

Lonely by no means translates to desperate. As if I wasn’t already shallow before I became a parent, I’m definitely not willing to settle now. & that makes dating a questionable event. Most days, I’m convinced if Dante was a woman it would have been included as a circle of hell. The last minute rejections & cancellations get old & are bullets to a penetrable ego. I stopped planning for a babysitter months ago–pathetic, I’m well aware. The frustration & judgment from guys who don’t like Evelynn’s father being involved in her life & seeing her regularly is appalling. I may not be a fan of his, but I am a fan of her. Some days, I wonder if it’s even worth it. Then there are nights where I could kick myself in the ass for not being settled in a career with great insurance because I don’t need a man to have more kids other than the sperm necessary to reproduce. I entirely realize that may make me crazy, but I love being a mom. More than anything. That’s not feminism speaking—not needing a man by my side—it’s reality. Being a mom is what makes me happy. It’s not a hobby, it’s a lifestyle. & this is what separates parents everywhere: parenting as a hobby versus parenting as a lifestyle.

Every choice I make involves Evelynn. The job I choose, the route I drive, the money I save, the products I buy, the goals I set. I’m stuck at home living with my parents because my child can’t live in the city—she’s that allergic to chlorine—& to purchase or rent in the country is not affordable for me at the moment. I don’t take vacations because I’m not willing to walk away from my daughter for such. Not at this time. The first thing I’ve done for me in the past two years was join a co-ed soccer league I play in once a week out in Grand Rapids—across the state—but even then, I haven’t been making it to every game. The guilt of leaving my kid after working a morning shift or closing the previous night is a little overwhelming. I can count on one hand the number of friends—close, not acquaintance—I consider myself to have. I’m not willing to go out to the bar or sporting events multiple times in the week because I prefer to spend my time off with my daughter and any extra money spoiling the hell out of her. People assume I’m tight lipped and unsociable—I am—because I don’t take the time to make new friends, the effort to hang out. It’s single parenting 101: my kid has first dibs on my free time.

May14

Cheers to Stubbornhood.

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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.

Mar29

Put down the picket & backpack.

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“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.

Feb26

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

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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.)

Feb27

Secret Is Out

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Still want to know my secret? Still think there was more than sickness to my lack of weight gain while pregnant? Well, truth be told, you might be right, though I highly doubt it. However, for argument sake, I’m willing to indulge you. Briefly, that is.

Morning sickness was a lie. It was all day everyday and it was the one reason why I never had to purchase maternity clothes. Yes, you heard me right. Now get over it and let’s move on. The reason I had a healthy baby and felt healthy, despite the sickness, was much simpler. I have always been aware of the food and ingredients I consume. Pregnancy only exemplified that notion. I was conscious about everything I put in my body. I read all labels, every damn thing that was written on any food product. I read it all. If it was low fat or low sugar, I deciphered the ingredients to determine what was used as sweetener.

The doctor may have mentioned it was okay to have diet pop but I refused to put aspartame in my system and I stayed away from high fructose corn syrup or artificial anything. I had enough trouble keeping bland and normal food down; I didn’t want to waste time trying to consume junk or harming substances. Instead, I devoured as many fruits as possible. They were hydrating and despite the acidity, fruit settled the best. Some days, it was the only thing I could keep down.

I gave up caffeine entirely. College was survived by guzzling about four cups minimum of coffee a day. Caffeine was kryptonite. It was the hardest thing to give up and I turned to Kool-aid. Not my smartest choice. There has been discussion over a direct correlation between artificial coloring and autism. Upon realizing this, I gave up the Kool-aid, too. For half my pregnancy I only drank select teas and water.

If I thought coffee was hard to give up, giving up sandwiches was a slow painful death. Sandwiches have always been one of my favorite foods–only to be outdone by hamburgers. Cold sandwiches, specifically. For nine months, I somehow survived on paninis and hot sandwiches, making sure to heat up the lunchmeat in a fry pan before, and I only ate the uncured. Sodium nitrate didn’t have a chance in hell to enter my body. It’s a pink powder that shouldn’t be an additive.

Read that last paragraph again. Notice how I heated up the lunchmeat: fry pan. Don’t get me started on the uselessness and utter unhealthiness of microwaves. Actually, screw that. Sometime in high school–or maybe it was back in middle school–my parents removed our microwave from the kitchen. Previously, all of Taylor’s meals had been warmed up via microwave. Between the heat and rays of a microwave, the vital nutrients and vitamins that make up a meal are killed. When eating a microwaved meal, whether home cooked leftovers or out of the freezer, you are consuming empty calories. Everything that was once healthy about the meal perished. Instead, use the bake option on an oven or a fry/sauce pan on a stovetop to heat food up. It may take a bit longer but that’s the benefit. Those key nutrients aren’t being zapped away.

Unfortunately, when I was pregnant, I hadn’t been aware of the effect gluten had on me. I continued to consume bread and oatmeal daily. This was my greatest fault and I didn’t know it. I had been able to give up all processed food and leaned instead towards the all-natural food products. It wasn’t difficult. The mind is a powerful thing. When you make a decision and actively pursue that lifestyle choice, your body begins to follow suit. I gave up salty food like chips and pretzels because they made me dehydrated and sick. After awhile, my body no longer craved such snacks. Telling my body “No” took discipline, following through took restraint, but the end result was motivating.

Evelynn may have only been 5lbs when she came home from the hospital but she’s healthy as a cucumber. Her doctor was consistently impressed those first few weeks she was home. There may have been constant worry over her health and “normalcy”–God I hate that word, it implies imperfect in the abnormal–but I also knew she was going to be a force to be reckoned with. It was a bone-deep sense if assurance and it was magnificent. My food and drink choices gave me comfort in this.

Giving up coffee and cold sandwiches, Kool-aid and salty foods, was difficult but it was also empowering. I learned my limits and I learned what I was capable of. I gave up Ben & Jerry’s and dippity eggs because of raw egg and uncooked egg yolk. I gave up tossed and garden salads because I couldn’t handle ranch but indulged in taco salads weekly. Homemade salsa made for a great dressing. We got meat from the local meat barn because sodium nitrate didn’t interest me. We sought out no GMO products. It was harder than hell but I survived. Being healthy isn’t as expensive as we believe it to be. Instead of paying for preservatives, growth hormones, and additives, pay for raw nutrients, vitamins, and all-natural ingredients. Your bank account won’t see that great of a difference but your body will reap some amazing benefits.

Feb10

my wish for you

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When I was pregnant & waiting to meet my little girl, I used to wish her a life without heartache. Since then, I’ve changed my mind. I want her to know trials; & that statement probably won’t win me any mom of the year awards.

There’s a lot of tragedy in this world. It can drive a person to have a pessimistic outlook and for some to commit suicide. There’s also people overcoming the tragedy. I want my daughter to become one of those people. I’m not so naive to think nothing will ever happen to her. Those hardships & obstacles that people face are what build character. I want to know she can make it in this world. I don’t want her to grow up to be naive or have a god complex, thinking nothing can touch her. Nor do I want her to buckle at the knees with the first sign of trouble.

I want her to know success. I want her to feel accomplished when she overcomes an obstacle. I want her to know compassion & have empathy for others. I want her to know how lucky she is to be living even when she’s suffering. I want her to have faith that good will persevere over evil. I want her to be able to smile & genuinely wish her worst enemy a good day because she feels sorry that person can’t–won’t–choose to be happy.

And I want her to know heartache. I want her to know just how good love can be. I don’t want her to take it for granted & I want her to know how to walk away if she is being taken for granted. I want her to know how to respect others & recognize when she is not being respected. I want her to have pride in herself & in where she came from without being egotistical. I want her to have a backbone & an unwavering faith in herself. I want her to feel secure in her future but understand that life happens, shit happens, & people have bad days.

When she is at her wits end, because everyone has a limit to the number of bad days they can handle, I want her to be able to tie a knot & hold the hell on. I want her to swing from that rope like a kid & take a leap of faith into the chilling water of reality; & when she comes to the surface for a breath of fresh air she becomes so sure of herself that she can survive, that she is surviving, & that she wants to survive.

Lord help me, I want her to know some heartache, I do. More importantly, I want her to have the strength to survive it.