Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Unpopular Opinion: I Hate Las Vegas



By El Tarto
Posted on Wednesday, June 29th, 2016






I never used to consider myself to be a prude. I work in the medical field and have seen so many butts and vaginas and penises and boobs that I barely notice exhibitionism anymore. As a woman, I believe in women being able to dress in whatever they would like. I won’t go to strip clubs or those bikini barista stands, but I don’t judge women who choose to work there. I’m not big into gambling, but I don’t hate it. And yet for some reason, when someone mentions Las Vegas, I have to sit on my hands in order to stop myself from reaching up to clutch my pearls.

The one and only time that I was ever in Las Vegas, I went with my husband and his family- including his grandparents- and most of our trip was paid for in full by my husband’s parents. It sounds like a dream vacation- who doesn’t want to skip work for a week to gamble and drink on someone else’s dime? However, it was an utter and complete nightmare for me.


Selma and Thelma would have had a headache too


Maybe this is just a snobby Seattle thing, but I am not used to smoking indoors. Restaurants and casinos here don’t allow smoking and most places enforce the “no smoking within 25 feet of a doorway” law. As soon as the plane landed in Nevada, I felt like I was being punched in the face by the ghost of a million cigarettes. The taxi ride we took from the airport didn’t help- the cab driver was a very nice person but the taxi smelled like a horrendous combination of an ashtray, strong axe deodorant, and car air freshener in the “Broke and Desperate” scent. I had a headache by the time we got to the hotel- which also *surprise* allowed smoking inside. There was no smoking in our room, which worked like having a peeing section in a pool and putting a door in front of the non-peeing section. The smell and smog in the air combined with flashing lights and glitter everywhere was overwhelming and gave me the biggest migraine I have ever had.




In Vegas, there didn’t seem to be anywhere to go to eat, drink or dance that didn’t involve women (or men) in underpants. Some people like underpants and that’s great, but I would prefer to have a waiter shoving pastries in my face, not a standing on my table with pasties in my face. Call me crazy, but I prefer porn in the privacy of my bedroom and not blaring in the background of some bar while I am getting drinks with my father-in-law. Even if you don’t eat or drink in Vegas- the entire strip is littered with card snappers that are constantly shoving pictures of prostitutes in your face. The hotel had no fewer than five different pamphlets for different stripper/hooker companies. Billboards with neon flashing lights had lewd slogans about purchasing women to bring back to your hotel room. Finally, Vegas men seemed to take cat-calling to an exceptional asshole level with how they leered at me and hollered at me loudly. Being whistled at on the street is gross; having a 40 year old guy whisper, “I have a long tongue for kitty lickin’ ” and drooling at me in the Starbucks line at 7am is nauseating enough to make me give up coffee completely. My husband's 68 year old grandmother wasn't even spared from their ogling. I found the entire situation disrespectful and disgusting.

I should mention somewhere in here that my husband is an alcoholic. At the time that we went, he was not a sober alcoholic. He was immediately wasted the second we stepped off the plane and didn’t regain temperance until three days after we got home from our trip. I enjoy drinks, but I do not often get drunk. Las Vegas when you are not drunk is like being the designated driver at a college frat party- everyone around you is acting outrageous while you are sober in the corner watching a bunch of people run around like idiots.

Probably the worst part of the trip for me was dealing with my feelings when I returned. I got off the plane feeling exhausted, sick, and completely frustrated- mostly with myself. I thanked my husband’s parents for taking us and did my very best to avoid looking like an ungrateful jerk and took an extra day off of work with an attempt to catch up on sleep and make peace with my judgy feelings.




I shall not eat cilantro again, and I shall not go to Vegas again.

I was shocked to discover that I am apparently much more vanilla than I thought. Vegas threw a wrench in the opinion I had about myself being an open minded, down for anything person and was a huge blow to my ego. I have since convinced myself that travelling is like food. I tried cilantro and I wanted to love it, but I didn’t. Being vanilla doesn’t make me a bad person or a hater, and in this case it might just mean a future of luxury cruise vacations instead. Vegas was an experience- while I will cherish my selfie with wax Britany Spears forever- I consider Vegas to be the cilantro of vacation destinations where I shan’t return again.

About the Author:
I'm a survivor. I have survived stillbirth, miscarriage, divorce, domestic violence, depression and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I'm a full time medical assistant and a full time mom who enjoys reading, growing vegetables, and eating sweets in the spare time that I do have.

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

Teenage Newlyweds Episode 3: Talking in Cars




By Basic Tart

Posted on Tuesday, July 28th, 2016


Previously on Teenage Newlyweds: The three couples got married and went on honeymoons where they got to have sex which is the reason they got married!

Time for Episode 3 to “find out what happens when the honeymoon is over and married life gets real”! (Nice Real World knock-off!)

We open with Halie and George leaving for Utah. Halie’s entire family is gathered to send them off since they will never see her again. Christy (Halie’s mom) has put cookies and water in the SUV for them so they have snacks for the drive. Aww. Christy says she’s “not just the mom but I’m also the friend. I don’t want that dynamic to fade.” Is there no phone service in Utah? Halie cries as they pull away and George holds her hand to try to comfort her. Then we quickly get four "I love you's"!

Brenda tells us how she’s missed Travis since they’ve been separated for three months to save money. She’s been living with her mom and he’s been staying with a friend while he works at a camp. He shows us the kitchen where he “cries lonely-ly while I heat up water by myself”. Luckily, he’s shaved the ridiculous non-beard from his face. Brenda says she can’t wait to move in with him because there’s a lot of tension and disagreements with her mom. I don’t know what she thinks it will be like living with Travis since they don’t seem to agree on much of anything. Brenda’s mom and sister sit for an interview where her sister says Brenda is a feminist and her mom says she doesn’t like that term because to her it means a woman doesn’t do things for a man and she never had a problem cooking and cleaning the house. Brenda’s sister corrects her that a feminist thinks women are “equal and valuable” and reminds her that “in that sense you are the biggest feminist in your family”. Brenda’s mom agrees and says she’s “a feminist but did not notice.” And I officially LOVE them!

Emma and Joey are thinking about buying their first house. Emma is super into it and Joey…isn’t. Emma is getting frustrated as she tries to show Joey houses online and he’s distracted and tells her not to get huffy with him. I really struggle with these two. I just don’t see why they were dating let alone why they got married. Emma says most couples their age can’t afford a house but they have enough in savings for a down payment and Joey’s parents see the house as a good investment. I wonder if they really think that or if they are like the rest of the world and think it’s a terrible idea for these two to buy a house when they will be divorced next week. Emma keeps looking at houses outside their price range. Ahh, champagne dreams and a beer budget, except they aren’t old enough to drink. That seems to perfectly sum up this relationship.



Travis says he’s a “free man! And by that I mean unemployed! Woohoo!” Oy. Travis shows up to get Brenda and they are very happy to see each other. Brenda’s mom is helping load the car so they can move into their new apartment. In an interview with her mom, we learn more about the family and how things were for her when she came to America, had her family and lost her husband. She is one strong lady and it’s clear she wants her kids to be able to take care of themselves since you never know what will happen.

Halie and George are moving to an apartment in Utah near George’s family since he hasn’t been home from his mission for very long. George found the apartment and Halie admits she’s nervous about moving in since she hasn’t seen it. They are 600 miles from Utah and Christy calls to tell Halie how much she misses her and she’s sad because Halie was crying when she left. And now I want to scream. I get missing your family but instead of making it a sad/scary thing why not focus on the new and exciting and encourage your daughter instead of crying and making her feel bad for leaving, which- by the way- you left your parents when you got married! And let’s not forget that Halie just graduated high school so if she hadn’t gotten married it’s possible she would have been moving away to college. Christy tells Halie and George she loves them and reminds them, probably for the 100th time, to call her when they arrive in Utah. George’s parents say how excited they are to have him and Halie so close.

Brenda is packed up and her grandma and mom offer advice before she and Travis leave. Her grandma says she hopes God blesses them because marriage is hard. Brenda says that she and her grandma view marriage differently, her grandmother has had three husbands: the first one was abusive, the second one was an alcoholic and her grandfather was “a bit of a player”. Brenda’s mom reminds them that the third string is strongest which references their wedding when they said God was the third string in their marriage. The advice is good but of course Travis and Brenda kind of roll their eyes because their marriage is different and special and will be easy.

Emma and Joey wake up and realize they are late leaving to meet with a mortgage broker. So of course Joey decides this is the perfect time to make eggs. Right, okay. Emma is trying to get all their paperwork together because the best time to do that is when you are late for your appointment not at some time before the appointment. Have I mentioned they are immature? And now Joey’s mom says the biggest challenge in their marriage will be him procrastinating. <<uncontrollable laughter>> They finally find the paperwork scattered all over the house and Emma throws clothes at Joey and tells him to get dressed. Yes they are still late and haven’t left yet.

Brenda and Travis are driving to their new apartment. Brenda is clearly excited and giggly. They explain that they are living in student housing near the school according to Travis, “technically it’s student housing because only students can be housed there.” Yes, that is a direct quote. Travis says the best thing about having your own apartment is the bedroom and Brenda says, “I feel like I’m excited about the bedroom but I’m more excited about the kitchen!” She’s used to her vibrator, so I guess having a kitchen of your own is more exciting! Travis says if she’s more excited about the kitchen then he “must be doing something wrong then!” Ding, ding, ding. Travis finally scores a point! Then they talk about how they don’t have to have quiet sex anymore and Travis says he’s “not sure how teenagers do it” and Brenda says, “It’s not that hard, actually.” Oh, burn!

Halie reminds George that she needs to call her parents when they get to their new apartment. George says he will call his parents since they live nearby and maybe they will get them dinner. In the interview Halie says again how she’s going to be far from her family and that will be hard. They cross into Utah and Halie says again how everything is new.


Travis and Brenda are still driving to their new place and start talking about kids. Travis wants three and that clearly makes Brenda nervous because kids are expensive. In an interview Travis says they are “only different in all the important categories”. Back in the car discussing kids and Travis is explaining that as you have kids each one is less expensive because you are “buying stuff in bulk”. My husband saw this part and says Travis doesn’t have a clue. Brenda is trying to explain how expensive kids are using college costs as an example but Travis blows that off because their kids won’t be in college “until 30 years from now” completely ignoring the fact that his kids will only be going to college in 30 years if he and Brenda wait 12 years to have any kids. For an engineering student, Travis does not math well. Brenda gets annoyed because he’s “talking over” her.

Emma and Joey are finally on the way to their appointment. Joey is eating four egg and sausage sandwiches on the drive. Yes, four. Joey’s mom says guys mature around age 25 while girls mature around 21-22. She says Joey is still only 21 and she’s hopeful she will see a change in him around 25 like she did her husband. I like her: she seems to have a good understanding of Joey’s faults and why this marriage was a bad idea.

Brenda decides that the drive to the apartment is a good time to discuss how they will raise their kids politically. Travis thinks their kids will be Republicans and she thinks they will be Democrats because she’s more politically active than he is. Travis says he will become politically active just to influence his kids and puts down Brenda’s ability to persuade people politically even though she studies political science in school.

Halie and George are still driving. Halie says her mom has always called her an old soul, even when she had stupid teenage moments. George agrees that she’s an old soul but says when they first started talking she was definitely a teenage girl. Oh, George. He then laughs and says she does “do drama stuff sometimes, it’s funny”. Oh, George. He laughs as Halie makes faces that should let him know he’s saying the wrong things but he keeps going. GEORGE! STOP TALKING! George doesn’t listen to me or the daggers in Halie’s eyes. Halie asks him what he’s talking about and he says, “I don’t know. It might just be a girl thing.” And here is the look his wife gives him:


Yeah, that’s not good. And yet he keeps going, “Yeah, it’s just like reading a little too far into things. Irrational thinking.” George, George, George. Guess who isn’t getting lucky the first night in their new apartment?

Emma and Joey are still driving to meet with the mortgage broker and are still late. Brenda and Travis are still driving and still arguing about politics and kids.

George is still being really insulting to Halie and “girls” and doesn’t even know it. She does call him on it and tell him, “You’re just being really stereotypical now and it’s rude and offensive.” Good to see Halie stand up for herself instead of letting George get away with being rude and ridiculous.


And WHY ARE ALL THESE CONVERSATIONS HAPPENING IN VEHICLES? Sorry for yelling but I’m trying to understand why the conversations that seem most important to building a strong relationship always happen when these three couples are driving somewhere. It’s either a really strange coincidence, producers are planting these conversations or it’s a way to keep production costs down by having cameras in the cars but not camera-operators. I’d say they it was possible they are recreating past conversations but none of them are that good at acting to be able to pull it off.

More driving and more arguing for everyone. I deleted a couple paragraphs because they don’t matter and it really is just more driving and arguing.

Joey and Emma FINALLY get to the mortgage broker’s office. I can’t help but wonder if they should have talked to someone about the home-buying process before they apply for a loan so they know what the steps are and what they are getting into. It’s a confusing process at any age but to walk into it just out of high school would be overwhelming. Maxine is their mortgage broker and she tells them they need to get approved for a loan before they start looking for houses. Maxine starts talking about numbers, fees, appraisals and approvals and Joey’s eyes glaze over. Emma says, “There was a lot of things I didn’t understand about the meeting. And that’s kind of what I didn’t like about it. Being first-time homebuyers we don’t know anything.” Ding, ding, ding. Looks like I was was right folks! Maxine mentions the program they will be applying for their loan through and Emma asks if they should look at any other programs. Maxine says this program is their best option which of course annoys Emma because Maxine answered the question she was asked and Emma wanted to know more about other programs even if this one is the best for them. Emma says, “We were just asking questions and she blew me off.” She didn’t blow them off. She answered the question she was asked AND if Emma and Joey wanted time to ask questions, they shouldn’t have been late to the appointment! But Emma is mad that she’s not getting her way.

Brenda and Travis get to their apartment. It’s a cute little place with one bedroom, one bathroom a small kitchen, and a small living room. It’s perfect for a college-aged couple even if their rent is expensive at $1300/month but as Brenda says it’s more convenient to live near campus. Travis says he should get more financial aid since he’s married. This makes it sound like they don’t even really know what their financial situation is and if they can afford the apartment. Hopefully they are getting good money from the show so they can pay their bills.

George and Halie arrive at their new apartment and George says he found it through his brother-in-law. His parents have stocked their fridge, cabinets, and bathroom. They are very happy, excited and #blessed. Halie says she loves it and it won’t be hard to live there. George’s parents show up to greet them- his dad has awesome fedoras- and talk about how happy they are to have George nearby but how difficult it will be for Halie to be away from her family. They seem really great.

Emma and Joey are still signing papers in Maxine’s office. Maxine says she thinks the process is “overwhelming” for them. Emma and Joey say in an interview that they were frustrated they weren’t given more time to read the papers they were signing because Maxine was rushing them. I repeat, if they felt rushed then they shouldn’t have signed the papers AND they should have been on time! Yes, I’m still annoyed that they were late. #sorrynotsorry Emma’s mom says she always told Emma to read everything she was signing. Which is good advice. In this case it would have been helpful to have one (or more) of their parents talk to the more about the paperwork and process of buying a house. It’s not as simple as walk in with your paystubs and taxes, get money and buy a house, but I think that’s what Joey and Emma were expecting and that is not the mortgage broker’s fault. These two (okay, Emma) are so insistent on proving they are adults and don’t need help that they are putting themselves in a situation where they don’t understand what is going on and what the ramifications of their actions are.

Halie and George are carrying in boxes of their stuff to get their new place set up. In an interview, Halie reminds us one more time how everything is changing and will be new for her. She calls her mom (on speaker) to let her know they have arrived safely. Her parents talk again about how it’s sad and weird that she’s not there. Halie says she will talk to them tomorrow. Another interview with Halie and she says she misses her family and living in Utah will be a struggle. Which is the opposite of what she said earlier.

Brenda and Travis are making dinner and Brenda decides to make a potato dish like her grandma makes. It didn’t turn out the way she expected, but Travis says he was “a good husband” and ate it anyway. They then look at some wine glasses they were given as a wedding gift that are engraved with the saying “Marriage is not a sprint, it’s a marathon.” They are talking about what they think it means and Brenda seems annoyed that everyone keeps telling her marriage can be difficult at times. Travis fills them with milk and says, “My friend has so much faith in our relationship. He knows it will at least last the next couple years so we can finally use these!”. This seems to reassure Brenda, but having faith a marriage will last two years seems a little sad. Travis’s parents say Travis and Brenda can’t ignore their differences or they will be a “train wreck, basically”. So she’s clearly optimistic about this marriage.

Emma and Joey have signed their life away and are back in the car. Emma says, “Going through her honestly seems a little scammy to me.” It’s clear she was expecting someone to hold her hand and Maxine isn’t doing that. When Emma points out, “It would be better to go to a bank. It would be cheaper to go to a back.” Joey says they can always try a bank which annoys Emma, “No we can’t. Because we just signed papers today saying we have to go through Maxine…Did you read what you signed?” and it’s even more clear they aren’t on the same page, don’t understand what happened in their meeting and should have waited to buy a home. And everyone knows it except them.

Halie cry/sad count: 4

Halie’s mom is sad/crying: 4

George and Halie I love you count: 4- a little low this episode but George was more interested in annoying Halie than getting laid

Next episode: Kids and parenting!

About the Author:
Mini-van driving, coffee and wine drinking, sports loving, chocolate eating, work outside the home, cradle/cafeteria Catholic, pro-vax, married mom of 3 (including twins). I enjoy reading Harry Potter, romance novels, People magazine and true-crime. I live in the rural American heartland.

Monday, June 27, 2016

Full Bellies: Sometimes Support Means Saying You Can Stop



By Agent Tarter
Posted Monday, June 27th, 2016


I am one of the few, lucky women who had a pretty universally awesome breastfeeding experience. Sure, there were a few lumps and bumps thanks to my oversupply – boobs as hard as boulders when my first started sleeping through the night comes to mind – but overall, I liked the process and found it fairly easy. So when my local breastfeeding support group was looking for volunteers for a peer-to-peer support line for new moms who wanted to breastfeed, I was happy to raise my hand. The key qualifications: 6 months of breastfeeding experience, 8 hours of training, a willingness to fill out a few forms after every contact, and a positive attitude.

The training day was about what you would expect: we got a quick rundown on key information about breastfeeding, supply, potential problems, and probably most importantly, when to refer the mom in question to medical assistance, rather than continuing to help her by e-mail or phone. I went home with a binder of information I could reference and waited to be matched with a peer. Because I am a shameless keener, I also bought Dr. Jack Newman’s Guide to Breastfeeding (he’s Canadian! said my patriotic side) and read it cover to cover.

And that was valuable, although not in the way you would expect.

What came through to me by the time that I was done reading the book was that this was a great resource for women who knew for sure they would do ANYTHING it took to breastfeed for as long as possible, but it wasn’t so great for women who weren’t sure. It was great for women who were determined to overcome their mastitis or low milk supply or latch problems by any means necessary, and not so great for women who were exhausted and desperate and just didn’t know if they could keep this going. And if you were a mom who didn’t find this whole nursing thing such a transformative bonding experience? Well, let’s just say you would have gotten the impression that there was something distinctly wrong with you.

The thing is, breastfeeding is a wonderful experience…if the baby is getting fed and if the mom enjoys it. But breastmilk won’t magically make things better if Mom is sobbing the whole time because it hurts, or because she’s so tired and she just needs three straight hours without worrying about the baby or the pump. Sure, there’s validity to saying that no formula yet can duplicate the unique milk a woman makes for her baby, but that doesn’t make formula battery acid. And if a mother is on the fence about whether nursing is right for her, guilt and second-guessing are not going to help.

One of the moms I was matched with during my time as a volunteer had to go back to work when her baby was four months old. Nursing had always been hard, and it became harder afterwards. Now she wasn’t just fighting a still-painful latch and an erratic supply, she was also dealing with plugged ducts and engorgement and breasts that just plain wouldn’t empty for the pump. And despite the breastfeeding she had already done, despite her increasing desperation, she simply couldn’t bring herself to say the lactation f-word of formula. When I suggested it, there were literally tears.

I’m a tremendous advocate for the breastfeeding relationship, but my more militant peers are damaging that cause far more than they are helping. Yes, we should absolutely educate mothers who want to breastfeed about the advantages of that, and also about the potential problems with including feeds of formula some or all of the time if you’re hoping to continue nursing. And we should definitely combat the stupid myths out there – no, well-meaning but ill-informed great grandmas, your milk cannot “sour in the breast.” But by treating women who “fail” to nurse successfully as if they have done their babies a disservice by switching to a nutritious, safe form of feeding, all we’re likely to do is scare people off. Better to be a terrible formula-feeder getting a decent night’s sleep from day one than a defector, a failure.

I will always support the women I know who want to breastfeed, and I’m happy to tell them about my positive experience with it. But a key part of truly supporting them is telling them that, if they reach that point where nursing is consistently more miserable than rewarding – for any reason – it is okay to stop. There is an option for that now.

Oh, and for the record…the mom who cried when I suggested she try formula was a lot happier the week after. We stayed in touch after my time as peer support was done. If she has another baby, she says she might try nursing again, or not…but she knows that, either way, she’ll be a good mom.



About the Author:
Avid reader, budding writer, incessant singer. Married to a partner with OCD and parent of a child with autism. My opinions may be slanted by my experiences living in the socialist paradise of Canada.

Full Bellies: 9 lb 5 oz



By Riot Trrrt
Posted on Monday, June 27th, 2016



“She’s 9 lbs 5 oz!”

Normally that statement would be a sound of joy. You hear that sentence and you picture a crying baby covered in goo, a crying mother, a proud father, doctors, nurses, and maybe even a machine that goes, “Bing!” 9 lb 5 oz is a healthy newborn weight, a big baby. Something that makes you view a mother as one with a vagina of steel.  

“What?”

9 lbs 5 oz is a great weight for a baby born prematurely. For a baby born at 4 pounds, they have now officially more than doubled their birth weight. What a great mother! She must have toiled for hours in the NICU, carefully feeding, worrying about her little baby. At four months, that NICU baby has grown so much. That baby is surely on track to do wonderful things.

“I’m going to go get the doctor.”

My baby was not born prematurely. She was born at 39 weeks and 2 days. She was not born weighing 9 lbs 5 oz. She was born weighing 8 lbs 3 oz. At her four month check up, she had only gained 1 lb. It was official. For the first four months of her life, my daughter had failed to thrive.

How did this happen? How could I let my daughter all but starve? I was not some dumb young uneducated teen mom. I was in my 30s. I work with children. I call DCFS on children who exhibit signs of neglect. Was I neglecting my child? Was I evil? What was wrong with me? Was something wrong with her?

I went into pregnancy with a pretty laissez-faire attitude towards breastfeeding. If I had learned anything throughout my short time in this life, it was that God laughs at me anytime I plan on doing something. I had assumed purely because God had made everything else complicated, it would most likely take us years to get pregnant. I was wrong. I assumed I would have a problematic pregnancy. Other than my pelvis trying to fall apart (stupid hormones), it was cool. I assumed labor would go horribly awry and I’d have a c-section and all of my organs removed due to complications. Other than the fact that I was almost forced to have a natural childbirth (another story for another day), it was cool. I ended up with a baby. We were both healthy. Neat. I convinced myself that the only way to get breastfeeding to actually work would be to fully expect it not to.

I was never particularly attached to the idea of breastfeeding. When I was in my 20s, I asked one of my bosses why she was so into it. She held up her baby and said, “Well, it is kind of cool when you think, ‘Hey, I grew this human!” I could see her point. I understand science well enough to know that the benefits of breastfeeding are negligible, but I knew humanity well enough to know that people like to judge women who don’t try, so I figured I’d give it a whirl. I signed up for a two hour breastfeeding class offered through my hospital. I was nine months pregnant at the time, so I spent most of it having to pee and wanting to take a nap. The instructor kept talking about how fabulous the lactation consultants were at the hospital, so I figured it would all come together when the baby came.

When the baby came, the first thing they did was sit her on my chest. The nurses kept telling me to try to feed her. I had just pushed for two hours and really just wanted to hold this whimpery pile of baby that showed no interest in eating. I wanted some time with my kid. Instead, strangers were touching my breasts and grabbing my nipples. I really just wanted to be left alone.

For the first two days, I could barely get the baby interested in my boob. She would kind of eat, but she couldn’t latch. The nurses’ methods of helping mainly consisted of squeezing my nipples and telling me to try again in 15 minutes. On the second night, as I slept for two hours in a row, I was woken up by a nurse who told me I needed to wake my baby up to eat. The baby didn’t really seem interested, so they told me to wake her up every 15 minutes to try for the rest of the night. Now, I may have been a new mom, but I was fully aware that sleep was about to become incredibly elusive. I put her down and slept for two more hours.

The next day, I asked for a lactation consultant to come and help me get the baby to latch. The actual instructor from the class came. I knew my problems would be solved. She squeezed my nipple and told me to change how I hold the baby. Then she left. That was it. Not once did she mention a nipple shield. Not once did she mention nipple ointment. Not once did she mention pumping. Not once did she mention formula. My daughter lost weight, but nobody seemed concerned.

At this point, my baby’s poor latch was starting to wreak havoc on my boobs. I pointed this out, and I was told to change how I held her. We were released from the hospital, and I tried diligently to get the baby to latch. Sometimes she did, sometimes she wouldn’t. We took her to the doctor, where they were concerned about her weight. I had to come back every two days for three weeks to get her weighed. Each time, she gained just enough weight for them to say, “Keep trying every two hours”. I was given the very useful suggestions of, “Drink whole milk!”, “Eat Oatmeal!”, and “Eat More Carbs!”.

After four days, I was crying every single time I tried to nurse. I decided to pump to just to relieve the pain of the poor latch. I called a lactation consultant hotline to find out how much I should give the baby. I was told that if I gave her milk from a bottle, I would cause nipple confusion and she would never nurse again. Not once did this voice on the phone mention a nipple shield. Not once did she mention nipple ointment. Instead, she told me pumping would harm my baby. Not once did she mention formula. I hung up the phone and sobbed. I then figured out how to use a breast pump. The baby drank the milk so fast I thought she would spit it up for sure.

This was the first time I flat out ignored a lactation consultant/doctor, and not coincidently, the first time my baby was full.

I made an appointment to come in to a consultant, but they had to get approvals through insurance. The breastfeeding class made it sound like it would be so easy. After all, consultants were covered through Obamacare! However, no person in our insurance network could agree on who the lactation consultant was for our network. We were told to go to one, and after we went, we were told she wasn’t covered. We were told to go to another. We were promised this one was covered. I handed the lady the referral at the doctor’s office and told her I knew this one was required. She told me that even when you have referrals, that means nothing. I was told I had to have referrals from both my OBGYN and my baby’s pediatrician. Insurance for lactation consultants became the largest fiasco of all time. I ended up seeing two different consultants, and there were insurance issues with both that took months to clear up. If there was something that a first time mother was not equipped to handle, it was dealing with insurance screw ups throughout her entire maternity leave and beyond. If there was something that I don’t feel I should have been expected to deal with in that time, it was insurance drama.

The lactation consultants that I saw were, in all fairness, much better than Hotline Lady. I felt like they were there to help, not judge, and I trusted them. They at least recommended a nipple shield. They advocated pumping, as long as I used paced bottle feeding. The told me about that amazing All Purpose Nipple Ointment that seriously saved my boobs. They all assured me that she was receiving adequate supply from my boobs. Nobody mentioned formula. My baby got weighed before and after feedings and they all marveled at my supply. They all swore my daughter had a posterior tongue-tie and insisted we take her to an ENT doctor to get it snipped. That would fix the latch! The ENT doctor (another referral) looked at us like we were nuts and said that even if she had one, we surely didn’t want to put her under anesthesia when we could simply wait for her head to get bigger. In all, my baby went to five different doctors a combination of thirteen different times in the first four months to address her weight gain. Eleven of those appointments occurred in the first two months.

At the doctor weigh-ins, the baby never gained enough weight to be considered good, but she always gained just enough so that the doctors weren’t too worried. It took almost a month for her to get back to her birth weight. At two months, she had gained an extra pound. We were told she was on the right track and to come back at four months. I went back to work when she was seven weeks old. I pumped every three to four hours, around the clock. At night, I nursed her every 2-3 hours. I had a very structured work schedules, so I couldn’t really pump more at work, but she got enough milk to get through the day.

I became obsessed with pumping and having enough supply. I had really severe postpartum depression/anxiety and completely fixated on producing milk. I ate the cookies. I drank so much milk that I would get sick. I ate so much at every meal that I felt nauseous all of the time. I didn’t particularly like breastfeeding- in fact, I really started to hate it. I hated that I constantly felt like I wasn’t good enough. I hated that all of the pressure of feeding my baby fell on me. I hated the look that I got at every weigh-in. I hated pumping in the car while my husband drove me from work to doctor weigh-ins. I hated crying every time on the way home. I hated crying when it hurt to feed her.

All I wanted to do was be able to enjoy my baby. From the moment she was born, people had been yelling at me that she wasn’t eating right, that she wasn’t growing enough. Aside from her weight gain, she was a pretty good baby. She cried and refused to sleep like the best of them, but that was just her M.O. She didn’t act like a baby who was starving. She didn’t cry excessively. All of her milestones, aside from weight gain, were on point. She was a daredevil from the beginning when she learned to roll over at three weeks. She just didn’t grow.

I was proud that despite breastfeeding being a generally awful experience that I was able to keep going, but I’m not sure why. I suppose that I just wanted to be able to say I tried. I have a background in the sciences. I believe in doctors. Doctors would never fail me. They would tell me to do things differently if I needed to do things differently. It wasn’t a supply issue. Websites run by Kelly Mom and La Leche League tell you that formula will tank the supply you have, and you just need to keep trying. In fact, according to message boards, many women give up on nursing altogether with formula, because they can. That sounded just like me. I should probably keep trying, or else I might get judged for not trying enough. Now, in my brain, I knew that these websites will never suggest formula, but surely my doctor would if it was necessary? Obviously the reason they are not saying this is because we just haven’t reached a point of panic yet. Maybe, as every lactation consultant and doctor said, it was just because my husband and I are short. Maybe we will just have a petite baby. At one point, I did actually bring up the idea of formula with the pediatrician. I got a look and was told, “Well, you can try it, IF YOU WANT, but you can also just keep doing supplemental pumping.”


At four months, we went to a brand new pediatrician. We hadn’t been to the doctor for two months, as the old doctor seemed satisfied that she passed her birth weight. We weren’t given signs to look for. I was a new mom. I didn’t know that it was very strange for a three month old not to be able to hold up newborn-sized pants. I didn’t know that it’s a very bad sign when babies don’t have fat rolls. Her grandparents watched her everyday, and they never said anything about how she looked. My sister saw her at three months and seemed shocked at how small she was, but she even said that it must be that she just wasn’t around babies anymore.

“I’ll be right back with the Doctor.”

I looked at my husband as the nurse ran out of the room. He gave me a look of complete understanding and pity. He knew I was approximately 45 seconds from completely losing my shit. He had watched me obsess about pumping. He’d watch me panic if I thought bottles weren’t clean enough. He had watched me cry when latching was so painful that it felt like needles. He ran out to Target at 9:40 pm to buy me a nipple shield when I had finally learned what one was. He drove us to every weigh-in, every doctor’s appointment, every ENT visit. He looked at me and said, “I think we finally found the right doctor.”

“So I think it's time we discuss formula.”

After four months, my daughter wasn’t even on the 1st percentile curve for weight. We got her blood taken. She was anemic, but she was fine. I went home that night and fell down the dark hole of WebMD as I tried to desperately learn about all of the possible effects failing to thrive could have on my daughter. Brain damage. Heart conditions. Kidney troubles. Later on, Learning issues. I was convinced that my belief in doctors had failed me. Wasn’t there an episode of Law and Order about this? In the episode, they made it very clear that a good mother would look at the signs and go buy formula.  A good mother wouldn’t ignore her baby. However, I had now gone to five different doctors because I knew something was wrong. ONLY THE FIFTH ONE SUGGESTED FORMULA.

We came back two days later, and my daughter had put on a pound. We returned the next week. She had gained two more pounds. The new doctor could not believe that nobody had ever suggested supplementing with formula. My husband still rants about the first doctor and believes her to be truly negligent. I will never forgive that first consultant from the hotline who told a crying mother that she would harm her child if she pumped.

The best part about this doctor was that she never looked at me like I was stupid. The minute she suggested formula, I dove in head first. In those four months, it never occurred to me that formula would really solve the problem, which in hindsight seems so strange. I had no aversion to formula. I knew it was just as good as breast milk.   I would say that out loud.  I believed it.  However, I had been told that if I used it I might never be able to nurse again, and I wasn’t ready to give up completely. I think that my new doctor realized that I had fallen right into the trap of Big Lactation. She told me that everything would be fine. The doctor would make sure my daughter didn’t have digestive problems. Anemia can be fixed with supplements. Eventually, my daughter would catch up. I gave her bottles of formula that first night, but still nursed her as she fell asleep. It turned out that when I wasn’t obsessed with supply, I had an appreciation for snuggling with my daughter. I went from counting the days until six months was up to still happily nursing each morning after a year. I’ve asked her pediatrician what went wrong. I was told that it appears that the milk I produced didn’t have enough nutrients. Sometimes, it just happens. It won’t necessarily happen with the next child, but it did with this one, and as a result, my child needs to eat something else.

“I can’t believe this is the same baby!”

Now, at 12 months old, my baby is back at the 50th percentile for weight. She still wears 6 month pants, but she’s getting there. She’s no longer anemic, and she’s a great eater. I still nurse my daughter every morning, but I haven’t turned on a breast pump since we were given formula to feed my little girl. I enjoy nursing now, because it helps her wake up and get ready for the day. Plus, we get to hang out before I go to work.

I don’t mind breastfeeding anymore, but I hate Big Lactation. Every time someone shares a meme about predatory formula companies, my amygdala fires and my blood boils. Every time someone talks about how formula samples are the devil, I have to bite my tongue. Maybe even five years ago, that was the case, but times have changed. Hospitals are now required to educate women on breastfeeding. They have lactation consultants telling you every reason not to use formula. Hospitals no longer send women home with formula samples. I was very specifically told that if I gave my daughter formula, it would wreck my supply. I was told I wouldn’t even want to nurse any more.

Women on breastfeeding message boards talk about doctors suggesting formula as if they are trying to set women’s rights back 20 years and destroy milk supplies. Do you know what would have happened if Doctor #1 suggested formula? My daughter would have gained weight. I have seen internet comments where “well-meaning citizens” say “There is no such thing as low calorie breastmilk”. I don’t need to be told that if I MUST give formula despite adequate supply, I need to attach a lactation aid to my boob or else my child reject breastfeeding. I don’t need to be told by doctor websites that they “cannot recall seeing a baby for whom slow weight gain in the first 2 to 6 weeks was the only sign of a problem.” I needed formula.

We talk about supporting women with breastfeeding, but that means supporting women with all problems, not telling them that problems are in their head or that they just need to keep trying. I was told I would be supported and I really tried to find that support. All that I ever found was judgement and correction. Part of supporting a new mom is giving her all of the options, not just options that support an agenda. The only support that existed was support to get me to continue breastfeeding, and it wasn’t working. It wasn’t my supply; it wasn’t in my head. My baby was not growing. I get that it is a lactation consultant’s job to help women breastfeed, but it should never be at the expense of a baby’s health. I know that not all lactation consultants would do the same as the ones that I saw, but I think that it is time that they admit that Big Lactation is a big business, between pumping supplies, breastfeeding supplies, storage containers, products designed to increase supply, etc.  Formula is not an enemy, and it does not deserve to be treated as such.

I do believe that in many ways, at some point people turned feeding a child into an agenda.  That is not okay because that is not how feeding a child should be. It should just be about making sure that a child gets fed. Why? Every child deserves a full belly.

About the Author:A master of dry sarcasm, I’ve devoted my life to the pursuit of knowledge and good music, subverting the system, celebrating good times, enjoying the weirdness of life, pointing out the ridiculous, and helping others. I consider myself a breaker of glass ceilings/chains, a fighter of equal rights, and a lover of chocolate chip cookies.

The Time My Therapist Recommended I Become a Stripper


By Daisy Tart
Posted on Monday, June 27, 2016
I grew up in a very conservative Christian household; there was no drinking (even by the adults) and there was strict discipline that was both physical and grudge holding. I can look back now as an adult and say that there were elements of both physical and verbal abuse in that upbringing. This is not a tale of my childhood, however, I do believe that today we are the sum of our yesterdays and that beginning shapes this story. I was often assumed guilty. I was called a slut by my parents, for having platonic male friends, years before I had even lost my virginity. It was assumed that I was the bad kid. If something happened I was punished, often before I was even aware of what I had been accused of.
I decided in about the 9th grade that if I was always guilty I was going to stop trying to prove otherwise, I just got great at hiding things. I believed I wasn’t smart enough (I was an honor roll student), I wasn’t pretty enough, I wasn’t likeable enough, I wasn’t focused enough. In short, the message was I wasn’t enough. I smoked pot and drank with friends who didn’t care that I wasn’t enough. I pretended with bravado that I didn’t care what anyone thought. I fell in love at 17, had a baby and got married. I thought, finally, I’m enough. I wasn’t. I got pregnant a second time and he left, two children with two children who should not have been playing house. Two broken children pretending a bravado that was merely skin deep. That is also another story in itself.
So there I was, feeling much unloved, very unlovable, with 2 children at 19. I met a guy. All the signs were there, that I was too naive to see. I saw that he paid attention to me. He wanted to take care of me and my children. All I had to do was be exactly who he wanted me to be, as his wife. I could do that, I thought, haven’t I perfected that? I married him. I didn’t believe I loved him, and I never lied and told him I did. I was slowly isolated from friends, then from family. I was about an hour away physically but a universe away in the time before cell phones and the internet we know today. Things started with little put downs, things I’d heard and believed before. I wasn’t enough, but this time there was hope! If I just did this (whatever this was this day) I could, maybe, be enough. I never did succeed, and that resulted in punishments, but I did get awfully close a few times. This is not that story either.
Husband number 2 began to convince me I was crazy, like “A Danger to Myself and Others”, “Commit Someone” crazy. I was having such a hard time with such simple rules that something had to be wrong with me. He enrolled me in therapy, so that he wouldn’t have to have me committed, so that he wouldn’t have to take my kids away, for their safety. The therapist was a friend of his. We discussed all the ways I had always failed, all the ways I wasn’t enough, had never been enough, but yes, I did want to be better! The therapist went on vacation; I didn’t realize. My husband was out of the country with work. I went to my appointment at the group practice. A lady, we’ll call her Anne, was another therapist at the same office. “I’ve noticed you,” she said.
“I’m supposed to go to therapy twice a week,” I told her, “if I don’t I’ll be in trouble.”
“Want to talk?” she asked me.
I figured as long as I went to see someone, I was still following the rules. I told her about me, my failures, my shortcomings, and my misery. She asked if she could hug me, and I let her. I felt warm, like I did when one of my kids hugged me. I saw her several times, even after the therapist came back; my husband was out of the country for 8 months. I started to realize what was going on around me.
Unfortunately I still believed I deserved no better, “As long as no one is hurting my kids, it’s not like I can do better,” I told her. She asked for clarification. I told her about how useless I was, how ugly and unlovable I was, how God was punishing me for all my sins. She said “If I can convince you that at least one of those things is absolutely false, would you consider rethinking the others?”
I laughed; “Sure, okay,” I said.
We lived in a military town; she asked, “You’ve seen all the strip clubs around town?”
“Of course,” I said, “you can’t miss them.” I’m not sure how much of my upbringing showed when I answered, but she asked if I had I ever been in one. I answered, “Of course not! I’m not that kind of girl!”
She said, “What kind of girl is that? One who knows she’s sexy? One who is in charge of how sexy she wants to be? One who demands payment for her company, because she is valuable?”
That made me shut up. She said, “I think you should try it.” Me?! No one would even hire me! Much less would anyone want to see me! “I think you are wrong,” she said. “What have you got to lose? If you can get a job and earn money stripping would you believe that you are attractive, that you are good company?”
I decided to prove her wrong. I went to a club and asked to speak to a manger. I told him that I was trying to prove to a friend that I wasn’t attractive enough to be a stripper. He laughed. He said if I wanted a job I could start training that night; I was floored. I came back and learned how to do my hair from a woman who went by the name Raven. A woman who was called Pebbles taught me how to wear makeup. A woman who named herself Bridgette took me shopping. A lady (who was the most athletic person I’ve ever known and went by the name Star) taught me to dance: on a pole, on a swing, on the floor, in a chair.
They taught me things most girls learn from their mom (not pole dancing, but the other stuff.) They taught me the rules. No real names. Invent a you for here and that bitch stays here, she doesn’t go home, she doesn’t go for drinks, she stays in your locker till you let her out. Don’t do drugs. Maintain a 6 inch distance from the customers at all times. Tip the DJ. Don’t drink at work. If someone makes you uncomfortable, or worse, tell someone; it’ll get taken care of. You are safe here. None of them questioned if I was enough, not once. They thought I was sweet, sure, like a kid sister. I was 20, but looked 16, “That’s okay,” they told me, “Everyone has a type. You are someone’s type. Better yet, you look like the girl they wished lived next door.” It became my tag line. I was the girl you wish lived next door.
Six months later, I believed it. I had proof in my pocket. I had friends again. I was safe, in a place I never thought of as a good place before; I found me again, maybe for the first time. I stayed for another year and a half.  I thanked Anne before I left my husband and went back home. I supported the kids and myself for a total of 3 years stripping.  I had started over again, but believed that I could do it this time. I was enough.
About the Author:
I currently work for the government (not a spy). I’m the mom of 2 girls & 2 boys. I Breastfeed, cloth diaper, grow food, bake, and make stuff. I’m pro-choice and a Christian. I’m a feminist who’s happily married. I have lived my whole life in the southern US. I like margaritas more than they like me, and I’m addicted to coffee, trashy books, and Pinterest.

Sunday, June 26, 2016

Full Bellies: Too Much of a Good Thing


By Agent Tarter
Posted on Sunday, June 26th, 2016
If you breastfed your baby, think back to the information you got when you were getting started. You probably remember lots of information about building your supply. Build that milk supply! Make sure you nurse at night – that’s when the hormones that build supply get produced! You can drink special mother’s tea that will help give you more supply!
Yeah, you know what would have been useful? Talking about the opposite situation.
I did NOT have to worry about having enough. My milk came in before I left the hospital, 48 hours later, and man oh man, could you tell. Once, long ago, I remember a time when I was a C cup; I left the hospital with a pair of Es or Fs crammed into a DD nursing bra.
The guidelines all say kids should gain at least 4 ounces a week. My son O.’s record was a POUND. My family doctor laughed and said, “Well, some women make milk and some make cream!”
But it wasn’t just that my breasts ooze butter…it was also that there was SO DAMN MUCH of it. When O. nursed on one side, I could feel the other let down like someone had put a clamp on my boob. Only one brand of nursing pad could contain it, and even then I had to change them four times a day. If O. let go while I was letting down, jets of milk would spray all over his face, and on multiple occasions he actually choked when my letdown gave him more milk than he could drink. For a few weeks, I had to nurse him while leaning back in a recliner so that my milk sprays would have to go against gravity.
It is a bit of an understatement to say that O. regularly spit up. Actually, his poor little belly was so overfull that he regularly hit the far wall of the nursery. I learned to keep two or three burp cloths handy: one for him, one for me, and one to clean up whatever hit the floor.
When you have an oversupply, you frequently run into a problem called “foremilk / hindmilk imbalance.” In a nutshell, the first milk out of your boob is thin, and it gets thicker/creamier as kids empty the breast. If you have an oversupply, kids fill up on the foremilk and don’t get the hindmilk. This tends to make them cranky (since they don’t get the satisfying fat) and it also – fun fact – makes their poop foamy and green. No, really green. Green as the grass. Seriously. I have never seen anything like it and I hope I never will again.
The solution is to start feedings off of the same breast multiple times in a row. Sounds simple, right? It is…sort of. What the cheerful suggestions online or in guidebooks don’t really discuss is what to do with the other breast, the one that is slowly inflating and leaking and generally starting to scream at you that you should really get a baby on there. Eventually you find the oh-so-helpful advice that you should pump or express a bit from the opposite breast – but not too much, lest you prompt the buildup of even more supply. Also, you can run into some weird side effects…a friend who also had an oversupply ended up feeding off her left side so often that her baby decided he would only nurse from the left. The end result was that her right breast’s supply dried up, so she spend nine months with an engorged D cup on one side and a shrunken light B on the other. Ah, the majesty of childrearing.
Even with all of this, I was not prepared for the greatest of challenges: the first time O. slept through the night. It’s supposed to be a glorious day! You’re supposed to wake rested and refreshed with the birds chirping and a renewed love for your beautiful infant child, who is sleeping angelically.
Yeah, no. What happened to me was I woke up at 3:00 in the morning, both boobs as big as volleyballs and about as hard to the touch. My full milk ducts felt like cables under my skin, and the breast I’d accidentally rolled over onto was frantically squirting through my nursing pad and my pajamas. I didn’t have a pump, so I spent an hour awake milking myself into towels until everything (including me) calmed down enough to go to sleep. So glamorous.
Eventually, of course, things settled further. By the time O. was eating solids, my supply was generous but no longer so overwhelming (although my letdown was still dramatic, so my partner and I still joke that the first time O. tries a beer funnel in college he’s going to feel strangely reminded of Mom.) And for any other moms out there with oversupply, at least in my case, the rumours are true: with a second baby, it’s not as ridiculous. When I had G. things were much more under control, both literally and figuratively.
I don’t envy women who struggle with low supply, but I do wish that more people had talked about the possibility of having too much of a good thing. It came with its own set of challenges, and it was surprisingly difficult to find solutions to those problems because everything I looked for was busy talking about how to build supply up.
In the long run, though, I guess it’s good to know that if civilization collapses, I have a secure future as a wet nurse ahead of me.

About the Author:

Avid reader, budding writer, incessant singer. Married to a partner with OCD and parent of a child with autism. My opinions may be slanted by my experiences living in the socialist paradise of Canada.

My Husband’s Shameful Secret Compulsion


By Bea Tarthur
Posted on Sunday, June 26th, 2016

(image by geralt / CC BY
If this story was about you, you’d hide your face, too

Every morning could be the day that my husband’s (T.) secret compulsion is revealed.  Will people judge him?  Will they judge me because I allow this to continue?  I fear what it does to him but more than that, I dread how his actions impact me.  He carries a great burden by burying his infatuation deep into the cleft of desire.  We’re not talking about comparatively tiny matters like his obsession with quoting the first 9 seasons of the Simpsons with eerie accuracy nor is this about his insistence that every person he meets needs to intimately understand the mechanics behind Kerbal Space Program; this is a far more dire scenario with a humble origin story.  When this tragedy is all over, promise me that you won’t abandon me, okay?

(image Kjell Tjetland/ CC BY
Unrelated Life Fact #8723, no one likes it when you throw away the chocolate assortment key, bite into each chocolate to uncover the flavor, and then offer to be the new key.

Valentine’s Day (V.D.) is a commercial holiday that is about buying your way into love and bungling it in new and novel ways.  For our first V.D., T. secured himself under the spell of Fuck Up Cupid by not understanding some basic rules.  
1.) Restaurant reservations for V.D. must be secured 2-3 weeks prior to V.D.  If you don’t follow this, you will be making a reservation at Taco Bell for a heart shaped Dorito scented quesadilla.
2.) On second thought, don’t eat out on V.D.  The menus are comprised of artisanal salt brutalized by kale on a saucer for $45/person. You will leave hungry and visit Taco Bell anyway.
3.) Chocolates and other delicious sweets wait for no one on V.D. If you wait until the day of, the only sweets that remains are shitty sugar free turtles that look like dookie and conversation hearts made of the ashen remains of good candy.

T. was 0/3 on this count.  He waited until two days prior to V.D. to make a reservation, leaving us with an appointment with bad Italian food.  After enduring the sub-Olive Garden experience (where were my constitutionally guaranteed unlimited breadsticks, dammit?), we returned to his apartment to exchange gifts.  The dazzle in his eyes told me that he thought he had selected the perfect gift for me. As I unwrapped it and espied the words “Sugar”,  “Free”, and “Turtles”, I girded my reaction, put a smile on my face, and thanked him for the sweet gift. An attempt was made, folks, and the sentiment was appreciated even if the flavorless crap-shaped confections weren’t what I had wanted. He breathed a sigh of relief and told me, “I was planning on getting you your favorite chocolates but this and Raisinettes were all that remained.” He chose wisely because Raisinettes are strictly reserved for your enemies.

Few people know this, but the only way to get rid of sugar free turtles is to eat them.  If you leave them in your pantry, they multiply, or at least that’s what I’ve read on the internet. Fearing a plague of turtles, we immediately opened the box and each took one.  This was followed by a second and then a third. The turtles are afraid of their journey into your stomach and it’s only fair to give them a little company.  However, T. didn’t stop at 3.  He chased those three turtles with another. That fourth was pursued by twin turtles eager for a ride down the Alimentary Slide into T’s awaiting but crowded stomach.

I side-eyed his excessive consumption of the turtles, but every turtle he ate was a turtle that would never enter my mouth, so I looked away.  Sadly, two of my other five senses were not able to ignore T.’s miscalculation. My ears first detected the tell-tale grumbling and rumbling from his stomach. My nose quickly followed suit as thick, sulphurous evacuation alerted me to what he didn’t know.  Most human bodies can only tolerate a small amount of sugar alcohols found in sugar free snacks. If you overconsume them, your G.I. tract re-enacts that sewer scene with Tim Robbins from Shawshank Redemption, complete with the poo.  I explained to him what was happening but it was too late, the expulsion was imminent.

What was supposed to be a special date night between T. and I became a rendezvous between T., the escaping turtle remnants, and the toilet.  He clocked quality time with the bathroom and learned new things about himself like “Who knew he could sit on a toilet for that long?” and “Wow, his body really doesn’t like it if he devours large quantities of sugar alcohols”.   After what seemed like decades but was likely only an hour, he emerged a new man with his behind problems literally behind him… or so I thought.  He sat next to me at the table and opened the box of turtles and ate one.  I asked him how he could have forgotten what had just happened because I was certain I was not dating a goldfish nor a man with a goldfishesque memory. He informed that, “I don’t want you to experience what I just felt. I’m doing you a favor and finishing these.”  My mouth gaped as I knew nothing could prepare my nose for the odors that would be released in mere minutes given the speed he was binging through the swiftly dwindling pile of turtles.

You would hope that this would have been the last time and only instance I would have to endure the secondhand wrath of sugar free treats but I am here to tell you that it was not.  Despite my best efforts, sugar free candies invade my home sporadically and T. can not control himself around the siren call of gummy bears, chocolates, or mints.  If it sneaks into our home, they magically empty themselves in his mouth.  He incurs the cost and so do I knowing that his stomach is not safe and my nose can not retreat far enough away.

About the Author:
After a long career as a fetus, I was pushed out into this world kicking & screaming about the lack of internet, reality tv, and 30 minutes or less pizza delivery. It would take far too long for me to receive these simple requests.  When I'm not wishing for the future, I'm running around my home pantsless, blasting PJ Harvey, and shakin' my buns.

I Didn't Get the Birth I Wanted


By The Tart from Down Under
Posted on Sunday, June 26, 2016


Before you jump on me, I know what this looks like. It looks like one of those blogs where a woman screams and shouts about how nothing went to her plan. How doctors are evil and took over, and she had her precious snowflake in a way that she wasn’t happy about. Even if, had things gone her way, that it might have been incredibly dangerous for her and her new baby.


This isn’t one of those posts. This is a story of someone who tried their best and their baby decided for them.


While pregnant I went to a “parenting course”. I put this in quotation marks because it was run by a midwife who was in training, and rather unsure of herself. This particular class was for first time parents. The majority of the class was about birth, with feeding and nappy changing activities thrown in. One particular class, the midwife sat us down, and told us we were to write a birth plan. I had heard of these before, but simply had nothing I wanted. I wrote, “I will try to give birth without intervention, and I am willing to try it without pain medication, if this doesn’t work, I will give birth with intervention and pain medication”. My only hope was to avoid a cesarean, because the thought of them scared the crap out of me. You have a baby AND major surgery? No thanks, not if I can help it.

Apparently that wasn’t right. The midwife told me to be more specific. Did I want candles? And what about music? Maybe dimmed lights for atmosphere? I don’t remember my reply, it may have been sarcastic, and about how that’s what got us here in the first place.


My son didn’t know that I had written a birth plan, and quite frankly he didn’t care. I had to be induced 10 days after his due date. After a long wait at the hospital, I was medicated and brought into a ward at 11pm Monday night. I was awake most of the night with contractions, which started about an hour later. When my partner came back in the morning, a Doctor assessed me and we were moved to a labor room.


I won’t take you through the gory details, but I was in labor for a long time. My contractions were strange, more concentrated pain on one side. I was unable to rest in any position other than on my right side; the rest of the time I labored standing. If I attempted to lean or lay on my left side, the pain was excruciating. Besides this issue, I progressed well.  I hit 9 cm dilated at around 2 pm, and up until this point I hadn’t had medication. I was doing this, and I was proud of myself. I told the midwife I felt I needed to push and she told me I wasn’t ready yet, they administered a morphine shot. It was supposed to lessen the strength of my contractions and give me a bit of a break.


They checked my progress several more times over the next few hours and I was still at 9 cms. I was tired, my pain was increasing, and nothing was happening. After a doctor checked my son’s positioning, (so not a comfortable experience) they found he had come into the birth canal on an angle, his head jarring against my left hip. All of a sudden the extra pain made sense, and it was explained to us that there was no way that my cervix would dilate to 10 cm, without consistent pressure on all sides. So more than 12 hours after I reached 9 cm, I was administered an epidural and taken to OR. I would just like to thank modern medicine, that epidural was amazing. I was exhausted and basically went to sleep during my cesarean.


My son R, was born in March of 2013, at 5:04 am on a Wednesday morning, at 7 pound 10 ounces and 57 cm. He was born via emergency cesarean, but was perfectly healthy.


This is all that matters to me, and should be all that matters to anyone involved in the birth of a baby. Going through pregnancy, a lot of the advice I was given was about the window dressings of labor, about who to have with me, music I should listen to, how to create an atmosphere for the “perfect birth”. I understand that people have their own ideas about labor, and some may feel that these decisions will make them more confident about their child’s birth, but don’t forget, birth has a purpose, which is to bring a baby into this world. That is the most important part.
R didn’t do things according to plan then, and he certainly doesn't now, and I wouldn’t have him any other way.


About the Author:

A 28 year old Aussie, from the beautiful South-East of Queensland, a lover of chocolate, good white wine and books, I'm an almost married mum to two, aged 1 and 3, who is pro-vax, pro-choice and pro-you do you. My partner and I run a small business from home.