Uncovering The Bravery Within

It took me a while to figure out what not-so-private-part of me I wanted to share. Truthfully, because I’m in a new space in my journey where I’m rediscovering myself. I would jot down notes - take a break. Entertain the thought again, and then busy myself with the kids. The thought of sharing something intimate made my chest tight and my breath heavy. But I knew this was exactly why (and what) I needed to share. 

I’m a non-confrontational person by nature. Occasionally, passive aggressive even…sometimes to a fault. I'm not one for drama. Notoriously known for being the “peacemaker”, I feel much more comfortable being a force behind the scenes; a worker bee rather than in the lime light. In fact, i’ve never been comfortable with being the center of attention, and I really hadn't become conscious of this until adulthood. 

I didn’t grow up in a home that fostered fear. My parents were incredibly encouraging and supportive. They always told me I could do whatever I put my mind to. They put me in practically every activity I expressed interest in - piano, art, tennis, ballet, etc. - but I didn’t stick with many of them. As I grew older, I reasoned that my list of experiences made me eclectic and cultured. And while I'm sure those were contributing benefits, in many ways I was being non confrontational within my very own being. I hated feeling uncomfortable. I feared the eyes of the crowd watching my every moved. I feared being a failure. So if it didn’t come naturally to me, or if it required being but on display, I shied away from it. I enjoyed taking piano lessons, but when the subject of recitals came up, I peaced out. I loved playing tennis and thought how cool playing at Wimbledon might be, but that meant you had to show up for matches right? Thankfully, most things did come fairly easily, but I developed a somewhat false sense of bravery. 

I used to think I was outgoing. And while thats not totally untrue, I took to rationalizing things to justify fears. In college I initially intended on studying fashion design, but thought the fashion industry may be volatile (truth moment :: I watched the devil wears Prada and it scared the living daylights out of me. I was not cut out for all that cut throat tom-foolery) and majored in marketing instead. When I reflected back on instances like this that sprinkle my past, I knew it was something that needed to be addressed. ASAP

I wanted to be brave and not just the pseudo courage I’d project in situations I could predict the outcome. But the kind of bravery that holds when conditions are uncomfortable. Brave when I have absolutely no power over the end result. Brave when my best may not beat out someone else’s, but I still come out of the process knowing I'm enough and that my efforts were valiant. Now that I’ve become a mother, I didn't want my children to see that in me. Although they must create their own path, I want them to know they are capable of anything and for them to have very best model of courage in front of them. I needed my legacy to be one of perseverance; for myself, for my children, and anyone else watching. 

Well, be careful what you ask for because 2015 was a tumultuous year and my opportunities for an acts of valor came knocking. One of my biggest test, was going through divorce. Life as I knew it with my love and companion for nearly a decade was coming to an end. All those familiar feelings came rushing back. This wasn’t at all what I wanted for my life and after trying several different remedies, it was truly the last option. But I could already feel the judging eyes, and hear the whisper of prying questions. I didn't want people to think I didn't try. I didn't want to be seen as a failure. But a divorce isn’t a matter of failure. It’s an act of bravery. It was an opportunity to courageously let each other go; Not because it was the easy thing to do, but because it was the right thing to do. I wanted our children to see love in the healthiest way possible, even if that meant being apart.  Moreover, I knew in that moment and the subsequent moments to follow, there was no turning away. This time I chose to face my fears. 

Each day in our lives offers opportunities for acts of bravery, big and small. Don't shy away from your path. While the outcomes are uncertain, courage is the gateway to healing and new beginnings. Once I made that choice to press through, I started living more beautifully and purposefully than I ever had when I let fear hold me back. If you're not willing to challenge yourself, you're not living. Your complying with life. You must address the obstacles ahead, follow your heart, and stay the course. That is the true test of courage.

Birthing Little Women... with Anjelica Malone

On the morning of Valentine’s day 2015 my husband Brett and I were most likely two of the first people in America to awake. He was anxiously dressing for a half-marathon he didn’t train for and I was eagerly awaiting the arrival of our second daughter. 

I’d just had my last prenatal appointment a day or two beforehand with my midwife Teresa, and she told me to settle in. She predicted that this Little Woman #2 was probably getting more cozy womb-side than her older sister did. Though she told me this, my body said otherwise.

As my husband scooped up our Little Woman #1 to load her into the car, her honey blonde curls and caramel toned limbs draped over his shoulders. We were headed to the starting line before it was even 4am. 

I remember gazing up at the vast navy blue morning sky dusted with luminescent constellations and feeling a small twinge. I didn’t want to throw Brett off his game anymore than he already was. He would have 13.1 miles to think about whatever last words I said to him in this moment. And I didn’t think they should be, “Love, I think today is the day where you will need to do repetitive hip squeezes, heated back massages, and then catch our second daughter.”  So I stayed mum and put the keys in the ignition. 

As I rode back home with my sleepy girls, one inside me and the other behind me, I prepared myself for the day’s events. I reminded myself to take each moment as it came and to go on with my day as if nothing exciting were going to happen. 

Once home, Little Woman #1 and I snuggled back into bed. About an hour later I set a chair out in our front driveway to watch the runners pass. Brett told me the day before that he’d be looking for me along the route. So, I made sure to be there. 

By the time he came racing by I had felt a few more twinges. I simply smiled knowingly, waved, and cheered him on as my night vision pierced the darkness. 

Another hour or so passed and I loaded myself back into the car to pick Brett up at the finish line. I had fixed my hair into tight French rolls accented with a bright pink scrap of fabric. I wore my favorite silky teal kimono, secured firmly above my belly and headed out.  By this time the twinges were becoming twangs of pain. 

As Brett made his way to the finish line, my daughter and I cheered and ran to give him a huge hug and kiss. He quickly began recapping on the entire race. How he felt as though he would collapse just moments before seeing us and how he got a major cramp during the last mile that slowed him down by at least 20 minutes. 

We hopped into the car and I spill the beans. The look on his face is pure shock. We’d discussed previously that this might happen. That he’d possibly be up before the sun, run one of the most intense races he’s ever done, and then head home to find out today is the day. But of course, he never suspected that it would come true! 

As we headed back into the house I felt myself relax (kind of) and give in that this was labor. Around noon I was fully embracing each pull and stretch of my uterus. We prepared lunch, ate, and all laid in bed. About two hours into our siesta my body told me to get up. I grabbed my laptop and turned on my favorite Pandora station, WorldBeat Radio. I swayed at our kitchen counter with all the lights turned off, with only the glow of the laptop. Every so often I’d squat down and take some deep breaths. I sipped water and focused on relaxing my face and jaw.

This was how I wanted to labor. In quiet, peaceful, security. My family was lying soundly in bed, no one was observing me, and I was under the spell of the Gypsy Kings. 

Around 3pm my husband arose and we began to make small talk. He knew that I didn’t want to talk about the obvious. I would ask for help when I was ready. He secretly called our midwife to tell her my status. 

About an hour later I decide to step into our shower as I notice more intense surges of pressure begin to strap me in. I transition between squatting and cat cowing beneath the hot spray of the shower and the relief is magical. I call my husband in to time the contractions and he does his best. At the same time I ask him to begin timing, I ask for him to do lower back counter pressure. 

After about 30 minutes of this, he whispers that he thinks we should head to the birth center. I refuse. I want to be sure that it’s time. He gives in to my request for about another 10 minutes and then strongly encourages me to get into the car. He and Little Woman #1 will be waiting there for me, he says. I do a series of about 5 loopty-loos between the front door and the toilet before he finally takes me by the hand and puts me in the car. 

As we head down our bumpy island road I feel my body squeezing my insides like a tube of toothpaste in regular unrelenting intervals. With each pulse I arch my back over our center console and my husband steps harder on the gas. 

We arrive at the birth center to the smiling face of my doula. She ushers me out of the car and my husband grabs our daughter. 

I crouch down low at the nurse’s station and my midwife gives a knowing glance. Without hesitation I’m taken into the room we chose ahead of time and within minutes I’m squatted in front of the bathroom toilet. Someone has offered my older girl some Trisquits and she snacks as she waits. My husband washes his hands and I give about 3 strong pushes. As my eyes are closed I hear everyone cheer. I look down and there she is. Her soft gluey skin resting inside her papa’s strong callused hands.  I’m stunned. I thought I had so much longer to go. I sit down right there on the floor and the lights are dimmed low. The four of us huddle in close together and tears stream down my face. I thank my husband, midwife, and the staff for their gentleness. 

After about 30 minutes we all head to the comfy queen-sized bed inside the room. Brett and Little Woman #1 both take off their shirts. Little Woman #2 balls up tightly next to her papa’s chest and her proud sister leans in to give her a kiss. I gaze over at our new family and the charming place where we all met. 

“This is how birth should be” , I tell myself. 

It Takes a Village... My breastfeeding journey

This is a tale of two breastfeeding journeys... The first being with my oldest. I was a new mom at 23 years old. I remember wondering how I would be as a mother. I felt awkward. None of my friends at that time were having kids. Jon and I were literally the only people in our circle who were pregnant. At times, it was a bit isolating. I remember pondering how I would feel when I saw my little one for the first time... Would I immediately feel overwhelmed and put him to my breast? Or would I stare in awe? I see him.. His little face... His ten finger and toes, and I am in love. Prior to delivery, I was on the fence with breastfeeding, simply because I didn't know if I would be able to. I had undergone a breast reduction surgery at 19 years old, and most people were saying that it was unlikely that I would  be able to breastfeed. I put him to my breast. He latches... Or so I think. According to my recollection, I didn't really have much help. It honestly felt as if the hospital staff were a bit indifferent regarding my desire to breastfeed. This indifference seemed to follow suite, even with the hospital lactation consultant. Fast forward to when my milk comes in... I don't know what to do! Do I pump? Do I try to nurse? All that I know is that my engorged boobs looked pretty crazy and a close second to an episode of "Botched"... Please note that I have a fussy baby. My boobs are engorged. I try latching him. He won't latch. In fact I wouldn't know what a "good latch" looked like if it bit me in the boob... I asked my husband who at the time wasn't sure what to do. We begin supplementing with formula (which was provided by the hospital)... What else was there to do? I had a fussy babe who "seemed" hungry. In that moment, I wasn't sure if he was "getting enough."  I was in pain. I was emotional because of #postpartumlife.  I began to feel incapability creep in as steadily as my milk supply. The insecurities were as real as my full breasts. I began to feel as if my body which had served my growing baby well up until this point, yet all of a sudden, was incapable of producing milk and continuing its task in sustaining the life formed inside of me. I decided to give him formula.

The following day, I called the hospital lactation consultant and explain to her what's happening. She provided me with two options...  to continue... OR to end my breastfeeding journey. These were the obvious choices. I was honestly hoping that she would give me a plan C. It all seemed too stressful. I was alone and in desperate need of support. After five days of trying, and more people telling me that "it didn't take all that,"  than actual supporters. I stopped breastfeeding. 

Fast forward almost nine years later, and I am preparing to give birth to my second son, Jedi. Before hand, I read every book on unmedicated childbirth and breastfeeding, and hypno-birthing. I Watched every documentary... I prepared with the mental focus of an Olympic athlete.. I wanted nothing more than a healthy baby, and to be able to breastfeed to sustain that health. 

We are in labor. My husband and I ask for the lactation consultant at the hospital. This birth was taking a while, and I wanted to stimulate contractions a bit by pumping. Our LC comes in. Her name is Rebecca. I explained to her that I was unable to breastfeed my first (or so I thought). I told her about how I had a breast reduction almost 14 years ago. She looks at me and says, "well let's see what we have here."  She squeezes my boob & voila!!! Milk come out. Colostrum... She looks at me with a huge smile on her face and says, "See, you can make milk." That was all that I needed... Confidence. "I CAN MAKE MILK." In that moment, it didn't matter what anyone said. I COULD MAKE MILK. I now had all the confidence that I needed.

We leave the hospital and so it begins. My nipples feel like they are about to fall off. It's painful. Like toe curling painful. I was exhausted and overwhelmed with breastfeeding. I wasn't sure if I was "doing it right"... if my latch was "perfect," as I had read in countless books and watched via numerous YouTube breastfeeding tutorials. I was beginning to feel alone. This is when I decided to attend a Mama's Circle at The Community Birth Center! It was filled with beautiful mamas supporting and loving on each other. I was baby wearing my little one, who up until this point, was sleeping all tucked in against my chest in his wrap. He eventually wakes and I attempt to feed him, which in turn feels a lot like a game of breastfeeding double dutch. Sensing that I was struggling with this game of "perfect latch," a wonderful mom from the Mama's Circle simply asks me, "How are you, mama?"  She comes over and assures me that I'm not doing anything wrong and shows me how to properly latch Mr. Jedi onto my breast. She relaxes my shoulders. She puts a nursing pillow in place for better support. He latches perfectly... without pain. The mothers in this gathering also shared with me some tips on nipple care, and encouraged me to eat more and drink more water.  That day, I walked away from a circle of moms feeling confident and assured that I, not only was capable of nursing my babe, but capable of continuing on in our breastfeeding journey... for as long as we wanted... 

 My story is a prime example that breastfeeding is all about support.  I was able to produce milk with both babies. I just didn't have the tools or the knowledge of what to do. My body wasn't broken. I wasn't broken. My body was more than prepared to nourish my baby. I just didn't know it.  The major component that made all the difference was my support... or lack there of.  I truly believe that a mother's support system has everything to do with her continuing or ending her breastfeeding journey.  Honestly, the people around me didn't have all the answers. But they were there to offer whatever wisdom that they had available. I was supported and that made all the difference. 

My little one is now almost thirteen months old. We are still breastfeeding. It truly takes a village... I am so very grateful for mine.

Photo Credit: Nicole Gracen

#NotSoPrivateParts/ #AnjelicaMalone All Things Lactation Interview

Anjelica Malone is a Lactation Educator Counselor, wife, and mother of two little women.  Her blog, Anjelica Malone,  is a platform where women can connect with and be inspired by a global tribe of mamas, makers, and world changers. Anjelica and her beautiful family currently reside in Guam. 

Motherhood.

Motherhood is a miraculous gift. From the beginning months in the womb, to our child's first breath, and then everyday thereafter is motherhood in it's entirety. One missing piece makes motherhood incomplete. Before I go any further, let me introduce myself. I'm Katie. I'm married to my junior high crush and I'm mommy to two miracle baby boys: Wesley and Micah. Adoption made me a mommy for the first time and thirteen short months later, I birthed my second son. Wesley is my oldest, he's petite and a mix of Samoan and black. Micah is my youngest; we call him our tank. Even though my husband is Mexican and Puerto Rican and I'm Mexican and white... Micah came out even lighter than me. You get the picture, our family doesn't really match. But for me, our family is normal. It was shortly after having my biological son that I realized that my normal is actually quite different for most. And ooohhh how the awkward stares and comments began!

I honestly can't remember the last time our family went out to eat without having at least one on-looker staring at us the entire meal. And some people even take the initiative to warn my husband that at least one of our boys don't belong to him. And for the comments, I know most are sincere and some out of curiosity, but I would be lying if I said it never bothered me. Comments like, "You did something good for one child. And now you get your own child."......"So...your not his real mom? "....."And who's your real son?" But the comment that probably stings the most was said shortly after becoming pregnant, "Now you know how it feels to be a real mommy."

I mean excuse me... do I really have to explain how our family became a family to complete strangers!! And do I really have to defend the sincerity of my love for my boys? And worse, why are moms who are in the same motherhood journey as me, judging and measuring the authenticity of my mommy-ness (if that's a word?) My initial reaction is to roll my eyes, and say "they're both my sons and we're a family. Thank you and good-bye." But after I pause, I realize that my family can shine light on the message that all families look different.

Let me first say that questions are not wrong. I've learned in the recent months to be less hypersensitive and embrace the questions, even if they're awkward. When asked about being Micah's "real" mom versus not being Wesley's "real" mom, I explain that I am both of my kids' "real" mom, but Wesley has a tummy mommy too and I am his heart mommy. There is really no wrong question, in fact, it is much better to ask a question than to just stare or make a statement about a family dynamic you may not understand.

I recently heard this quote from a well-known adoptive mom "Families don't have to match. You don't have to look like someone to love them." This is so true. But sadly in the same breath, she continued "Anyone can birth a child...but that doesn't make her a mom." I felt like the wind was knocked out of me. Wesley has an amazing birth mom. Even if for no other reason, birthing a child makes you an amazing mom. She couldn't be his everyday mommy so, she gave me the gift of raising him. This reality doesn't make her or me any less of a mom. Without each other the motherhood journey is incomplete. Motherhood was never meant to be done alone. We need each other. It takes a village and in some cases it takes two moms. Being an adoptive and biological mom, I've realized in any case, the desire is the same... to love and nurture our babies the best we can... to instill confidence and strength. No matter the difference in their birth story, they were born on purpose for a purpose. And I can't wait to watch my boys share their purpose with the rest of the world.