Baby's First KRS-ONE Show

Ear protection is important!

As an artist, organizer, and activist, it has been difficult to make all of those years of work worth something in the realm of motherhood.  As a new mother, I was cursed with inhibitions and biases of appropriate parenting, behavior as a mother, and even what to wear.  Finally, I'm okay with cursing now and then, staying out late as a family, dressing like a "MILF", and doing things that make me happy.  I have found the delicate balance of sacrificing without losing myself. 

So, taking eight month old Itzix to a big Hip-Hop concert, more than anything, was a test.  "Will they allow him in with me?", "Will they even notice him?", "Will he be happy?", "I hope I can nurse in the green room!".

My husband, checking bass levels at sound check.

After sound check, Sherm and I walked down the street for pizza.  Upon returning, we were rejected at the door.  I listened to my husband's performance through the dense walls of the Key Club while I sat in our truck with Itzix.  My cue came, and a friend came out to watch the baby, allowing me to perform our song together.

Waiting for pizza.

On the way back to my baby, every other person stopped me, congratulating us, saluting our performance, and thanking me.  I haven't done this in too long, I thought to myself.  The high was so familiar, but instead of sticking around, networking, I  hurried back to my baby, who was in the car with Gabby. 

Hip Hop Son Jarocho at the Key Club.

Sherman followed soon behind, and took over babysitting.  I headed back into the club to get a piece of the action. More action than I wanted.  In passing, some nasty drunk dude thrusted his pelvis into my ass.  I turned around to dog him and he shrugged.  I gave another dirty look, looked at his friends, and everyone pretended not to notice.  My bandmates waved me over and I explained what happened.

"Should we kick his ass?", I didn't know how else to handle it.  I resisted my first instinct to beat him, but why?

"HELL yeah, let's GO! Let's kick his ass! Fuck him! Let's fuck him up, dude!", Pavis shouted underneath KRS.

Sounded like a fail-proof plan.  Before leading the way, the music stopped, and while all was quiet, I accidentally shouted

"-And then I'll break his glasses!".

People turned, stared, and searched for the nearest guy with glasses.
Pavis and Juan pretended not to know me, and gave me the 'abort mission' face.
The Hip Hop legend began to talk about Martin Luther King, Jr, and I wondered whether this was a sign that I should practice nonviolence.

"But I wasn't RAISED to turn the other cheek".  I told myself.  I have to do something for all of the times I've done nothing, for the women who are silent, and for this pervert's future victims.
I can't start a fight with my baby waiting for me in the car to nurse, I tell myself.

I decided to leave- pissed as hell.  On my way out,  I instinctively stopped, turned around at the security guard, and said:

"Excuse me, I would like to report a sexual battery".

He referred me to the head of security, a 7-foot meatie baldie, chatting it up with some older women.  He made me wait until he finished his meaningless conversation.  His lady friends paused, looked me up and down, with faces of utter disgust, when I told him:

"I was sexually assaulted in your club and need you to escort out, the man who did it".

I didn't file a police report on his white perv-ass, because I didn't want to deal with cops, you know the old saying, "con el diablo, no se habla".

Itzix and I, playing in the car, enjoying the show.

Sherman and I watched the cops get there, laughed and pointed at them from our car window.  We kind-heartedly mocked KRS-1, and when he'd scream, "STOP!", to his DJ, we'd almost cry laughing.  "Uh-oh, the Booty Bandit got KRS", we joked.  "It's not a concert without the Booty Bandit", we fooled.  Not the most gentle words after a sexual battery (or "booty bandit attack"), but sometimes, laughter is the best medicine.

At this point, all of my notions of romance crumbled.  Here we were, in our family vehicle- VIP parking, basking in the breezy moonlight- live revolutionary Hip-Hop, windows down, car doors open, and our happy little Itzix enjoying having us to himself. I didn't care that other moms have babysitters, or baby bottles.  I didn't care about the way the club rejected me and my baby, or about the Booty Bandit, and I didn't care what people thought about me bringing my baby to a Hip Hop concert.  The three of us were safe, together, and happy.

                                       Our Performance at the Key Club, opening for KRS-1.

Mama's First Day Out

I never want to forget the kind of mother I always envisioned myself being:  Fun; cool; wise; energetic; spontaneous; adventurous- the type of mom I wanted for myself.  On days where I am "turning into my mother", I visualize myself in the same way I used to when I was a kid.  This morning, preparing for a family get-together was a battle between two different women:  The one I wish I was; and the one who needs to work her booty off to actually get there. 

I planned to leave at noon, but at 11am, my two year-old, who has been on a potty strike, was outside piling his dad's tools on a pancaked turd he freshly soft-served onto the driveway.   Calmly, I escorted him to the shower and sang until he cried for "chichi".  Empathetic to his recent change as a big brother, I talk to him lovingly, and we step out of the shower.  Itzix is crying, for me, "Akinyemi, el bebe tiene que tomar chichi. Okay? Tu hermanito esta bastante pequeño y no puede comer comida como, tu", I explain in a song-like tone.

Akinyemi's cries compete with the exacerbated, cat-in-heat tone of the baby's.  This is where the hormones kick in.  A lactating mom hearing her child cry will break through concrete with her bare hands to nurse.  I can't think straight, so I rock and nurse my newborn, leaving Akinyemi hanging.  Akinyemi's little hands point right at the tip of my nipple through my shirt "this, this", he explains as if I don't understand that he wants to nurse.  I cave, and there they are, my two month old and my two year old, nursing desperately. I was the only one lacking a drink. 

Itzix, who is amazing at vocalizing his potty needs, is fussing and bites at my nipple, I explain, again, to Akinyemi, his baby brother's needs.  Finally, when I say "Itzix va hacer poo poo aqui en la cama!", he latches off.  Just then, Itzix has an explosive newborn poop, spraying my only pair of jeans that fit.  "Eeeewww...nacky...poopoo, nacky", Akinyemi is surprised, despite the warnings.  After wiping myself down, I potty Itzix, so he can finish, and dress both kids.  I wasn't patient enough with Itzix, because right as I'm about to walk out the door, he poops, looking me STRAIGHT in the eye.

Disappointed, stressed out, and in a rush, I fumble through his diaper bag, clean him up, find some last minute snacks- then realize in all of this mess, that I haven't pottied Akinyemi.  Too late.  He peed himself a fresh, warm pipi. I struggle to be empathetic walking him to the bathroom, I go into the hallway, and bang on the wall, thinking "He was potty trained BEFORE the baby- WHAT is WRONG with him?!!".  I notice Akinyemi staring at me, breathe it out, change him, grab my newborn, and we are back to square one: nursing.

Once we got on the freeway, I talked to Akinyemi about all of the fun things we would do.  He was laughing excitedly and dancing in his car seat.  I look over to ask if he wants a snack, and see his smiling face look back at me like I'm the coolest mom in the world.  His seat belt is unbuckled!  I pull over at the first exit, begging myself not to crash.  I have to fight him to get it back on, he cries a while, but at this point I'm too relieved to be frustrated.

We made it to our family function, after two hours of traffic and crying babies.  It should've taken 45 minutes, but good food and family always make me happy.  I kept my adventure a secret from everyone but my husband until now.  He gave an untroubled laugh at my attempt to take the kids out two months postpartum.  He'll get his turn.

Chichis: Our Medicine

During my pregnancy, I tried not to be anxious about tandem nursing my two-year old and new baby.  "It'll all fall into place", I thought when concerned women, asked "HOW are you going to do it?".   Akinyemi was two years old, and only nursed at bedtime and before naps.  I had it made: he was independent, potty trained and self-weaned!  After I gave birth, my newborn self-latched like a pro and my bosoms were explosive.  The first beautiful nights we spent together were so perfect that my husband, Sherman and I blissfully joked about all the things we would do.  "Having a newborn is easy", Dada boasted- as if he was to credit.

My breastmilk was rich and sweet.  Akinyemi loved it.  He demanded, "chi chi, chi chi!" every time I nursed his brother.  Looking forward to tandem nursing, I gave them both all of the milk they wanted.  After a few days, my back hurt, my nipples were sore, I was parched, sleep deprived, and frustrated.  Instead of my newborn's demands keeping us up, it was Akinyemi.  At one point, he nursed more often than our newborn.  "Empathy, Panquetzani, EMPATHY", I reminded myself as he shrieked, waking our newborn.  I held him and explained that I was tired, my nipples hurt, it's difficult to nurse two boys, laying down, etc.  Here we are, two and a half months later, nursing twice as much as he did during my pregnancy, his cheeks fuller and bowel movements looser.

On really tough nights, I resent that he nurses so often.  His teeth really bother me now, even though he has the same amount as before.  My difficulty with him reminds me of his newborn stage.  Reflecting on my experience as a stressed out, isolated, and confused first-time mom, I realize how my postpartum emotions has affected our current breastfeeding relationship.  It brings back memories of being raised by my teenage mother in Echo Park.  

Mom, 17 and me. Riley High School, Lincoln Heights.

She hated giving me rides, money for school, complained when friends stood over, and a couple of times, plainly called me a burden.  She was 16 when she dropped out of High School, and began    She never had a personal sex talk with her mother, a traditional Catholic who was busy with her job, community work and seven other kids.  She was ashamed to have me in her womb, dreamt of being a 10th grader in High School again and longed to be with my father (he was banned by my grandparents after impregnating my mom).

Raising a child is difficult, and my awesome mother did the best she could.  Nevertheless, her method of raising me always tries to bite me in the ass.   Although it's inconvenient nursing a two and a half year old (who could drink or eat anything else), I know I have made him feel like he's an inconvenience.  It's a horrible feeling knowing your primary caregiver is angry at you for existing and having human needs.  I've had to realize that my anger has more to do with my experiences in utero, as a newborn, and the way I was raised - not my breastfeeding situation.

Now that I am aware of my feelings while nursing Akinyemi, I do my best to hold him when he cries, without judgment or resentment.  I ended this morning's nursing session when it became painful.  He cried and screamed.  I held him, he tried to fight me off, but I continued to hold him, explain my reasoning, and speak to him with empathy.  My husband woke up, asked me to nurse him and end the torture! After a couple of minutes, I let go.  He stopped pushing me away and laid on me with his arms and legs wrapped around me, cheek to cheek like a little monkey.  After a minute of silence, he jumped up and ran around the house, then raided the kitchen for fruit.   I never imagined myself weaning my son, and even though we are just shortening the amount of time during each session, I would still like to try child-led weaning once this newborn stage passes.

Reminding myself to stop, breathe, and deal with the situation appropriately is an every day struggle well worth staying attuned to my sons' needs. If nipples can heal overnight, then given time and the appropriate medicine, so can any other wound.

Two month old and two year old nursing.