On Saving the World

It's fun to visualize all of the ways I could change the face of birth, humanity, and my community- if I just had some money.  Midwifery schools, Women's health centers, farms, eco homesteads, and an outdoor area for us to have a fire and temezcal for ceremonies, all haunt my daydreams. 

Enjoy your little snacks while Daddy's around!

These past few births have reminded me of all of the sacrifices I make to attend women in their birthing and postpartum ceremony.  It's takes practice staying present after leaving my family in our cozy bed at 2am, waking my poor little sleeping baby from his nursing slumber, and knowing that my three year old is having a pizza-fries-movie marathon with Papa.  So it's time to get with the program, set prices, and limit the amount of donation births I attend per year.

It breaks my heart to turn women down, but I have to survive, too.  I have to feed my children, buy gas, clean my home, pay bills, dodge creditors, etc.  My hours of research, countless lectures, programs, and workshops I paid for, all should be sustained by my practice as a birth professional.  Although many of my clients have a difficult time paying for anything out of pocket, I swear, that from here on out, I'm only working with families who are conscious consumers of childbirth services, and appreciate the sacrifice it takes one mother to support another.  So here you are, my justification for laying down the law on innocent fetuses and round-bellied women.

Itzix and I, relaxing after a consultation in our home. Thanks, kids, for being patient!

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.

Let's Hear Each Other's Voices

I haven't written in forever.  An experience with the state temporarily crippled my fingers, but arthritic pain transformed into fire and now I have much to say.  One- take control of your life; two- anything you do may be illegal and you might be threatened, coerced, or punished for it; and three- in the words of my husband, "It's time that we wake the fuck up and take our freedom".

Beautiful to watch father and son.

How do we do that?  As mothers, we have so much to lose- our children would perish without us, or be scarred for life.  We are nurturers and protectors- how can we put ourselves on the frontlines of what is happening today?  Well, in case you haven't noticed, we've been on the battle front since 1519, and in 2011, we remain here.

Take Juana Villegas, who was wrongfully pulled over after a prenatal visit to her Doctor and unjustly arrested without explanation, leaving her three crying children in the car.  Later, she is forced to give birth shackled, hands and feet, and to top it off, she was immediately separated from her baby.  We are not all born equal if we are denied the nutrient and antibody rich first colostrum, baby's first food and building block for health. We do not have equal rights if our birthing mother is alone, shackled, pleading for one hand to be let free while in labor.  And when we are separated from our babies right away, not knowing if she is dead or alive, in a nursery or with her father, every human right has been barbarically violated.

We, indigenous women, keepers of the earth, face an intricate legal system, well organized, and strategically placed to disenfranchise us, intimidate us and to maintain the delicate balance where we live just within the margins.

The case of Nancy Jacinto, a young woman on trial, facing first degree murder and the death penalty, is another example.  After the accidental drowning of her two year old son, she was immediately imprisoned.  Pregnant and perpetually famished, she asked for more food.  They denied her.  She wrote letters home about her hardships, injustices in prison, and prison guards tore them, breaking her motivation to advocate for herself.  Like Villegas, and too many others, she was forced to give birth to her baby in shackles.  The same routine: separation; isolation; and this time, foster care was used. Jacinto's children had capable, willing relatives who cared for them often in the past, but instead, the family unit was dismembered. These tactics are developed to destroy the family unit, traumatizing our babies and remaining children, birthing them into the world with violence and subservience, in hopes that they will always be submissive and hopeless.

It used to be difficult to fathom that I could be arrested for an infraction and give birth shackled, have my family unit destroyed and be in a position where there is nothing anyone can do about it- it's all legal.  It sounds too much like 1492, 1519, Colombus and Cortez's European invasion tactics.

I will never forget seeing hospital shackling first hand.  A female sheriff at a local Los Angeles hospital, twiddling gray, metal chains in her hands stood outside the imprisoned mother's door, bracing herself.  I felt the woman in the hospital room begging me to enter- pleading for anyone to hold her, tell her she's doing beautifully, that she is a goddess, the gatekeeper of humanity.  My client was in the next room, I couldn't doula them both, but I could not ignore the situation.  When the viking walked out of the hospital room, I stopped her.

"Did you just shackle the woman giving birth in there?" I asked, concernedly.

"Yes, ma'am, we do it to all the women in here it's just protocol", she responded with sincerity.

"Well, how do you FEEL about that?", the pseudo-psychologist in me kicked in.  Her confidence crumpled, her pale face heated red.

"Well-uh-it's...It's my JOB", she played the confident cop role, but clearly, she is accustomed to being belittled.

I wanted her to ask herself the question she should have before blindly following orders.

"Yes, but how do you FEEL about it, don't you think it's wrong?  I mean, where is she going to go? What can she do?", I asked without making a scene, I didn't want to get kicked out.

"Well, it's my job, and you know what she's- she's not in there for doing something good, these people- she- she probably did something violent- she did SOMETHING to get in there--" she was stuttering and rambling.

"Well, can't you refuse? You feel bad about it, you have feelings, you don't HAVE to do that..." I tried explaining to her stiff, blinking surface.  It was too much emotion for her, she broke a sweat and said,

"You know what- I don't have to talk to you- I'm not going to talk to you. Thank you." she turned her back and kicked her heels away.
"THANK YOU", she said again to silence me.

We are on the front lines.  Our children born disenfranchised, without an equal opportunity.  If we choose to raise them outside the margins, we wait for the folks in suits to coerce us into staying in line.  If there is an accident that our family may never recover from, rather than being supported, they seize the opportunity to kick us while we are at our lowest, bewildered that there is still worse that can happen.

We can't fix the system, it's not broken.  It is the systematic suppression of creating children who reach their full potential.  It's A 500 year old, well-organized campaign, followed by legalistic procedures, and financed by the occupying elite.  We risk our families living our life style, being who we are, and I risk that the wrong people may read this, writing to you.  But as my father always said about my mother, "I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't". 

Speak. Sing. Write. Laugh. Scream. We need each other's voices.

Honoring Baby's Wisdom

As I held four month old Itzix in my arms, from the living room on my way to the bedroom, he stared about intently.  Passing by the bathroom, he gazed in through the open door, flailing his arms and legs.  Recognizing his vocalization as an "I want that, Mama!", I immediately and instinctively stopped in my tracks, observing my surroundings for what he wanted.

Embracing my four month old, in his birthday suit.

Keeping his eyes on the bathroom, he continued waving and vocalizing.  "Oh! Quieres hacer pipi en la potty?" I delightedly squatted him over, and he released his squirmy tension with a stream of urine.  I shake him off gently, and as I place him back on my chest, I take a moment to honor his innate ability to communicate his needs to me clearly.  Recognizing the bathroom as the place of elimination is a huge milestone in infant pottying.  Naturally, I am proud, and we celebrate.

"¡Te gusta hacer pipi en el baño! ¿ve'da', Itzix? SI, di que si...", I playfully sing.  Every mother has attunement to her baby, by natural law.  Moments of sharing wisdom and affection during my hectic days are the golden moments of our short time together as mama and baby.

Eczema= Bad Mom

Investigating our emotions through funny faces.

Akinyemi's last outbreak of eczema was at two months old.  Since then, we have been on a strict dairy, egg, red meat, and shellfish- free diet (pork has never been in our diet for other health concerns).  He has balanced meals, takes Vitamins, Supplements, Superfoods, gets plenty of Sun, and avoids sugar, refined carbs, processed, or junk foods.

A healthy snack! Home made paleta: chia, piña, orange, lemon, peppermint.

Sometimes I forget how much of an impact our emotional/psychological health makes in our daily lives.  Since the birth of my second son, I haven't made enough time to sit with my son, and explain how our roles are all changing, how our lives have been enriched, and how my lack of time for him has nothing to do with how much I love him.

The worst part (although still mild), his thumb.

His little scratchy skin is his way of reminding me not to snap, not to scream, or not to give him that extra little squeeze or shove.  He's two and a half and deserves nothing but empathy, affection, and protection.  It's a physical reminder for my absent-mindedness and neglect to find sufficient methods of resolving difficult situations and feelings he has never encountered. 

So what am I going to do? We'll start by making books with him, have some puppet shows, and help him regulate and express emotions his emotions through art.   My family is always supportive, and I've slowed down our days, so I have time to whole-heartedly exhibit empathy.

Essential oil bath before bed.

He hasn't complained at all about his eczema, but it's slowly spreading.  I apply patchouli essential oil to his thumb, where it's the worst, rub him down with shea butter, and give him relaxing herbal/essential oil baths before bed.  

On the nutritive side, he's continuing his probiotics, and he was on an immune booster for ten days.  Since he hates his Omega supplement by the spoon, I am searching for a gummy one, with cod liver oil.  I drizzle a little coconut oil on his food for the medium chain fatty acids (great for skin), and sometimes spread a tad on his skin.

His diet, when I am in complete control of it, is alkaline, and we take liquid chlorophyll.  Lately, he's been nursing more, and only wants to eat fruit.  I figure it's okay, some of the time, since his food preferences change so often.  At night he'll have his tesito: manzanilla; canela; yerba buena; or whatever I'm having.

Ultimately, my job is to help Akinyemi regulate his stress, a common trigger, and nurture him in every possible way.  Every mom wants optimal conditions for her children.  "We do the best with what we have", is what many moms utter.  Right now, I have a rashy two and a half year old who wants my undivided attention, a holistic medicine cabinet, and mother's intuition.

Pottying Just Got Easier!

Found my son on his mica, reading his potty book

Finally, Akinyemi went through an entire month without any potty misses!  After the birth of Itzix, he had a slight regression.  He didn't have one miss- for months during my pregnancy, but right after our birth, he left a nice puddle for my admirable postpartum doula to wipe up.  I'm glad he's dry all day and night again- anywhere we go, at two and a half years old. 

Itzix sleeps, diaper free with a bed liner

Itix is doing well.  He usually sleeps throughout the night.  When he squirms, I zombie over to the bathroom sink and squat him over to pee.  He goes right away, and saves his poops for daytime. Akinyemi joins in and together, we perform a worn-out symphony of urine streams.  Most nights, it upsets Akinyemi that I have to get up to pee, he cries "NO! Mommy! Sleep, dormir, hug!".  Even while he pees on his own, this is his mantra.  But sometimes he's lucky and sleeps through the whole ordeal, or follows us without protest.

When I am drained and Akinyemi is having a bad day, I wrap a towel around Itzix when he wakes up to pee so he won't soil the bed.  After he pees, I toss it and he falls right back into REM. Pottying my newborn is most difficult when I am tired.  He warns me every time.  I convince myself that I'm misreading his messages so I don't have to get up, but as the saying goes: "the lazy way is the hard way", I end up peed on.  Other people, not having sensitive attunement yet, get peed on frequently.  Last night, Itzix peed on my friend's crotch a few times.  A good sport, she just cackled in amazement.

My brother and husband are not good sports.  They promptly diaper him up when they carry him- even if they are only watching him for a minute.  Are we so conditioned to associate babies with diapers that we can't grasp the concept of a "diaper-free baby"?   My husband, the infamous anarchist, and my brother, the carefree punk, would rather consume capitalist diaper products and create unnecessary environmental waste, than pay attention to baby's clear signals and be aware of his elimination needs.  Those grungy boys are closet germaphobes, I know it.

Breast fed newborn poop and pee in the potty.

Newborn waste is not nasty...it smells like the steam of a fresh, warm bread roll- mmm...que rico!   Itzix doesn't like his little potty anymore, so I have to get up and take him over the sink.  This sucks when I eat.  Being the vulture I am, I see and hear nothing else but my meal, and his subtle warnings just fly over head and- another miss!  Despite our endless mound of laundry, it's worth having him comfortable, diaper-free, aware of his bowel movements, and vocal about his needs.  Saving tons of cash on disposable diapers and carrying around a little booty baby is sweet satisfaction.

Second Time Around: Pottying from Birth

After his first meconium passed, my little Itzix was all mine to observe and potty.  His fat little body was so warm, and he slept so much that it was a little difficult to predict when he'd eliminate.  I kept him naked, with a cloth diaper inside of his swaddler, just in case he unloaded.  My postpartum doula and mother kept telling me to put a shirt on the poor little guy, but I knew that as long as he was in my arms, he'd have all the warmth he could ever need.

The first three days we had a huge pile of swaddlers, blankets, cloth diapers, and clothing (mine included!) to wash.  My husband complained that he couldn't keep up if I kept it going, but after the first few days, Itzix and I improved our relationship.  It came naturally for me to potty Itzix as soon as he woke up and before he fell asleep.  His calm, intense presence would sometimes change from flailing arms and kicking, to a moan, or other noisy announcement.  Unlike my first son, he was very vocal about having to eliminate, often making angry faces as he talked to me about it.

Our rhythm the first few weeks was like this: He'd wake up, I'd offer the potty right away.  Sometimes he'd go within the first few seconds.  Otherwise, he'd ask to nurse.  If we had a long nursing session, he would sometimes release while nursing, so if he slept for a long stretch of time, or was extra hungry, I'd nurse over the sink.  It was surprisingly easy the second time around.  If Itzix was awake and fussing, I'd go over my mental list: Is he hungry?  Is he sleepy? When did he last eliminate? Is he overstimulated or stressed? How do I feel? Pottying became another way to embrace my son and sensitively attune myself to his needs.

Itzix is almost three months old now.  Our biggest challenge is managing Natural Infant Hygeine, or Infant Pottying, with our every day life.  When Sherman cares for Itzix, it's always, "Why doesn't he have a diaper on?"  that he asks.   He understands the value of elimination communication, and has seen it work with our first son, but I don't expect my husband to potty our newborn until Itzix could speak the very clear, assertive words "Dada, potty. Now".  Sometimes I wonder whether his genuine lack of attunement is because I am so awesome, or because he is a man.

At any rate, Akinyemi, my first born, plays an important role in pottying our newborn.  His recent profound obsession with nursing often prevents me from taking Itzix to the potty in time.  He nurses until his last breath, when he sees his 'mito project a 'naky' pipi or fuchi poo-poo into oblivion. Despite my many warnings, he is startled, and mildly afraid of coming into contact with his brother's urine or feces.  Slowly, Akinyemi is also becoming interested in his brother's movements, and very often, we will take a trip to the bathroom, and both boys will 'go'.

Waking up in the morning, next to a "booty baby" (he sleeps bottomless), who's dry, alert, and ready to take on the world with his family, helps keep me sane throughout my hectic days and sleepless nights.  My heart overflows with joy as I squat him over of the bathroom sink, the two of us smiling at each other through the mirror, cooing and agoo-ing, knowing that this moment, we avoided a diaper change.  Life is swell.