Nachi's pointless rants and recollections

I'm raising readers and breastfeders,
humans with a heart.
Compassionate individuals,
who will always do their part.

My children may not grow up to be perfect
But of one thing I am certain,
they will exude love, humility, tolerance
and above all, purpose.

As I sit here in front of my desk breastfeeding my daughter and browsing the net, I started to wonder if I was being a bit careless by letting my 12 year old brother-in-law see me doing it.

You see, when I breastfeed, I do not use a cover. Not only is it too much work, it is also silly to try to shield others from something so natural and simple. I'm sure there are different opinions on this, but this is mine and I'm sticking to it.

When I'm at home, I breastfeed in front of my 4 year old. He doesn't pay much attention. He has seen my breasts countless times and he knows what they are for.

Today though, I have my brother-in-law visiting because he needs help with this homework. It didn't occur to me that I should cover. I mean, why would I? But it also made me think about whether or not he had seen other women breastfeeding. Of course he knows I breastfeed. He also knows that his mom breastfed all of his brothers as well as him. He knows that he comes from a long line of exclusively breast feeders, so it shouldn't surprise him that breasts produce milk and that's what babies eat.

So as I sit here breastfeeding my daughter, this conversation occurred:

Me: "Stop looking at my boobs!" (in a teasing manner)
Him: "I'm not!"
Me: "Ronald, he's looking at my boobs!"
Him: "I'm not! I'm looking at Sophia!"
Me: "Lol, I know, I'm just messing with you. When you went to Peru, you saw breastfeeding mothers right?"
Him: "Yeah, they don't cover themselves over there."

Plain and simple. They don't cover over there. Why? Because it's not necessary and this little man knows how pure and simple the act of breastfeeding is.
So it is with pride, that today, I breastfeed in front of him. I am convinced that the more exposure he gets, the more accepting and supportive he will be towards other breastfeeding mothers in public as well as his own wife when the time comes.

Boobies FTW!

I guess most of you have read Sophia's birth story and got to sort or experience what I went through giving birth to her. It hit me out of nowhere, that there is an untold story to this. My son Luka was there for most of it.

I made it my mission early on, to include my son in all aspects of my pregnancy. He came with me on many of my prenatal appointments, he was there for our first ultrasound and he was there rubbing my head whenever I was in pain. I wanted him to form a bond with his little sister very early on. Something that will carry throughout birth and the years to come. I happily report, that it worked. He adores his sister.

Well, regardless, that's not the point of this post. I was just in awe the other day when it finally hit me, my son was with me while I was in labor at home. He heard me moan, he heard me scream, he heard me cry and even though he felt bad for me, he held his composure really well. This is a four year old boy who could easily get scared but he was so brave and understanding for me. He knew full well I was in pain, but he also knew why I was having that pain and he welcomed it just as much as I did.
Never once did he show signs of distress. He didn't get too frustrated with my moans either.
He was just there, a presence, a rock, the perfect picture of composure, and I am so proud of him.
He welcomed birth as a natural thing.

Disclaimer: This blog post is a birth story. If you dislike graphic descriptions of births or anything of that sort, please stop right here. I should also add, that this is a very personal experience, but I chose to share it with the interwebs because I just feel like it. Yeah..


I never liked the phrase "becoming a mom once again", I mean, do you ever stop being a mom after you have your first? No, I didn't think so. You'll always be a mother, it's not something you shut off and turn back on once you're pregnant again. Now, I add this bit of info in here, because as you can tell by the title, what I'm going to write is one of the most amazing experiences in my life. Nevertheless, it does not take away from the experience of becoming a mother, and that is something Luka did for me. Nobody else can ever replicate that moment in my life.

For the  last month or so, I had been actively looking for a doula (google it). Without much luck, I couldn't find one that would come assist me for free. Finally, I got one all set to go, but she had to cancel at the last minute. I mean, its not like I NEEDED one, but I felt like having one would make things so much easier and pleasant for me. At the very last minute, a wonderful doula contacted me and told me she would be coming this past Saturday. I was thrilled. I woke up Ronald from his nap and told him "we have a doula!"

I went to sleep that Friday with a little discomfort. I propped myself up with the seven pillows that reside on my bed and just dozed off. I woke up a few times that night to pee and again with a little discomfort. Nothing major. Finally, at exactly 8:00 am on the dot, something woke me up. Was it pain? I'm not sure, something just dragged me out of dreamworld very abruptly. Something felt off.

At 8:30 am the pain began. I was used to it though. Once you've had a child, you learn to recognize what contractions feel like. I was having them alright, but this didn't mean much to me. I could have them for a while and it still wouldn't mean much. I knew that they were helping progress things along, but I also knew that it could be days or even weeks before I gave birth. I started timing them nonetheless.
The doula was set to come at 11 am. She texted me letting me know she would come at 1 pm. No biggie, I texted her back and let  her know that I was having pains and I was timing them. Everything was fine. Nothing to worry about.

Every so often I would go use the bathroom. Any pregnant woman will tell you that obsessing over discharge is pretty common. You just HAVE to look. It's what we do. Things looked different. A good kind of different. I kept telling myself "this doesn't mean anything." It was good, I was happy that my body was getting ready but I didn't want to get my hopes up. I just didn't want to set myself for disappointment.

I kept timing my contractions throughout the day. Some were 6 minutes apart, then they would go to 10 minutes, then again down to 5-6 minutes. They weren't steady enough to be of concern yet, but I did notice that they weren't going away either. Hmmm...

The doula got home and we instantly got to work. She started showing the techniques we would try once I was finally in labor. We were practicing them so that I could get familiar with them and also to pick which ones felt the most comfortable for me. We did this for a while. All throughout it though, whenever I would get a contraction, she was there telling me to breathe and also helping me cope with the pain. It was amazing. I was in a lot of pain, but she helped me get through them.
Ronald went to get us Pizza for dinner, we ate, then we went for a walk. The contractions weren't stopping, but again, I refused to get my hopes up. By night time, I was really tired and she could tell. She gave me an awesome massage and let me rest.

At around 10 or 11 pm, the pain was starting to become too strong for me. I was not comfortable at all. I was having a very hard time breathing through the contractions. I kept feeling like I needed to use the bathroom, but of course, once I sat down, nothing would come out. I decided to use the shower and just let the warm water soothe my pain. It helped a bit, but not much. Finally, I told myself that this was NOT false labor. It felt like the real deal. Once I admitted that to myself, things started to get intense.

I laid in bed and informed the doula that the pain was starting to get unbearable. At some points, I actually shed a tear. I was determined though. I would NOT go to the hospital until A) My water broke or B) The pain was so bad, I actually cried. I refused to go in and then be sent home because it wasn't time yet.

At around 1 am Sunday, I finally felt them. The toe-curling, wall-scratching, manic-state of mind pain. This was it. I told the doula that I needed to go in even though she suggested I wait until 2am. Nope! I NEED TO GO IN!

We called my father in law to take me. Ronald would stay home and care for Luka until  I was admitted. There was no point in waking him up just in case they sent me back home. I had a couple of contractions in the car and one more in the waiting room. People there are very in tune to laboring women it seems. I didn't have to say a word, they just knew what was going on, before long, I was being whisked away to triage.

I had a few more contractions there. I barely remember seeing faces. All I heard were voices. "How's the pain?" "How far apart?" "Do you feel like pushing?" "I will send you home, tell me the truth."
I answered the best as I could. I don't know who I was talking to but I did my best to answer.

I got hooked up to the machine and that's when things started to feel bad. Not being able to move to cope with the pain was torture. They kept telling me to hold still so they could monitor the baby. I told them that if I held still, I couldn't manage the pain. I needed to lay on my side, or sit down, or move my hips. They weren't hearing it, all they wanted me was to hold still. They even caged me in with both sides of the bed railings so I wouldn't sit down. Well guess what, I wasn't having that either. I sat up and labored as best as I could. They weren't happy, they threatened to write down on their chart that my baby was having heart problems because they couldn't see it on the monitored. I assured them that my baby was fine, call it motherly instinct, and they could very well write whatever the hell they wanted on their chart. I was NOT going to stay still. Finally, the OB came to check me. I was 6 cm dilated, 100% effaced and the baby was at station +1 (google it). Holy shit!

This was it!
I was being admitted!
OMG!

I started to text and call all the people necessary to help get my husband here ASAP.
They offered the epidural and I gladly accepted.
Now, I wasn't planning on getting it, and even when they offered, I really didn't want it.
My logic was, I should say yes now, by the time it takes the anesthesiologist to get here and get everything set up, I could change my mind.

A little while later, I was in my bed, people were setting things up and I was still not staying still for the nurses. I heard at least three of them begging/threatening me to please stay still. Yes ladies, I'm doing this on purpose. The OB finally came to their aid and talked to me. She and I agreed on a compromise. I would stay still if they let me sit up. I would also hold the monitor for them so that it wouldn't fall off while I was wriggling in pain. This didn't go well with the nurse but fuck it. It's the best they were going to get.
The anesthesiologist finally came and informed me that I could get the epidural but warned me that at this point, it might not do anything for me. Did I still want it in place? Yes, I said. I still do. The OB came to check me. I was 8cm already. It seemed silly now, I could have said no for all the good it did me, but at the time, it felt like the right choice. It still does, you'll see.

Now the tricky part came. How is this wonderful pain doctor going to stick me in the back if I couldn't sit still for two minutes? I made a deal with the nurse. You be my "center", you hold me and coach me through the pain and I promise to stay still.
I don't know how in the world I did it, but I stayed still for 15 minutes. I didn't move an inch. I just kept letting my body go through the pain and I concentrated on the task at hand. Finally, the damn thing was in my spine.

By then, Ronald had arrived, he was waiting outside. The pain was still there obviously. Epidurals don't work immediately. Something happened though, I felt a gush. I strongly believed that my water broke. The OB was called in, it wasn't my water, just blood. Bloody show! (google it)

The pain was getting worse and worse, at this point everything was set up for me. They were just waiting on me. What were they waiting for?
Suddenly I knew "I feel like pushing!"
That's what they were waiting on.
The OB and a student were called in and they started getting ready.
Finally, I felt like I exploded and I gushed out again.
My water broke! I was sure this time.
"Yes, that was your water" the OB informed me.

OMG, IT'S GO TIME!

Now this is where everything that came felt new to me.
I felt the urge to push, that's something I didn't feel with my first.
They told me that when that urge came, to hold my breath, bare down, and just push with all I had.
I could feel all of it! I felt my body tense up, I felt my husband's hand on the back of my neck supporting me. I felt strong tight feeling on my bottom when I pushed. I felt my baby's head descending.
So many feelings at once. I was amazed!
After three pushes, the amazing feeling went away.
You see, while you're pushing, your body is actually expelling a baby, but once you stop pushing, it feels like you have something stuck up your vagina. That feeling is NOT pleasant at all.
I went with it though, it was uncomfortable but I let it be and I allowed my body to rest for a few seconds before the next contraction came and I was ready to push.

Again, we went through the same motions. Me pushing, my husband supporting, the OB lubricating. It felt wonderful! Then, when the three pushes were done came the "stuck" feeling.
Ugh!!! I hated it. Each time we took that little break, I would start to panic. It wasn't just unpleasant anymore, it hurt.
I remember saying that I couldn't do it anymore. I hoped they knew that I meant I couldn't deal with the breaks. I was actually enjoying the pushing part.

By the third or fourth contraction of the pushing phase, I remember the OB saying that her head was 1/4 of the way out. "What?!" All of this pushing for just a 1/4? No way! No way I was going to push that many times to get another 1/4 of a head out, and then another, and then another. No! I started to do weird math mentally and I refused the results!
On my fifth contraction I was determined to do more than 1/4. I pushed once, pushed twice but I was ready to give up on the third push.
Something magical happened then. I don't know what my husband said, I don't know what possessed me, but something shifted. The motivation and the strength combined with the panic that was going to come if that baby didn't come soon allowed me to do unthinkable. On that last push, I gathered all the power of all the women who mean something in my life and I pushed down with them. I felt it, I felt her head come out.
OH.MY.GOODNESS.SWEET.RELIEF!

I was told to stop pushing so they could check for the cord or anything else.
Sorry lady, I was no longer in control. My body finished pushing my sweet little baby on its own.
I had nothing to do with that push. It was all instinctual.

I cannot being to describe the rush of emotions that come with birthing a child.
It's combination of relief, happiness, fear, and many other things.
I felt them all.

They put the baby on my chest and I said hi.
Perfection looked at me in the eyes.
She was perfect.


There is obviously more to this story, but if I kept writing, we would end up with a novel and aint nobody got time for dat.

I'm sure I will got some flak about this blog post, but this topic has been on my mind for a long time and I want it to address it.

It finally happened.
The day I was dreading the most.

You see, I knew it was coming. I wasn't so naive to think that it would never come. I just thought I had a little more time you know?

In my dreams, I envisioned a little boy who would never want to leave my side. I would be his teacher, his guide, and he would be a total momma's boy!

But nooooooooo! This little devil had other plans.
He had decided, long before I was ready, that he wanted to go to school.

The conversation went a little like this a few months ago:
"Jeannette, when I go to school?"
"School? Why do you want to go to school?"
"I want to learn, and raise my hand and say me me me me!"

And that was it guys! Right then and there he decided that he was ready to go school, even if I wasn't.

So we signed him up, we mentally prepared him (and me) for this huge milestone.
The day finally arrived and it did not go like I expected.

There were tears, OMG, there were tons of tears! A little tantrum here, a mini nervous breakdown there...
Oh, Luka was fine, all of that happened to me, not him!
He was as happy as ever. Very excited and relaxed.
I on the other hand was breaking down inside.
How could this be? Where did these four years go? It cannot be! My little boy is growing up!

I had a plan all set out though. We would take him to school and I would stay behind with him to keep him company. After all, he has never been in daycare nor does he know about babysitters. This was going to be his first time being without his parents and in the care of a total stranger.

Nope!
The little jerk didn't even care about me!
He went on his merry way, making friends, having fun and all that jazz.
Ronald and I thought about leaving, but I wanted to give Luka a last chance to beg me to stay.
I go up to him and say "Bubba, dada and I are going shopping ok? You stay here, we'll be right back."
"Ok", he said

Ok?
JUST OK?

Dammit, I left the traitor there and went shopping with my husband.
So much for moral support!

Anyway, we came back a few hours later to pick him up. He was lined up with the rest of his classmates waiting to be picked up.
He looked so happy!
Dammit!
Traitor, traitor I said!

All in all, I'm so proud of him. There were two other kids who cried for ages and eventually left with their parents. Luka didn't even show any signs of sadness.
He had fun and made new friends.
He told us all about his day. He colored, they had story time, they had clean-up time and snack time.
He ate "LOTSA cookies" and regular milk and oh, let's not forget the apple.

When we were finally home and he was playing with his toys, I caught a little snippet of a song he made up.
It went something like this:

"Miss Briton, Miss Briton, Miss Briton is a good teacher....She taught us coloring, she made us clean-up. She's a good teacher la la la."

Luka has recently turned four years old.
In the days leading up to his birthday, I started to think about all the decisions I made as a parent even before he was born. Every parent wants the best for their children. For some that means buying them everything they need and want, for others it means teaching them values, and for others it means putting them in the best schools and programs. Whatever it is, we all want to give them the very best, and that's exactly what we wanted for our son.

So, what is it that I wanted for him?
I wanted for him to grow up surrounded by love. I wanted him to look back 30 years from now and remember that his parents loved him no matter what. I wanted him to remember a happy childhood, a stable home no matter how small, and to be proud of the person he turned out to be.

I always talk about how proud I am of him. He is a caring boy, he shows affection, and he is compassionate. These are very good qualities to have, but seeing them on a four year old, my four year old, is even more amazing to me. I feel like every single decision we've made towards raising him has molded him into the little person he is today. Some may not agree with our approach, but everything we do for him is with love.

One of the biggest sacrifices we had to make to give him the best care in the world, was for me to stay home and raise him while my husband worked crazy hours to bring in extra income. I never thought I'd be a stay at home mom, but I did it, and I don't regret it. Sure it was hard, sure I wanted to just go out and be me without having to care for someone else, but this is how it had to be. My husband comes from work tired as heck. He barely sleeps, and there's little time to spend with us, but he's doing his part to provide for us. This allows me the freedom to care for and teach my child as much as I can. It's hard, but it's what we chose.

As a result, I look back into the four years that have passed and I am so proud of us as a family. I couldn't have wished for a more perfect little boy. He makes my heart melt with everything he says. Sure he drives me nuts on more than one occasion. I want to hang him by his feet sometimes. But regardless, he is a representation of our hard work. We did this for him and as a result, we have raised a wonderful son.

Parenting isn't easy. Boy, it's the hardest thing I've ever done in my life, but it is so rewarding.
Now we have a little girl who is soon to arrive, and I have the same dreams and expectations for her.
I'm not too worried though. We have a special little boy whom she can look up to and learn from.
Life is good. No regrets.

He sat me down on a park bench near my house, he said he wanted to tell me something but wasn't sure how I would react.
I sat there, knowing exactly what he wanted to say. I knew what he was going to say, there was no question about it.
He told me he was gay.

I can't imagine how hard it must have been for him to say it. I was one of his very good friends and the thought of losing me because of his sexual orientation must have frightened him.

I looked at him and said "and?"
He looked confused, and then told me that most people would judge.
I told him I wouldn't, the fact that he was gay didn't change the way I viewed him.
He was still as funny, charming, and crazy as he was 10 minutes ago before he uttered those words.
I also told him that I knew he was gay, but I never touched the subject because it's none of my business and it wouldn't matter anyways, he would still be my friend.

I don't know how I came to the realization that gay people are just people. I know there is a lot of prejudice from others and I don't understand it. All I know is that since I can remember, gay, straight, bi or whatever other orientation people associate with, does not change the person. People are people, period.
I think some of it stems from my bible studies. No, I'm not religious at all, but I love to read, and the bible is a book you know?
To me, the bible is a wonderful book filled with stories and lessons. There are tons of things people don't agree with with, but as with any book, you don't have to like everything it says. It's what you take from it that matters.
I was always fascinated by Genesis, it was wonderful to read how everything began from a religious point of ivew. It never ceases to amaze me. I was also intrigued by Revelations. It scared the crap out of me but I couldn't stop reading!
One of my favorite passages though, comes from the book of Corinthians. When I first read it, I couldn't believe I was reading the bible.
Let me show you what I mean:

1 Corinthians 13:4-8 4 
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 8 Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

 Love is love people. It doesn't matter what sex you are. Just because a man may love another man, does not make their love less than mine for my husband. Their love is genuine, their love is pure and everyone understands love. At one time or another we have felt it, and you know that love is something we can't control. Love is an unstoppable force with its own mind. It takes us places so high up that you forget you're even human. How can we judge it? We cannot!
I'm not gay, but I am a firm supporter of the LGBT community. Whenever someone brings up the subject (ahem, family...) of gay being wrong, I always try to educate them on the subject. You don't have to like it, but you do have to respect it. Plain and simple.

Any who, enough with my ramblings, love thy neighbor and all that jazz.

Plain and simple, my freaking butt hurts. Every time I try to explain to someone why I groan when I get up from a chair or why I suddenly stop dead in my tracks when I'm trying to sit back down, I find it hard to explain that the excruciating pain I'm feeling is coming from my ass.

I try to gently explain the wonderful phenomenon that is Posterior Pelvic Pain but once I utter those words, people look at me like I'm crazy. Plain and simple people, my ass hurts like a motherfudger!

Why does my butt hurt? Well, let's see, since I got pregnant, my body no longer belongs to me. I have this little devil child growing inside me. He/she took residence in my womb and decided to mess with the delicate balance of my hormones. It made me puke, it made me moody, and it turned me into a pregzilla. Not only that, but this little devil child has the audacity to stretch so long that it pushes my bones around. He/she kicks and turns while I'm trying to sleep and makes my belly jump!
To top it all off, one of those lovely hormones my body is secreting has the wonderful job of stretching out my bones. Yes, you heard it, my bones are being stretched out and my joints are like jelly, hence the pain. Where? In my butt of course.

Lol.
No, I'm not mad at my baby, I just found it funny that I was trying so hard to very modestly explain my butt pain to people. Now I'm just going to say that my butt hurts.

Most holidays are a cause of celebration. People get together, they give each other gifts, sometimes a cake is involved...

There is a holiday in June, that I rarely celebrated when I was little, Father's day.
The only father I ever knew when I was a young child, was my grand-father.
Yes, I had a biological father, but he wasn't around much.
So, my dear grand-father was the daddy figure in my life and he was amazing.
He was the kind of father that loved with all his heart and was never afraid to show it.
He was the kind of father who would cook, do house chores and also do "manly" things like fix the house.
He was a carpenter, a shoe-maker, a plumber, a painter and many more things.
So one could understand why a six year old girl would experience total despair when said grand-father passed away. Right?

My father-daughter experience was short lived. I would never know that kind love again until I was older, much, much older.
Fast-forward a few years and I find myself traveling to a new country to meet my biological father. Sure, I had met him before but nothing important enough to leave a lasting memory of him.
He had a wife and three kids
You can imagine the joy a little nine year old girl might feel at the thought of having a daddy in her life. I was both nervous and excited.
My expectations were met short.
I don't want to get into too many details because this is not a post about him, but Take Two of my father-daughter experience was not a good one.
It was so bad in fact, that I decided men in general were no good.
Growing up I treated men with little respect. All of them were toys for me to play with and discard at my will.
Needless to say, I had a lot of "boyfriends" who came and went like nothing.
I vowed that I would never raise children with a man. I would get pregnant by some random stranger and raise my kid on my own. No man could be trusted, no man was good enough to be part of my family.
That all changed when I met my husband.

The circumstances under which we met were not common. The trials and tribulations we went through were right out of a movie. The love wasn't there from the start. Nobody would have thought that him and I would be a couple. I didn't even believe it, but it happened and we fell in love.
I didn't trust him completely, I had my issues with him, he was a man after all and men could not be trusted.
Still, being with him gave my heart peace. Being in his arms gave my soul a chance to rest, to stop running.
I started to sprout roots and settle in. I started to feel at home.

Right before and immediately after my son was born, I had my doubts. I was going to raise a child with a man and that scared me.
I shouldn't have been scared though. I had nothing to fear.
This man ultimately taught me what it is to be a daddy, and for that reason, this letter is to him.

To a father,
Thank you for loving me, thank you for giving me a space in your heart. Thank you for allowing me to hurt and to heal and thank you for being there to hold my hand while I did it. I love you more than any blog post can express. You are my Prince in yellow shiny armor.
Although you are not my father, you did teach me the kind of love a father is capable of. Thank you for being there when our son was born. Thank you for encouraging me to push harder when I had nothing left in me. I couldn't have done it without you. Thank you for cuddling him when he cried. Thank you for all the pooppy diapers you changed, I hated those. Thank you for staying up late at night rocking him to sleep when I was so exhausted to do it myself. Thank you for kissing our son's boo boos away. Thank you for reading him Dr. Seuss books in full character voices. Thank you for missing us so much when we go to Peru. We miss you too when we are away from you. Thank you for being our rock, our stability, our safe heaven. Thank you for being all the things the others weren't. Thank you for showing me what a real family looks like. Thank you for showing me love, pure and unconditional. Thank you so much for allowing me to grow into myself and giving me time to love you. Thank you for every single little thing you do. You have no idea how much it means to me to feel like I belong somewhere. Thank you so much for giving me my fairy-tale ending. Thank you a million times for being in my life.
I learned from you that men can be real daddy's if they really wanted to. I finally met a man who could fill my grand-father's shoes and exceed my expectations. Our son is blessed to have you as a father.
Thank you.

If I could go back in time right now to the day my son was born, I would tell myself that everything would be alright. I finally found our daddy and our happy ending had begun.

When I was 16 or 17, living in Peru, I had a puppy named Orion. He was a rottweiler that my mom "stole" from my grand-mother when he was three days old. She gave him to me to raise. I cared for that little doggy like he was my own child.
One day, while I was coming to the kitchen to get something, I heard him yelp. He was about two months old or so or maybe three. I saw that he was struggling to get free from a wooden crate that was laying around there. He kept yelping and pulling away but couldn't manage to get free. When I got close to inspect the situation, I saw something horrifying. There was a bent nail stuck under his eyelid.
How in the world did he manager to get in that situation, I'll never know.
Panic started creeping up. I didn't know how to save him. He kept squirming around and wouldn't let me help.
I yelled for help but everyone was very far away from where I was, nobody could hear him.
So, I came to the realization that if I was going to save my puppy, I had to do something.
I hugged him tight and I talked to him. I said to him "You need to stay still, if you keep pulling, you'll damage your eye. You need to trust me, I'll get you out of there."
Somehow, he understood. He kept yelping but he stood very still. I managed to pull his eyelid out and free him.
With tears streaming down my eyes, I managed to carry him to my mom who helped me clean him up and decided he was ok.
He didn't have any major damage, not even a puncture wound.
It was a miracle.

I've never had to go through something like that again. Well, all that changed a few days ago.
Last Wednesday my son and I were at my in-law's. I was in the kitchen with my mother-in-law and my son was going to see his grand-father in the living-room.
While I was chatting away, I heard my son call for me.
"Jeannette? uh, Jeannette?"
It was a simple call, nothing alarming in his voice it would seem.
I knew better though, I guess mothers always know, but I knew something was wrong.
I went to look for him and found him in the spare room where my-in-law's keep their clothing and other things.
He was bent down with his hands on an old bicycle.
I was about to yell at him for touching things that don't belong to him, until I saw his face.
Pain, all I saw was pain and desperation.
He was very calm though, no crying, no yelling, nothing, just a look that said help me!
I got near him and saw that his right hand was stuck in between the chain of the bike and the wheel thing that moves when you pedal. I tried to pull his hand a little to see if it would budge.
No luck.
I wanted to spin the wheels in the opposite direction but I couldn't. The bike was stuck in between several bags of clothing and it was too heavy for me to lift.
I decided that it was time for help.
I called for my in-law's and shortly after they came I regretted my decision.
I thought they would help, but instead panic started.
Once my mother-in-law saw what was happening she started crying and screaming.
My father-in-law looked like a poor lost puppy not knowing what to do.
My poor little brother-in-law just stood against the wall covering his mouth.
I felt helpless again but this time I had so much noise in my head, I couldn't think straight.
Luka, who had been calm up to this point started to panic. The yells and cries of my family were so loud, I couldn't think straight. My brain was telling me that I needed to turn the pedals towards the opposite direction, but somehow my brain didn't know what direction that was. If I turned it wrong, his hand was going to be fed even further in.
His little fingers looked like they were only holding on by the skin.
I resigned myself to the idea that he would loose at least two fingers, so my mission now was to get him out of there and into the hospital so they could at least reconstruct his hand if it was possible.
I started to yank the chain with my own hands in hopes of breaking it. Nothing was working.
The screams were getting louder, I finally yelled "Shut up, everyone needs to shut up!"
I felt the panic creeping up on me but I couldn't let it take over. If I allowed myself to feel despair, I wouldn't be able to free my son. He was counting on me to free him and I wasn't going to fail him.
I told my father-in-law to bring something to cut the chain with. Finally, I hugged Luka and told him he needed to stay very still and quiet so I could help him. I covered his mouth and he stood still.
My brain finally decided to work. "Turn the pedal this way" it told me.
As soon as I did, I freed his hand.
Relief....

I saw no blood, just very smooshed fingers.
I yelled at my MIL to give me a cloth or something to cover his hand.
I carried my son and I told my FIL to take me to the hospital.
He started to say "Wait, let me see.."
"No, HOSPITAL, NOW!" I yelled.
"But..." he continued.
"H O S P I T A L" I demanded.
Finally he go the message.
I told my brother in law to call my husband and let him know what happened. I had to repeat it twice because he seemed to be in shock.
\
When we finally got to the ER, they wanted to check him but Luka wouldn't allow it. He wasn't crying at all. That little boy is so brave, he wouldn't cry. He was in pain though, you could see it in his face, but he refused to cry. He was very scared and very sad. I kept hugging him and telling him how brave he was and that the Doctors would help him feel better.
Long story short, they gave him medicine for the pain and he started to perk up.
The amazing thing though is that every time I checked his hand, his fingers started to plump up and look almost normal.
By the end of the whole ordeal, his fingers looked almost like before but with a few bruises and cuts.
I couldn't believe it, it was a miracle!

Finally, my body started to react to the whole ordeal. I realized I had been wanting to pee for hours. I also started to feel pain on my left hand. When I looked at it, I saw chain marks from when I almost broke the stupid thing. My body was finally telling me that I needed to be taken care of. I had been carrying my son the whole afternoon and he is not light-weight by any standards. Add to it that I'm pregnant and I can't quite understand how I managed to do all that I did to not only rescue my son, but remain calm and endure everything else.

The Doctors told us that Luka's hand would make a full recovery. They advised us to clean the wound at home because he wouldn't allow them to do it. They also told us to give him Motrin or Tylenol for the pain and come back in a few days if the swelling didn't go down.
Luka was finally perky and responsive. He actually smiled and laughed. It was as if the whole thing never  happened.
Yes, he was still in a little pain, but nothing compared to what he felt before.

That night, while I put him to sleep, I hugged him tight and read him a bed-time story.
He was so happy and kept telling me he loved me.
Finally, when he was snoring away, I let myself feel something.
Tears started to stream down my eyes and I started to sob.
My son had gotten hurt, and in that moment I would have traded places with him in an instant. I would rather go through the pain he went a thousand times if only to avoid him going through it.
My emotions were taking over now and I couldn't stop crying, that is until Luka woke up and asked me:
"Jeannette, are you crying?"
"No"
"Jeannette, why are you crying?"
"I'm not crying bubba."
"I want you."
"I love you, goodnight"

Finally my baby went to sleep, but I couldn't. Every time I closed my eyes all I could see were his fingers stuck in the chains. The image still hunts me two days after but I'm glad I was able to help him. He counted on me to rescue him and I didn't fail him.
I like to believe that mommy-mode was activated when he called for me. Otherwise, I don't know how else I would have remained so calm and in control.
I haven't had a chance to cry again. It seems that I was only able to cry for those 10 seconds before he awoke that night. Now it seems silly to cry. I can live with that. My son is alright now, his hand is healing and that's all that matters.

Super long blog post. Beware!

The first time I got pregnant, everything was new. I did so much research, I started to feel like a pregnancy resource database. I had so many question, so many concerns, I'm sure I drove my husband crazy with it all.
In the end though, everything turned out good. All of my research paid off. All the knowledge eased my mind and I had a nice, healthy pregnancy and birth.

This time around things feel different. My pregnancy seems to be going well and overall both baby and I are healthy. The difference is, that this time I feel more confident in my body to do what needs to be done to carry this baby without any type of intervention.

I should explain more.
A few years ago, I decided that if and when I got pregnant again, I wanted things to be slightly different.
If possible, I wanted a home birth. I didn't want any type of medication including labor inducing ones.
Don't get me wrong, the clinic I went to never forced me to do anything I didn't want.
They waited for pap smears or exams if I wasn't comfortable with them. They listened to me and my concerns as well.
Sadly, at the hospital where I gave birth doesn't exactly have the same policies.
Even though my birthing experience was beautiful, there are things that I would have done differently.
When you're in intense pain sometimes your judgement gets clouded. You just want labor to be over and you just want to push that baby out ASAP.
After the fact, I feel like I would have omitted certain things and this time around I will be more adamant about what my labor experience should be like.

So what am I trying to get at?
Well, I'm refusing tests and exams that I don't feel like are necessary.
For example, on my first actual visit with my Dr., I refused a pelvic exam and a pap smear because I felt it was too early in my pregnancy.
Yes, I'm sure they are safe during pregnancy, but when you get either of those sometimes there is bleeding.
Now, if you combine bleeding with the fact that my pregnancy is still very early, it just adds stress.
I'm more concerned with what stress will do to my body than what the actual tests are going to do for me.

Another example would be ultrasounds.
Because my clinic is so small, ultrasounds are done at the different facility.
Even though they are the same health company, the techs at the other location are horrible.
They are cold, entitled and sometimes rude.
I'm not saying that all of them are, but the times I've been there, I've felt like I was just a job to them and my feelings didn't matter.
Now, I don't care what profession you are in, if you work with people, you should be able to at least pretend to be nice to them.
I had a scheduled ultrasound for a day where I didn't have anyone to watch my son.
Now, the ultrasound place does not allow children under the age of 5 unless they are accompanied by another adult.
I called the ultrasound place and asked if they could give me a day when my husband was able to come with us and watch my son. I was granted the request and we went to our appointment.
We waited for an hour before we were called. When they called us, the tech asked us the age of my son.
I told her that he was 3 and she refused to let him in. I explained that I had brought my husband with us so he could watch him while the ultrasound was being done. She refused and told us they could wait in the waiting room. By then I was already pissed. Waiting for an hour had already made my mood sour, not to mention, my son was getting tired too. I told her that I would not have the ultrasound done and she suggested I re-schedule. I told her that wasn't possible since my husband wouldn't have a day off for a while and she kept pushing for me to have the ultrasound done without them.
I refused again and told them I would just go home and later figured it out.
She then informed me that no other ultrasound place within their network would allow my son to be in the room.
That pushed me over the edge. I told her it was fine and that I wouldn't have an ultrasound done.

Now, before you start judging me, I should say that I had already thought about not having any ultrasounds done. I only agreed to this one because I wanted to share the moment with my family. Since it was not possible, it just made my decision to not have any at all much simpler.
I got home later that day and started doing some research on people refusing ultrasounds.
Some people cited websites of research that have been done regarding the risk of unnecessary ultrasounds.
Others thought it was crazy to forgo them.
I mean, why would you NOT want to have them right?
Well, this might sound crazy but I don't feel like I need them.
Sure I would like to have one eventually, maybe right before the baby is born?
I don't know, but I don't feel like I need one.

The ultrasound I refused was to confirm viability and to confirm due date.
First of all, I am 100% of my menstrual dates because I have been recording them for two years now.
Second of all, now that I am 19 weeks pregnant, I know for sure my baby is viable.
At 14 weeks, which is when my ultrasound was to be done, it's too early to do anything about a miscarriage. So if my baby wasn't viable, nature would take its course and that would be the last of that.

Now, the second ultrasound which is usually done around 20 weeks is an anatomy scan. Basically, they measure the size of baby and whatnot. Again, I fail to see how that is going to help me. My baby isn't technically a baby until 24 weeks. If and when something happened to me before 24 weeks and I went into labor, they wouldn't try to save the baby anyhow because in medical terms "it isn't viable yet."
I also never understood why measurements mattered so much at this time. Babies grow at different intervals. My baby in womb maybe a little small right now, but who is to say that he/she will not get bigger by the end of it?
I'm also against any genetic tests. My decision to keep my baby would not change if they found out I had markers for down syndrome or anything like that. So those types of tests would be irrelevant in my case, it would only cause me stress and again, we all know how I feel about that.

I'm rambling now, but you get the point. I just don't want all of this done to me. If I could afford it, I would just pay a midwife to come to my house for my regular check-ups and just give birth in the bathtub.
I'm not kidding, I rather just do it at home without the medical interventions.
Ronald doesn't agree.
He much rather drag me to a hospital when the time comes and tie me to the bed until that baby is born.
Of course he would never do that, he respects my decisions and as much as it bothers him, he will never try to persuade me from what I feel is right.

I have an appointment for the 17th and yes, I will be going to that.
I might refuse the pap and the pelvic exam once again.
With my first pregnancy, I refused it until my very last appointment and my doctor was fine with that.
I'm a healthy person who doesn't smoke, I used to drink casually at home with dinner every once in a while. I have never done drugs. I have never contracted an STD and neither has my husband.
I did allow them to do an HIV test because sex is not the only way to get it and it's nice to be sure.
But again, there is no medical reason for me to allow anything else if there are no indications I may be sick.

So yes, I guess I am a little crazy for just trusting in myself and my ability to do this without all the medical hoo-ha that is usually involved.
But I trust myself and my intuition and I know that if anything feels wrong, I will promptly seek medical help without delay.

You know that saying that goes, "Be careful what you wish for?"

Well right now I feel like I might be getting what I wished for, but at a costly price.

When I was pregnant with Luka, I wished so hard he was a girl. Alas, the universe wanted to give me a little boy instead of a girl and I accepted it with grace.
He is the love of my life and even though he has dangly bits instead of organs tucked in, I think he is pure perfection.
Way before we had any kids though, I talked to Ronald about wanting to have four children. The first two could be biological, the last two could be adopted later on in life.
When Luka was born, I was in such a state of "high" that I screamed to the heavens I would have another as soon as I could.
Now that I am pregnant, I'm really regretting being that confident about carrying another child.

Yes, I am pregnant again and I have no idea why I decided to put myself through such torture.
Let me backtrack a little and give you some info on what I mean.
When I was pregnant with Luka, I had the regular morning sickness. I felt a bit nauseous, I threw up a few times but it was nothing too bad. My second trimester was pure joy, I started to sport a beautiful bump, morning sickness was all but gone and it was just beautiful to be pregnant. The third trimester was very tiring, and that last month seemed to drag on forever, but still, I was very happy.

Currently, I am 12 weeks pregnant and I feel like shit!
Yes, I said it, I feel like SHIT!
I've gotten very acquainted with my toilet bowl. I can tell you the exact shade of porcelain white it is, I can point exactly how many millimeters from hinge to hinge is the length of the top of the cover. I can tell you how many seconds it takes for the tank to fill up after I have flushed it. I can also tell you that we've been running out of toilet paper faster than when Luka was being potty trained.
Before the morning sickness, Luka got really worried when I darted to the bathroom. He would sit outside of the door waiting for me to finish, promptly after he would knock, come in and rub my head until I could finally speak.
I've made so many "darting trips" lately that he no longer cares. I could be crawling, bumping my way into the bathroom, probably knocking a few things down, and he doesn't even care anymore.
I can't blame him though, I've been making my special trips 4-5 times a day on average.

When I tell this to my friends and co-workers they tell me, "Oh, it must me a girl!"
I then think to myself, FML!
If this is what it takes to have a girl, then someone kick me in the head for wishing for a girl in the first place!
Now, now, don't get touchy just yet. I know I have nobody to blame but myself (and Ronald.)
I am really happy that I will be having another little one, but right now I enforce my right to be pissed.
Yes, I am pissed!
There are times I want to kick my husband right in the groin for getting me pregnant. (haha, it's not like he forced me into it.)
He has learned to stay away from me most of the time, but I know he is suffering in his own way too.
Of course he is not suffering as much as me and sometimes I wish he could go through what I'm going through, but I know he is in his own kind of hell right now which makes me feel a bit better.

Any who!
This blog is supposed to be about my feelings, so there they are, I am pissed, I am tired, I am mentally and physically exhausted and I am just waiting for all of this nastiness to go away so I can finally enjoy this pregnancy.

Now, my advice to all of you ladies out there right now, especially the younger ones (I am looking at you naughty teenagers who think they know better) is:
DO NOT GET PREGNANT, IT'S A TRAP!

I was going through the older posts in my blog and I realized that most of the ones about my son are positive ones.
I mean, yes, he is a very good kid, but it's not always that way.

There are times, like right now for example while he is trying to catch me with a piece of string and tie me down until I scream, that I want to strangle him.
Obviously, I don't want to harm my child, but it gets to that point where I think to myself "wtf did I get myself into by having a child?!"

I try to set rules and guidelines, but I am also of the belief that children need to be children so I let him do his own thing as well.

For example, I will allow him to draw pretty pictures with markers on his own body or clothing, but I will not allow him to do it on the walls. My reasoning behind it is, the walls belong to all of us, it's something we should respect, but his clothes are his and I don't care if they get stained. He's the one that's going to have to wear them not me.

When it comes to mealtime, we never force him to eat everything. Yes, we encourage him to finish all of the yumminess daddy and mommy worked so hard to make, but he is a such a good healthy eater anyway, so it really doesn't matter if he didn't finish all of the vegetables in his plate once in a while.

What drives me insane though is when he starts playing with food. I loathe it!
Just eat the damn banana dude! You do not have to use the tail of your toy airplane to cut it into pieces...

Recently he has gotten to the point where he likes to yell back. I am not afraid or ashamed to admit that I have raised my voice at him. I refuse to be ordered around by a three year old and my mean voice usually demands attention and respect. But, not too long ago, I heard him yell at Ronald when he asked him to clean something up.
It went something like this:

Ronald: "Luka, go put (insert toy here) away."
Luka: "no.."
Ronald: "Luka, go put (insert toy here again) away please."
Luka: "No!"
Ronald: "Luka carajo guarda ese juguete ahora antes que me moleste!" (Spanish daddy getting angry)
Luka: "NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

I couldn't help but laugh, very quietly of course, but I also didn't like that Luka was yelling back. I didn't intervene, I usually don't, unless Ronald comes and asks for help. Then I have to put my angry voice to work to get things done.

So yes, raising this little boy is beautiful, I love that he is his own person that doesn't always agree with me. I mean, I won't admit this to him now, but I am glad that he questions things and pushes boundaries. I want him to carry this with him until he is an adult. Never conform, always ask the why behind anything.

Still, he drives me nuts at least once a day. As he gets older, he finds new ways to test my temper, and the more he does it, the meaner I seem to get. I have to remind myself that I love this child, I carried this child in my now stretch-marked belly for nine months and it was all worth it. Otherwise we might both end up in the front page of all major newspapers saying that some crazy lady hung her kid by the feet while she started chanting to the moon to release the evil spirits from him.
Or something crazy like that...

When I was very little my world were my grand-parents, my hard-working mother and my toys.
We lived very modestly but I had tons of love and I never felt like I missed out.
My mother spoiled me, she bought me everything I wanted most of the time and she even dressed me until I was 10 or 11. Yes, I was that kind of spoiled kid.
Don't judge me, this is not even the point of this post.

The point is, my world was very small, but it was mine.
When I was nine and I came to the US for the first time I learned that there was more to the world than Peru.
I mean obviously, I knew there were other countries out there and oceans and mountains and tons of things, but since I never visited, my world remained small.

As I got older I yearned to go back to Peru to see my family. The older I got, the more I missed it. I would cry at night when nobody could listen to me and pour out my soul with those tears until I became exhausted. My heart ached for my country, my food and my family.
When summer came around each year it was a celebration, I got to go back and enjoy a couple of months with  my family.
As far as I knew, Peru was happiness for me.
When it was time to go back to the US, I would cry some more. My grand-mother and I would come up with plans for me to run away or hide for a couple of days so I could miss my flight back and the mysteriously resurface afterwards making it impossible to return.
It sounded good in theory but it was just wishful thinking.

It wasn't until my grand-mother passed away that I understood where my obsession for my country came from.
It was her, it was my grand-mother and everything she meant to me that pulled me towards Peru.
After she died, the idea of Peru wasn't as enticing. Yes, I love visiting, but in the recent years when I have visited, I haven't been jumping for joy yearning for the date to travel. When I am in Peru I go through a mini depression period where all I want to do is sleep and go back home. After a week or so I'm all better and I can enjoy my vacation but the difference is obvious.

I loved going to Peru as a child because I knew my grand-mother would wait for me with tears of happiness in her eyes and all of the wet kisses a little girl could tolerate. She would always ask me what I wanted to be my first meal when I arrived and she would cook it, just for me.
She took me out to do errands, or just ask me to sit with her on the front step of our door to look out at the neighbors. That was true happiness for me. I could sit there for hours with her and not get bored. God I miss that so much, it brings me to tears just thinking about it.

Now when I go to Peru, I sometimes dread going by the house. My mother lives in another house now is more tolerable to be there. But going to my grand-mother's house is like receiving a stab at the heart. I don't talk about this in front of my family often because they won't get it. Yes, I know they miss her too, but the connection I had with her, nobody had and that's one thing I am proud to have had. We were a team, a secret society that functioned underground. Nobody knew what we were up to, just us and it suited us just fine.

So Dear Peru, forgive me if I don't appreciate you enough lately. It's not that I'm not proud of being a Peruvian, but you see, my grand-mother was my Peru. Now that she's gone, I have no real reason to be there. My mother and my sisters can travel to see me if they feel like it, so it's not like I'm never going to see them again if I don't go back. But my grand-mother is gone, so what's left for me over there?
Nothing really, and it's sad.

I'm a very open minded person, or at least I try to be.
There are certain things in the world that I don't understand. For example, violence towards people such as school shootings and horrible beatings because someone was angry at the world.

There are three things though that I very much understand and support 100%.

The first one, and this should not come as a surprise, is breastfeeding.
The second one is attachment parenting (look it up)
The third one is human rights.

Now, a part of being a human being comes with the advantage of having rights. One of those rights is to be able to love whomever you chose regardless of sex. To me, love is love and love knows nothing about sexual orientation.
Bare with me here, I know this is a lot of background info but there is a point to it.

I was reading about a guy who came out to his mother a few years back and told her he was gay. In his story he tells us that his mother cried in her bed saying she didn't want her son to be gay. A few years later it was established that the mother finally accepted his son for being gay and all was good in the world.
I mean, yay for the mom but it left me with the obvious "What if" question.

What if Luka came to me one day and told me he was gay? Would I cry, would I yell, would I disown him and kick him out?

Of course not hahaha!
He is my son. No matter who he chooses to like or love he will always be my son.
I carried this person in my womb, I gave birth to him, I breastfed him and I raised him to be the lovely little boy he is today. I hope one day he will become a kind, gentle soul who cares for other human beings. I hope that he will grow up with compassion and respect for all living things in this earth. I hope he becomes a man who can be proud of himself and proud of his parents for helping him become that man.
His sexual orientation has nothing to do with the kind of person who I hope he becomes. It will never change the love I have for him. It will never make me feel less proud or ashamed of him in the least.

So if my son ever comes to me telling me he is gay, I shall give him a big hug and say "that's great, so what's his name?"
I will not cry in pain and question myself on what I did wrong, because I will know that his sexual orientation had nothing to do with my parenting. It's just what his heart wants and we all know that the heart wants what the heart wants.

I know a lot of people won't agree with me and will probably tell me that I won't know what my reaction will be if that ever happens. But I know now, I know with all my soul that the love I feel for my son will never falter one bit.

He is my son and I love him.
I will always love him, gay, straight, bisexual, transsexual and any other -sexual