“I don’t want this year to transform me; I want it to bring the me that has always been there out into the open, and for me to embrace her with open arms instead of hide her inside. Instead of my thirties being something I dread, it will be like a new journey with an old friend. And *that’s* something I can look forward to.”


That is a HUGE thing to do in a year.

If Year 29-30 has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t find a new person by piercing her nose and cutting off her hair. A tattoo doesn’t change someone, and losing 30 pounds, buying new clothes, and going to a UU church service won’t, either.

It’s the quiet that is transformative. The few moments of solitude each day where you quiet the voices you’ve been hearing all day, and listen for your *own*.

What does that voice say?

Sometimes, as a mom, at the end of the day, it’s screaming “HELP ME! I need some time to myself, or I’m going to cease being ‘me’ and start being dishes and nursing and yoga pants and stinky armpits!”. Sometimes its whispering fears, cooing gratitude, or leaking tears for a long-lost time. But in this past year, more than anything else, I learned that this voice NEEDS to be heard.

I’ve spent much of my life quieting my inner thoughts. For years, acknowledging those thoughts meant I’d acknowledge *feelings*, and sometimes, feelings HURT. Pushing them down seemed the easiest route, as I’d had my fair share of heartbreak and pain in my life, and dammit, I didn’t need more! “Shove it back down in the recesses where it belongs!”, I’d say.

It wasn’t working out well.

By denying my own thoughts and feelings, I let the opinions and words of others rule my world. If someone had something to say about my parenting, my life choices, my marriage, my daughter, I would let those thoughts ruminate. I’d turn them over and over until they became my reality. My reality for my last decade was oftentimes just a hodgepodge of the opinions of those around me.

No more.

What it took me a decade to learn: stop listening to the opinions of others, as if they must be some form of your own. Some people get really upset if they see you daring to be happy, accepting and loving yourself for who you are if they deem that to be in some way counter to who they think you should be.

Perfection isn’t a pre-requisite for self-love and acceptance.

(Find out who you are, and love her.)

So as I’m on the home stretch to thirty here, I am gladly acknowledging and accepting myself as I am, right here. There are definitely things I want to accomplish by the time I’m forty, but I don’t want those accomplishments to define me as a person.

My self worth will not be determined by my accomplishments, my appearance, or my bank account.

And for the record, I feel much more at home in my own skin with my completely natural, mousy-brown curls than I did with a bleached-white pixie cut.

Brown hair, don't care.

Brown hair, don’t care.

This is 30.


There are some things I’ve done in the past year that I’m proud of that weren’t on my original list. Can I brag for a second?

Few Before Thirty List!

1. Attended studio yoga classes.

This was big for me. I let the fear of exposing my non-perfect body in public stop me from attending studio classes in the past, but having moved to Indiana, where my sisters both teach yoga, I felt I couldn’t fight it any longer. Boy was I thrilled! Yoga classes with others are so different from practicing at home. You feel the group breathing, sweating, and thinking with you. It is just perfection, and I’d do it every day if I could.

2. Confessed my most painful memory to the masses.

In April of last year, I wrote a seemingly innocuous blog post about the birth of my daughter. The intent behind it was to help those who struggled with making decisions about childbirth, and it blew the frick UP.

I never had any intention for this thing to go viral. I needed an outlet to share my feelings, my sorrow, my guilt over the pain my daughter went through, and apparently, that pain resonated with people. In its biggest day, my blog attracted 85,000 viewers.

Some people were angry with me. They called me stupid. They said I was selfish, untrusting of the medical community, and said I deserved what I got. Maybe these things are true. But ultimately, I received more support and love from the doula community than I’d ever dreamed of. I had requests to use my blog at conferences, as a teaching tool for future doulas, and got private messages from people all over the world thanking me for sharing my story.

As of today, this blog post regularly gets circulation. I am grateful that Joely’s story is still affecting people, and only hope that my own error will help others make better decisions when it comes to childbirth. This wound has been healed. And my girl still loves me.

3. Perfected a recipe for French Beignets.

Mmmmm. After watching “Princess and the Frog” with my darling nieces, one of them requested them for her 4th birthday party. After making one batch, I was HOOKED! These things are light, fluffy pillows of sweet delight. And while I wanted to perfect croissants, these were an excellent substitute, and gave me a burst of creative juice in my cooking/baking ventures

4. Had my Tarot cards read.

This was one of the most mind boggling experiences in my life thus far. The lovely woman reading my tarot was caring, helpful, and knowledgeable. I couldn’t believe the sorts of things that came up, and I will never forget that day, or the cards. I’d love to go back again sometime soon.

5. Read a LOT of books.

I read a lot this year, and I loved it. Only one of the books I read was on the list of the 60 best books by librarians, and I’m completely okay with that. The library now has a service which allows patrons to rent books via Amazon, and a lot of those books happen to be very popular ones. My mind was swirling in new worlds this year, filled with complex heroes and heroines who captured my heart.

Books read:

“A Prayer for Owen Meany” by John Irving
“Sharp Objects” by Gillian Flynn
“Dark Places” by Gillian Flynn
“Gone Girl” by Gillian Flynn
“A Breath of Snow and Ashes” by Diana Gabaldon
“The Fiery Cross” by Diana Gabaldon
“Drums of Autumn” by Diana Gabaldon
“Voyager” by Diana Gabaldon
“Dragonfly in Amber” by Diana Gabaldon
“Outlander” by Diana Gabaldon
“The Invention of Wings” by Sue Monk-Kidd
“If I Stay” by Gayle Forman
“Where She Went” by Gaye Forman
“Eleanor & Park” By Rainbow Rowell
“The Alchemist” by Paolo Coelho
“Hollow City” by Ransom Riggs
“Miss Peregrine’s Home For Peculiar Children” by Ransom Riggs
“The Diving Bell and Butterfly” by Jean-Dominique Bauby
“Dead Reckoning” by Charlaine Harris
“Dead in the Family” by Charlaine Harris
“Dead and Gone” by Charlaine Harris
“From Dead to Worse” by Charlaine Harris
“All Together Dead” by Charlaine Harris
“Definitely Dead” by Charlaine Harris
“Dead as a Doornail” by Charlaine Harris
“Dead to the World” by Charlaine Harris
“Club Dead” by Charlaine Harris
“Living Dead in Dallas” by Charlaine Harris
“Dead Until Dark” by Charlaine Harris
“Junky” by William S. Burroughs

I hope I can read more next year, and continue to read. It makes my heart all crazy happy to enter into worlds unknown.

6. Agreed to be the musical director for a fundraising event.

One of my dear friends approached me in December, after we moved back to Indiana, and asked if I might be interested in assisting with a fundraiser for our local community theater. Of course, this required me to listen to my Voice… The one who has been telling me for eons that I need to do more musically. I agreed, and am about to start rehearsing folks for our Speakeasy fundraiser in April. I’m also performing, and while that gives me the jibblies (it’s been years since I’ve been on stage in any official capacity), I know it’s what I should be doing. I’m very grateful for the opportunity to get back into the world I love!


I may not have accomplished everything on my list from last year, but I think I lived in the spirit in which my list was made; I am a new woman in many ways.

And I’m certainly not afraid of my thirties. Bring it on. ❤

(This is a poem attributed to Charlie Chaplin on his 70th birthday. It brought me to tears.)

As I Began to Love Myself – Self Love Poem by Charlie Chaplin

As I began to love myself I found that anguish and emotional suffering
are only warning signs that I was living against my own truth.
Today, I know, this is “AUTHENTICITY”.

As I began to love myself I understood how much it can offend somebody
As I try to force my desires on this person, even though I knew the time
was not right and the person was not ready for it, and even though this
person was me. Today I call it “RESPECT”.

As I began to love myself I stopped craving for a different life,
and I could see that everything that surrounded me was inviting me to grow.
Today I call it “MATURITY”.

As I began to love myself I understood that at any circumstance,
I am in the right place at the right time, and everything happens
at the exactly right moment. So I could be calm.
Today I call it “SELF-CONFIDENCE”.

As I began to love myself I quit steeling my own time,
and I stopped designing huge projects for the future.
Today, I only do what brings me joy and happiness, things I love to do
and that make my heart cheer, and I do them in my own way and in
my own rhythm. Today I call it “SIMPLICITY”.

As I began to love myself I freed myself of anything that is no good for
my health – food, people, things, situations, and everything that drew
me down and away from myself. At first I called this attitude
a healthy egoism. Today I know it is “LOVE OF ONESELF”.

As I began to love myself I quit trying to always be right, and ever since
I was wrong less of the time. Today I discovered that is “MODESTY”.

As I began to love myself I refused to go on living in the past and worry
about the future. Now, I only live for the moment, where EVERYTHING
is happening. Today I live each day, day by day, and I call it “FULFILLMENT”.

As I began to love myself I recognized that my mind can disturb me
and it can make me sick. But As I connected it to my heart, my
mind became a valuable ally. Today I call this
connection “WISDOM OF THE HEART”.

We no longer need to fear arguments, confrontations or any kind of problems
with ourselves or others. Even stars collide, and out of their crashing
new worlds are born.Today I know THAT IS “LIFE”!


#22 and #28: Reprogramming The Voice, Self-Love, and Harry Potter.

I’ve decided to start the self-love portion of my project in July. I think I need it now more than ever.

I found myself getting lower and lower in a deep well of self-loathing. I didn’t want to look in the mirror, didn’t want to meet people’s eye contact, didn’t want to leave the house for anything unnecessary, and hated the idea of meeting new people. I didn’t feel physically *worthy* of the attention of a new person, and I felt that I’d be an embarrassment to my husband and my sweet daughter.

What on EARTH makes someone feel this way?!

While I may be a few pounds heavier than I was before Joely was born, I’m certainly still a human being. Last time I checked, my husband still checks me out when I’m reaching for a glass in the cupboard. My daughter still reaches to me when she’s hurt. My sisters still call me to chat, my mother still hugs me tight when she sees me, and my brother deems me worthy of his confidence. While I’ve obviously changed emotionally since becoming a mother in a profound way, I’m still Aubrey. What is it about the extra weight that makes me feel so worthless?


Ah, there you are. The Voice. You’ve been programmed into the deep, deep recesses of my brain since I was a little girl. You’ve been there, lying to me, since I knew what lying was. Your disgust was something that I feared most. The dripping sarcasm, the loathsome eye-roll, the cheap shot, and finally, the scream. They were all methods you used to taunt and tease, to belittle, berate, and betray. When I look in the mirror now, it’s still impossible to shut out The Voice, even though I’m almost 30 years old.

Here are some lies I was told by The Voice over the years….

-“Everyone thinks you should go to fat camp.”
-“Everyone can run circles around you.”
-“Anyone who says they’re attracted to you must have some sort of fetish.”
-“If you don’t lose weight, your boyfriend will start looking at other women.”
-“You’re never going to have the same privileges as everyone else because you’re fat.”
-“It’s obvious you don’t have any self-discipline because of your weight.”

That Voice needs to be silenced. It has been allowed to run rampant in my mind for far too long, despite my best efforts to the contrary. The Voice is what makes me feel worthless, even when I have so much to give to the world. I have tried to make firm decisions with the direction of my life many times, and The Voice keeps telling me that I can’t/won’t succeed, or that I’ve made the wrong decision, even with PROOF that these things aren’t so. Literal words I’ve heard time and time again have warped themselves into powerful suggestions:

“If you can’t get hired as easily as a skinny girl, why even bother trying?”
“Your husband is trapped with you looking like this. Why wouldn’t he be looking elsewhere?”

Granted, I can be lazy. I am imperfect. I get tired after a long day taking care of a teething toddler, and don’t want to walk/do yoga/count calories. And then the next morning, after my teething toddler has been keeping me awake half of the night, I don’t want to give up that very precious hour or two of sleep before she wakes up to go expend the energy that I so desperately need for the rest of the day. But that doesn’t mean I *can’t* do it. It just makes it a bit more difficult.

That being said, if I never lose weight, I will still be worth something. Intrinsically, I have value. I love my child, my husband, my family and friends with everything in me. Even if that were the only thing that makes me valuable, it would be enough.

I am enough.


The Voice is sickening. It’s some putrid mixture of bullies, media, daddy issues, and self. As I’m imagining it right now, it’s like… My Mind Dementor, for those Harry Potter fans out there.

I need a Mind Patronus to come and vanquish this mofo. So in July, I’m going to work on summoning my Mind Patronus to defeat that nasty Dementor. So naturally, there will be lots of tears, fainting, screaming in the distance, and chocolate. (My true love of Harry Potter cannot be quantified.)



So there are two goals on my 30 Before 30 that I think will help to build up this defense. The two I want to accomplish are:

#22: Take one photo of yourself for 30 days
#28: Take a walk every morning.

(I’ve actually edited #28 from its original form to ditch the yoga poses. I’m going to attack those as a a solo project. I’m trying to be as practical as possible, here.)

I’m hoping that the stillness of the morning, the movement of my body, and the solitude of walking alone, and getting out of the house will help me to familiarize myself once more with my own positive thoughts, and recognize The Voice/Dementor when it starts to take over. And I’m also hoping that the photos daily will help me appreciate what I have, tummy, zits, pores, under-eye baggage and all.  Hopefully, there’ll be at least one photo of me reading Harry Potter and eating chocolate. ❤


Lastly, I found myself really attracted to this quote by E.E Cummings today. Hopefully, it will inspire you to be bold, to love yourself, and to take risks to reveal your own spirit!


#21: Doulas and Don’ts: My Cautionary Tale

Just over a year ago, the love of my life came into this world.

Most of you that know me know that there were complications when my daughter was born. I’ve been hesitant to share the details of this before, because it implicates myself and others in our poor decision making, and frankly, how it put my daughter’s life at risk. But now, more than ever, I feel like this experience needs to be shared. It is emotional clutter of the greatest kind, and has dragged me down for the last year. I’ve beat myself up over and over again about the way Joely suffered and almost didn’t make it in her first days of life. I need to let this go, but as a way of doing penance, I wanted to serve as a warning to other new moms.

When I got pregnant, I knew from the start that I wanted to achieve a natural birth. I didn’t want to be medicated, didn’t want a cesarean delivery, and certainly wouldn’t get an epidural. I planned to labor as much as I could at home, and at the last minute when I was very close to giving birth, I’d head to the hospital to safely deliver. There was even a time where I deeply considered having a home birth, despite the fact that it is illegal to have a midwife attend one in the state of Kentucky. I wanted nothing to do with the hooked-up, overly medicated and doctor-controlled environment of modern births I’d seen and heard about. And everything I’d read suggested that I hire a doula, since studies had shown that women with doula-attended births had better pain management outcomes than those who didn’t. So I did.

I met my doula when I was about 25 weeks pregnant. She seemed wonderful. She was so well-educated, was very “crunchy”, and was also a lactation consultant. I felt I’d hit some sort of jackpot, since she could help both during and after the birth of the baby. I explained my goals for my birth, and she seemed very jazzed.

At around 30 weeks, I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. This isn’t abnormal for women with PCOS, since they usually have insulin issues. Many women with GD end up having larger babies, and this obviously terrified me as a first time mom. When I took this information to my doula, she eased my fears, and said that, essentially, it is a diagnosis that far too many women get, and had I let her know beforehand that I was taking the test, I could have prepared for it in such a way that I would have passed it. She also told me to generally disregard the information that the dietician gave me, and just to eat healthy in a way that made me feel good.

The other issue with gestational diabetes is with shoulder distocia. Many babies from moms with GD are born with larger shoulders, which are difficult to pass through the birth canal. This can lead to injuries or even death of the baby. When I relayed my fears about this to my doula, she basically stated that it was something doctors only talked about to “frighten” their patients into a cesarean delivery, and that she’d never seen a “true” case of it.

As my pregnancy went on, there were many times where my doula contradicted the suggestions and warnings of my obstetrician. When I was tested for Group B Strep, (a bacteria that the baby can pick up in the birth canal that requires moms to get antibiotics while in labor), she stated that I could get treated on an outpatient basis, and not need to go in right when my labor started.

To anyone who works in the medical field, I’m sure warning bells have been going off like crazy. Unfortunately, I was an extremely naive first time mom who trusted a doula who is well-respected by my community. From the start, my doctor was the enemy, someone to be dodged and avoided, my appointments and checkups to be feared, and my birth plan was to avoid my ob’s intervention at virtually any cost.

There were some wonderful things my doula did for me. She instructed me to sit on a birthing ball instead of a couch during my pregnancy. She walked me through what would likely be the course of labor and delivery, what to expect, etc. . She offered me some used cloth diapers and showed me her setup in her own home. We developed a relationship of trust during my last trimester, and I felt that she would be the right person to guide me through labor and delivery.

My water broke on Sunday, April 7th. I’d spent the weekend in a cleaning frenzy, not knowing that I was just padding my nest for the coming baby. I called my doula to let her know, and she encouraged me to rest as much as possible. I know my doctor was firm when telling me to go in right away if my water broke because of my Group B strep positive diagnosis, but my doula was experienced. She would never suggest for me to stay home if it were unsafe, so I called Colin, told him the news, and he came home from work. We ran to the store, and walked around, hand in hand, grabbing some light snacks for labor, some diapers and wipes, since we didn’t have any yet, and relished the last time we’d get to be out and about together.

I laid in bed that night waiting for contractions to come. They didn’t. I couldn’t sleep in anticipation of my little girl coming, and by the next morning, I still wasn’t feeling any contractions. But hey, my water had broken! I was on my way!

I got up, did a light yoga session, and called my family to let them know my water was broken. My mom and sister wanted to come down immediately, and asked when I was going to the hospital. I told them to wait, that I was going to labor at home for a bit, and that I’d keep them updated. Both Colin’s mom and my own mom seemed a little upset that I wasn’t going in yet, and pushed me in that direction. But I wanted a natural birth, and wasn’t having contractions yet, so I shoved off their suggestions, and said I’d call them when I went in. After telling my doula that I wasn’t feeling contractions, she suggested that it was time for me to do some walking and nipple stimulation with a breast pump, both of which were proven to bring on contractions.

It was at this point, since the urging of my mothers was nagging at the back of my mind, that I brought up that I was Group B strep positive again to my doula. (Most doctors recommend going in immediately after the waters break in these cases, since there is no bag of waters to protect the baby from anything inside the birth canal, and no later than 12 hours afterward.) We’d hit that point, and gone beyond. But she reassured me that the World Health Organization says you can go in up to 48 hours afterwards, and that I’d be fine to stay home. Again, I trusted the word of my doula, and walked around the neighborhood, hand in hand, with my sweet husband. I finally started contracting a bit while using the breast pump, but they were painful, irregular contractions that caused me to be unable to sit comfortably. I did this until the early hours on Tuesday morning.

By sunup Tuesday morning, I was exhausted, both mentally and physically. I’d slept maybe 5 hours in the course of two days. I texted my doula and said that we weren’t having any regular luck, and she stated she’d come over. At 5am, she said that I needed to go take a bath, let Colin get some sleep, and try my hardest to get a good nap in, because we needed to get my contractions going before the deadline of 48 hours. It was also at this point that she stressed the need for us to be “creative with the truth” with the doctors when we arrived at the hospital, because if they found out when my water really broke, they would take me or an immediate c-section upon arrival. We rehearsed what time we would tell the nurses on intake several times throughout the day.

I took a bath and a short nap, as directed, and woke up having fairly regular contractions that remained uncomfortable when I sat down. I ate a nice big breakfast of eggs and wheat toast, and let Colin sleep through the day. My doula and I chatted about all sorts of things. I vented my fears, talked about co-sleeping, and my contractions got closer and closer together. I started not being able to talk through them. And eventually, I became unaware of much outside of my own head. I stood at my wooden cabinet full of DVD’s, just moaning and swaying through each contraction, really starting to feel the pain, but working through it. My doula alerted Colin, and sent him for some supplements for me post-birth, and had to call him home; my contractions were very close. At 5pm on Tuesday, we were ready to head to the hospital.

A wild car ride through 5pm traffic later, I was walking to L&D, stopping every few feet to have a contraction. When I got there, my contractions were extremely painful, and the nurses kept asking me questions to which I’d already answered on my pre-admit paperwork. To this day, I truly cannot remember which member of our party answered when my water broke. I was very deep into my contractions, but I’m fairly certain that both Colin and my doula said that it was 5am that morning. Colin acted as he was instructed all day long by my doula, who she trusted. I may have chimed in at that point as well, but my memory of much more than pain at that point is very fuzzy.

From that point on, I was on antibiotics. I was being monitored, and the baby seemed fine. I, however, was not. I was unable to sit down, which I now know is a sign of the baby being caught in the birth canal, but then, I didn’t know at all. My doctor was out of town, and a midwife at my practice was attending the birth. The first moment she saw me, I was screaming through a very painful contraction, and she immediately offered me a cesarean. I arrived at 7 centimeters, so why would I do that now? I was almost there! I refused, and kept on screaming, holding on to Colin’s neck for dear life, and sobbing between contractions.

Finally, at about midnight, after hours of hard labor, I gave in. I was working on about 8 hours of sleep in three days time. I couldn’t sit down, and my legs were about to give out. I requested and was administered an epidural.

After this, all three of us took a nap. My whole body was shaking in response to my low blood pressure from the epidural. But I slept. I awoke at around 3:30am, revived and ready to see my baby. I was still regularly contracting, but just couldn’t feel it. The nurses suggested I start some pitocin to jumpstart the contractions, and since I couldn’t feel anything anyway, I agreed.

At about 5:30am, I was feeling the pressure of the regular contractions. I knew it was time. I really loved the nurse I had overnight, and was determined to pop this kid out before she left and a new one replaced her at 7:30. They turned off my epidural so I could have a better grasp of where to aim all my push power, and we started to push.

And push.

And push.

We pushed. I pushed through the shift change, and saw another doctor for the first time since I saw the midwife the night before. He gave a glowing smile, and told me I was doing great, and that he’d pop back in to see me shortly. I pushed some more. I couldn’t believe the pain I was in. It felt like my insides were being ripped apart. But obviously, I was getting close. At around 8:40am, proclamations could be heard that they could see the head! “My god, look at all that hair!” I heard the nurse squeal. They rushed to grab the doctor, who appeared. I desperately wanted this baby to come out. I was tired, unmedicated for pain, and couldn’t seem to get this kid out fast enough.

I pushed as hard as I could, over and over again. I heard some muffled, concerned voices. “PUSH YOUR BABY OUT!”, one nurse screamed. Three nurses piled on top of my belly, trying to push, begging me to push with them. I couldn’t breathe. “I can’t breathe!”, I tried to say. A nurse screamed in my face, “IF YOU CAN TALK, YOU CAN BREATHE! PUSH YOUR BABY OUT, NOW!!!”

I felt a needle in my perenium. I screamed. I felt pressure, and without my glasses, saw the doctor and nurses scurry to the side of the room. I didn’t hear a cry. I just heard nurses talking in low voices, someone yelling, calling for the NICU, and suddenly, the room was empty except for my doctor, stitching up the slice he’d made, me, Colin, and my doula.

“Where’s my baby? What happened?”

“If you pray, now would be the time to do it”, my doula said softly.

For the next 15 minutes, we sat in relative silence. My body was screaming from the rush of endorphins after birth. I was high, but saw my husband crying. My sister walked in, looking excited, saying congratulations and looked around, confused.

Finally, a nurse came in. “She’s alive. A doctor will be in to check with you shortly.”


A doctor comes in. “She lost oxygen at birth. She had shoulder distocia. We’re not sure the extent of the injuries… We know the brain was impacted, her liver, her kidneys… It will take time to know the extent of the damage.”

A swift kick to my stomach made me breath again. I looked at my husband, bewildered. What had just happened?!

My doula took her bags and left.

We were moved to the recovery rooms. I saw my family. I didn’t cry. I was too high on the love potion that occurs post birth. I chatted with my family, laughed, and only a few hours after visiting hours were up did I realize what was really happening.

I showered my bone-tired body, and walked to the NICU. My daughter was attached to everything imaginable. When she was touched, every monitor seemed to go off, screeching, warning us not to get close. Doctors asked if they could treat her with a cooling cap to decrease the cell death in her brain, and of course we agreed. It seemed that they knew what they were doing.

I later found out that our sweet girl was septic from the Group B strep. Even for an oxygen-deprived baby, she wasn’t active enough. They knew something else was wrong. She was treated with antibiotics, anti-seizure meds, and a host of other treatments to keep her comfortable.

I left the hospital the next morning. I begged my own doctor, who had just returned, to release me early. I felt fine, just tired, and wanted to sleep in my own bed. I realized that I needed to start pumping instead of breastfeeding if I wanted my child to be breastfed at all.

My doula loaned me one. She made a mixture to help the inflammation from my episiotomy. I asked if we could have done anything differently, and she said that “If you’d had a homebirth, she’d be fine. We would have hung you up by your toes to get that baby out.”

My nerves were shot. I felt fully responsible. She suggested I sue the delivering doctor for malpractice, though now I can’t remember what she suggested as the reason.

A few days later, the doctor said that Joely had made enough of an improvement that I could try to nurse her. My doula was thrilled. We met at the NICU, and I attempted to nurse my girl. No luck. She simply wouldn’t latch. Doula pulled out a little device that dripped milk into the baby’s mouth as she suckled, which would give her the nutrients she needed even if she wasn’t properly latching. Joely’s NICU doctor came in, and was very upset. “Joely could aspirate on that! “, she exclaimed. My doula actually had the nerve to fight the doctor at this point, saying that it was nothing more than a slow drip, that she’d be fine.

The NICU doctor was so upset that she called Colin and I back to meet with her alone. She stated that Doula was no longer allowed in the NICU, and that there were plenty of hospital-affiliated LC’s who could work appropriately with the doctor for Joely’s care. We obviously agreed and apologized.

I realized pretty quickly after this that my doula did not respect doctors. They were the enemy. And from that point on, I was extremely hesitant to even see her face to face.

I want to make this very clear: I am not writing this to “out” my doula, although frankly, she should never work again. She gave me medical advice over and over again. She contradicted and undermined not only my doctor, but Joely’s NICU doctor after she had saved my daughter’s life. She is the sole reason I didn’t go to the hospital within twelve hours of when my water broke.

The purpose of this post was to strongly urge new mothers to understand the role of a doula in your pregnancy and birth experience. Doulas are NOT medical professionals. They are there to support your labor. I know many other doulas who understand and embrace their support role, and would never dream of undermining a doctor. If I am ever blessed with another pregnancy, I will hire another doula, and attempt another natural birth, because I really believe our bodies were made to birth babies without *unnecessary* intervention.

In my case, I was so afraid of intervention that I lost sight of what truly mattered: a safe delivery. Please, ladies, listen to your doctor. Do research. Know your limits. Don’t make the mistakes I made. Be an advocate for your own birth experience, but also understand what can and does go wrong. My daughter almost paid with her life for my own folly. It is through the sheer brilliance of her medical team and scientific breakthroughs that she is with us today.

Don’t see your doctor as your enemy. See him/her as your partner in the care of your body and your baby’s birth. Ask them questions. Prepare yourself for possibilities ahead of time. But don’t fight them. They have seen things that happen to women like me, and work tirelessly to prevent them. Let them help you!

My daughter defied every single obstacle put in her way. Doctors thought she had severe brain damage, and her MRI came out with a tiny little bruise normal for babies born vaginally. She was on anti-seizure medication until 7 months of age, and she has never shown a single symptom of seizures since. She says “mama”, “dada”, “hi”, and occasionally says “Bella”, which is her dog’s name. She cruises, crawls, plays, dances to music, and is generally a miraculous thing to behold. My child is beautiful. Her birth was a mess.





After reading some of the comments, I wanted to make something perfectly clear: if I have additional pregnancies, and if my medical professional suggests that something needs to be done for the safety and health of either myself or my child, I will not hesitate. This experience has taught me that doctors are NOT the enemy. That being said, there’s nothing wrong with hoping to have a non-medicated birth, if that’s something your care provider thinks is well within your limits.

Personally, at my 6-week checkup, my OB stated that there was no reason I shouldn’t have vaginal, non-medicated births in the future, as long as the baby was healthy. But if my OB suggested I have a c-section or get induced for any health-related reason, I would be happy to comply with those requests, as she obviously has the care of my baby and me in the front of her mind.

#4 and #7: Starting C25K after a year and a half off.


Yesterday, I hopped on the treadmill for the first time since I got pregnant.

I used to love working out. To feel my lungs fill to the brim with air, to feel every single muscle in my body work, and to relish that perfect ache for a few days after, reminding me of the hard work I’d done.

But holy hell, I am OUT OF SHAPE in a way that I have NEVER been before. The first day of Couch to 5k has never been difficult for me. Typically I huff and puff a little, and inevitably sweat my way through it, but this time, my lungs were wholly unprepared for it. My creaky skeleton had done nothing since the birth of my child to prepare for anything but cuddling and picking up/putting down/carrying an infant.

It was a shit show.

But I made it through Day 1. I huffed and puffed and wheezed my way through Katy Perry’s “Peacock” and Foo Fighter’s “Low”. I guzzled water and whined and moaned after I was done. My hips crackled the entire time, as they’d endured more trauma than the rest of my body when pushing out my baby daughter.

But I felt more alive than I’ve felt since that morning in April of last year when every ounce of my strength and endurance delivered my sweet girl.

Today is my next day of my first week. I’m hoping to finish this challenge by the time my very darling friend from Mississippi comes to visit in May, and we can run some sort of race together with our babies, who are a mere 6 days apart in age.

Wish me luck… My creaky bones are going to need it.

#1 and #2: Pixies, Piercings, and Murphy’s Law.

The kick-off to my goal completion has begun!

I already had a head start when I cut off about eight inches off my hair and dyed it. It was a bit of a disappointment at first, as it was a yellow/grey color, and was a little bit choppy. But I knew it would take some fiddling to decide how I ultimately wanted it to be.


Notice that crap on my shoulder? It’s spit up. My life is glamorous.

After getting this cut, I’d discussed with the original stylist that I’d like to go a very light, almost platinum blonde. She said that it would need to happen in multiple processes, and having experience going white blonde from my high school years, I knew this to be true.

A couple weeks later, I go in for my second process. During the few weeks between, I notice that the hair is unevenly cut, and am very nervous about the color. So back at the salon, I ask the hairdresser to even out the length and go platinum.

During the visit, she asks me about five times if I want to go purple, purple-y, purple-ish… And each time I reply that it’s not at all what I want at the moment. No. No thanks. I appreciate the offer… How many times can I say this?

I end up with a hack job of a haircut and purple-blue-yellow-white hair.

I’m not joking.

After fiddling around with it, I asked a friend who happened to also work at the salon and had seen my hair get done if she could try to help me to fix it. I scheduled an appointment with her just to fix the cut, as the color had been washing out a little. She agreed.

Went to the salon, and my friend did a great job. She tightened it up, and refused to let me pay for it. She also offered to fix the color, but I wanted to see if it would wash out even further, since I was terrified of trying to bleach my hair again!

It didn’t wash out.

So finally today, I went back and let my friend fix the color. It went from that wild white-blue-purple-piss in the snow yellow-blonde to a lovely rose-gold blonde. (I reserve the right to change the cut and color… Once you snip to a pixie, you can see it a myriad of different ways!)

One down, twenty nine to go!


That fun hairstylist friend? I told her about my 30 before 30, and that I wanted to get a nose piercing. She wanted to get one, too, so we figured we’d go and do it together. I was going to tackle number two!

Despite her suggestion to go to a local and reputable piercing parlor, I suggested going to a local tattoo parlor instead, as my hubs was going to be in class earlier, and she was going to be working until the piercing place was closed. *Red Flag*. So we met up at the tattoo parlor, and both of us were nervous nellies.

We go into the parlor, and I’m fairly certain we both felt a swell of nerves. There was a drunk dude getting a huge pocket watch tattooed on his side, a gaggle of girls sitting on a couch, looking at a cell phone together, and death metal playing.

While we are both cool girls, we are NOT death metal girls.

A young, bearded fella comes up front to ask what we need. We both answer that we want our noses pierced. He ushers us back to a piercing table, where he pats the seat, and my hairstylist friend hops up. I know she’s nervous, as I’m pretty sure she was shaking a bit before heading back in the first place, and the piercer draws a spot on her nose where he’s going to pierce, and gets her okay to pierce there. He then starts chatting with her about where she works, what she does, how business is going… And I watch him take a ginormous needle out and grease it up with A&D. She can’t watch. He sticks a little metal tube up her nose, and shoves the needle through. She blinks a couple of involuntary tears away, takes a deep breath, and is a general badass. He hooks a screw-shaped stud in her nose, and gives her a post-piercing care paper detailing how to clean it out.

After peering over at her copy, I see special suggestions for a Prince Albert piercing. No idea what that is. After a quick Google search, I now know what a Prince Albert piercing is. OUCH.

It’s my turn. My heart is racing. I hop my short tush up on the table, and he picks a spot to pierce. I agree. Since I’d seen it all go down with my friend, I know what’s about to happen. No numbing. Just a huge needle. I breathe in and out a few big breaths, and try to get the feeling back into my numb fingers and toes. He sticks the metal tube up my nose, and I know the needle is coming. Then there is localized fire. But I notice his face is getting serious. He’s lost hold of the needle on the other side of the piercing, effectively closing the hole.

He tries to force the screw-shaped piercing into the hole he’s lost, since the needle went all the way through. No dice. My eyes are watering, I can’t breathe, and it’s constant fiery pain. “Sorry, hun. I lost the hole, and the piercing won’t go through. I’ll have to pierce again in the same hole. It should only be a pinch this time. This happens like, once every five piercings or so.”

This is NOT what happened to my cute hairdresser friend. My nose is on fire, I can’t see from involuntary tears, and he wants to do both the piercing and the screw stud again?!

I agree. He pierces. It hurts worse this time. The digging of the screw-shaped stud into my thrice-penetrated piercing feels like the needle is going under my fingernail. But finally, it’s done. He shows me the stud in the mirror, and I agree that, yes, it is a nose piercing. I get my own post-piercing care paper, pay the man generously, despite his folly, (or maybe my own?), and hightail it out of there.

I get home, dry my eyes, and take a photo…


My nose was red. My eyes were red. I was sore.

But, could this be the end of the nose piercing saga? Oh no. Because Murphy’s Law.

Because there was such a big hole from the needle going in twice, the stud moved around a LOT. When washing it with soap in the shower this week, it popped right out.

I had no idea that nose piercings close within minutes if they’re not yet healed.

I tried to put it back in to no avail. It was NOT going through.

I went to the local piercing establishment that my hairdresser friend suggested in the first place and asked if they could help. She shuddered when I told her that he’d stuck the needle through the same site twice, and said that the hole was already mostly closed, and that by policy, she never pierces through the same site twice. It’ll be completely healed in two weeks, she said, and to come back and have it done again.

So, ladies and gentlemen, when I go back in another couple of weeks, I will have had my nose pierced three times in a couple months.

Can I at least cross it off my list? I hope it counts. I’m counting it for now, because otherwise… Ouch. OUch. OUCh. OUCH.

That’s it for now! Not sure what will come next, but if it is anything like the above misadventures, it’s at least going to be worth telling about!

Two down, twenty eight to go!

30 Before 30: One year, 30 goals, and hopefully, a new woman.

Do you ever feel that “less than fresh” feeling?

I’m not talking about your downstairs, ladies and gents. My soul feels all crusty. I feel like I need an existential exfoliation.

Tomorrow, I’ll be turning twenty nine. While quite a few of my friends have already hit the dirty thirty milestone, mine is just on the horizon.

From what I can see, it looks good. Really good. It seems like once you hit that age, a calm washes over you. You know who you are, more than you ever did in your twenties. You have more self-love instead of self-loathing. And while you might not have everything you thought you would by that age, you’re surprisingly okay with that, and at least you’re working towards something.

I’m really excited to get to that point, but I feel like there are a few things I need to get out of the way beforehand. Hence the existential exfoliation. The soul crusties. I feel like if I were a ghost, I’d have unresolved issues. Me and my twenties have unfinished business.

There are things that I really wanted to have done by this age. They feel like they have a timeline. Things that might not be acceptable in your 30’s, things that I want to say I did before I turned 30, or just things that I’ve wanted to do that I’m afraid I’ll never do if I don’t give myself some kind of due date.

So I made a list. Over some time, I’ve been adding different things I really wanted to do to it, combing over it a few times, and editing here and there. Some items are serious, some are goofy, and completing the list will probably take some serious effort on my part. But I have no doubt that I’ll have a blast! I have one year to complete this list, and document along the way. I am seriously stoked.

Without further ado… My 30 Before 30 List.

  1. Cut my hair into a blonde pixie.
  2. Get my nose pierced.
  3. Get a tattoo.
  4. Run a 5k.
  5. Record a song.
  6. Buy a car.
  7. Lose 30 pounds.
  8. Buy 5 pairs of pants and have them tailored.
  9. Attend a Zumba class for a month.
  10. Unplug for one week (including smartphone, television, and computer).
  11. Attend one Unitarian Universalist service.
  12. Attend a rock concert with my husband.
  13. Sing Karaoke with my sisters in a bar.
  14. Complete the 7 day Marriage Challenge.
  15. Learn to play 5 songs on the guitar.
  16. Figure out my sewing machine, and sew a quilt.
  17. Have a proper bra fitting.
  18. Learn how to can fruits and veggies.
  19. Grow an herb garden.
  20. Pay off my credit cards.
  21. Ditch people and things (emotional and physical clutter) that don’t contribute to my happiness.
  22. Take one photo of myself each day for 30 days. (Self love project.)
  23. Give up dining out for 30 days.
  24. Visit a psychic.
  25. Master Julia Child’s croissant recipe from scratch.
  26. Get family photos taken.
  27. Learn 10 yoga poses by heart.
  28. For 30 days, take a walk every morning that ends in the 10 yoga poses.
  29. Take a vacation with my husband.
  30. Finish the Top 60 books on “The 100 Favorite Novels of Librarians” list.


There ‘ya have it. I’ll be popping in with progress on certain ones that will take time, like the books, the herb garden, the weight loss, and paying off my debt. I’ve started an Instagram account just for this countdown, which should be fun. And goofy. And non-crusty.

I don’t want this year to transform me; I want it to bring the me that has always been there out into the open, and for me to embrace her with open arms instead of hide her inside. Instead of my thirties being something I dread, it will be like a new journey with an old friend. And *that’s* something I can look forward to.

Motherhood: This shit is hard.


Time flies.

My sweet baby girl is now 6 months old. It’s taken me this long to find a moment to sit down and get back to writing.

For those of you who follow but aren’t on FB or personal friends, my baby girl was born on April 10th, but had some serious complications. She ended up in the NICU for 10 days because she was deprived of oxygen at birth.


That story is for another day.

Today, however, I can say that there’s no sign of the extremely traumatic birth she had. She is hitting every milestone, laughing at us, grabbing at the dogs, jumping away in her jumperoo, and crapping her pants, just like every other baby her age. Life seems fairly easy for her, besides teething and learning.


How has it been for me, you ask?

HARD. Really hard.

Not like labor. Labor is hard in the “OHMYGODMYVAGINAISGOINGTOFALLOFF” kind of way. And yes, I studied the Bradley Method, did breathing exercises, and did prenatal yoga even in the first stages of labor. When the baby’s shoulder gets stuck on your pelvic bone for 8 hours, there is nothing in this world to describe the agony.

But motherhood itself is more of the long-haul agony. Yes, I called it agony. The kind where you realized it’s been six days since you’ve taken a shower, you’re not sure the last time you’ve eaten in the last 12 hours, your baby refuses to sleep when she’s exhausted, and she’s acting like she is trying her damndest to rip that nip right off of your boob.

Cruel and unusual punishment is what it should be called.

Oh, and you look and feel like garbage. It may be a vain agony, but it is agonizing to avoid the mirror just so you don’t have to hate yourself even more than normal that day.


Seriously. That’s me, with a mere year difference. Add the puff from lack of nutrients or sleep, the baggy under-eyes, and the obviously cynical and frustrated haze over my right side on the “new” me picture, you understand why motherhood hasn’t done me any favors in the looks department.

Lest you fear for the welfare of my child, rest assured: I love her with every inch of my being. She is everything. I give her every single last bit of myself, and frequently pull from reserves I didn’t even know I had, and I’ll never stop doing so. She is perfection, and every dream made complete.

I just don’t think I realized the extent to which I’d have no life after she was born.

This is of my own making, I believe. I could go out and do much more. I could just put her in a wrap and go about whatever business I would’ve been doing had she not been around. In fact, I see moms doing this very thing, making motherhood look effortless. Making it seem as though they never had a sleepless night, never went without food or a shower, and certainly never missed their Pilates class.

(Any guesses how long that “only-gained-seven-pounds” thing lasted? And how much I’ve gained since she was born? Please don’t be honest.)

But every day, I think I’m making strides to figure shit out. It’s really hard not to want to OVER protect my kid after seeing her hooked up to every frickin’ wire/plug known to man, hearing monitors freak out every time I touched her tiny body, and watching her body seize. Not many parents are told within the first fifteen minutes of their child being born by their doctor that the outcome of her survival was unsure, and that they’d have to watch day by day. I’m astounded by her growth, but couldn’t live with myself if something I did or didn’t do contributed to her being hurt or worse.

Cloth vs disposable. Breast vs formula. Cry-It-Out versus co-sleeping. CDC vs Dr. Sears. Purees vs baby-led weaning. There are so many decisions that the “experts” tell you will make or break your child. I knew before she was born that I would have a preference, but I never knew that those things would affect me SO deeply!

Ladies, do ‘ya hear what I’m sayin’? I know there are the glamorous types who have babies that just “naturally” sleep through the night from the day they’re born, who take three three-hour naps a day, and who can be put down in their crib and just fall asleep without any assistance. That is simply NOT my kid. My kid would flip her shizzle if I left her in her crib alone. My kid sleeps for 30 minutes every 2 hours, and must nurse in order to fall asleep. My kid cries for seemingly no reason, and there is rarely rhyme or reason to how she’s comforted.

But frankly, she put the work in for the first ten days of her life. She fought with every cell in her body, working with our fantastic doctors, to show the world the fighter she is. She was deprived of her first snuggles, nursing, and bonding, and her doctors watched in shock and awe at her recovery. 

She wasn’t supposed to recover like this. But she did. And now, I feel like I owe her everything I have, because simply, she gave me the same, and lived.

I don’t even know that there’s a proper summation to this particular blog post, given that I’m feeling extra “fancy” today because I actually got to bathe, I had a thrice-interrupted six hours of sleep last night, and I’m currently drinking actual water and eating tuna and crackers instead of the usual liquid variety that my dinner has taken on of late. (Sam Adams’ Oktoberfest did it for me last night… And some form of seasonal ale has done it for me for the last week or so.) But what I can say is that I love my kid, whether she decides to wake me up every forty-five minutes tonight or not. Stinker.