Choose Your Own Motherhood | Motherscope, Issue 2 - Dec 2019 by motherscope

Motherscope | San Diego, CA motherscope.com Motherscope Branding by Samantha Acker | Delilah the Gemini Cover Illustration Design & Interior Collages by Dani Aziz | Dani Aziz Studio Hand Illustrations on Contents page & pages 54, 64, 104, 128, 131 by Eva Liebovitz Copy Editor | Matthew Leonard Copyright ÂŠ 2019 by Motherscope and the individual contributors. All rights reserved. Leonard, Jackie (ed.) Issue 2 | Choose Your Own Motherhood SUBMISSIONS We believe every mother has a compelling story â&#x20AC;&#x201D; and we are challenging you to take ownership of your story, to speak your truth. Motherscope examines the corners of motherhood we don't often talk about. Be specific, be personal, be real. We want to hear from you! Check our Submission page for up-to-date information on how to contribute to our next issue. motherscope.com/submit

MOTHERSCOPE.COM IG & TWITTER: @MOTHERSCOPE FACEBOOK.COM/MOTHERSCOPE Founder & Editor | Jackie Leonard Inquiries | hello@motherscope.com

Broadening the Scope of Motherhood.

Foreword by Motherscope Editor, Jackie Leonard

Meet Dani Aziz of Dani Aziz Studio

Kaylene Victorio | I Choose to Fly

Elizabeth Dingmann Schneider | Diptych, Thirteen Embryos, Two-Week Wait

Amy Dunkel | Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Kaitlin Solimine | Tandem

Bridget Moore | Handsome Girl Designs

Melissa Face | Having It All: Another Myth of Motherhood

27 35

Angela Dribben | Growing Beyond Reach

Meet Melissa Martinez of Vegancitas

Lindsey Maureen Jones | You Would Never Know Victoria Jane Kearney | Held

Cheryl Pullins | The Choice that Changed Everything Suzy Harris | The Color Pink

45 55 59 65

Shanthy Milne | Breastfeeding to the Bittersweet End

Esme DeVault | Big Sur

Motherscope Community | #UnpopularMomChoice Kate Hutchinson | Ligatures Lisa MasĂŠ | Fever Breaks

Meet Joy Blessman of Bokujoy Melissa Martinez | Spontaneity Allison Hong Merrill | Yu-Jie

73 79 87 89 95 97

Motherscope Community | #ChoiceIDidntWantToMake

103

Victory Corwin | Prayer for Surrendering Liberty

111

Sunayna Pal | Accept and Change

Frances A. Rove | The Mystery of Me Autumn Konopka | Drought

Meet Miriam Torres of Because of What Happened Susan Alkaitis | When to Release Jetti Mares | Up & Coming Anna Forsberg | Awake

Meet the Mamas | Contributor Bios

A Special Thank You | Write Beside Her

Motherscope Exclusive | 50 Writing Prompts

105 113 123 125 129 131 137 141 147 148

Photo by Tara Johansen Photography

FROM THE EDITOR Would you believe me if I told you that the only reason this magazine exists â&#x20AC;&#x201D; the only reason there is a Motherscope and there is a me writing this foreword to you and sharing my story â&#x20AC;&#x201D; is because of a Facebook message? A choice. A small, fraction of a choice. The 1% of a fully realized and conscious choice was the thing that shifted me in a new direction, the one that led me here. I see now that the thing that changed me from the me before to the me now was not in the big decisions and changes. It was not in leaving my job, or birthing my son. The only reason that I am here today, writing these words to you, feeling more vulnerable and impassioned, more alive and happy and in love and loved than I have ever been, is because one day, for no apparent reason or need, I reached out to two women, both women I knew and was friendly with, but otherwise had very little relationship with, women who, by any and all intention, I had no real awareness of what either could offer me, or especially, what I could offer them. And yet, I made the choice to reach out. They were both women in the same season as I, we were pregnant, due within weeks of one another, with our first children. I can't tell you what my frame of mind was during that day in February and April when I sent a message to each of them. Our prior messages to one another were over a year old, reminding me how little we really interacted beforehand. Maybe I was bored, watching a rerun on Netflix,

scrolling on my phone, half in and half out of presence. Maybe I was at work, my mind wandering, procrastinating, looking for some small respite to relax my brain. I cannot tell you. What I can tell you is that small gesture, that curiosity — that tiny choice — is why I am standing here. I am here to show you what came from that tiny movement in one direction. The shift. My choice. That shift led me to create, in collaboration with over 50 women I did not know, in one year's time, two print magazines distributed across the world. That shift led to facilitating an online writing community for women something I'd dreamed about doing since childhood. That shift moved me from living a life of "I can't" to "I have" — a life where I can now so clearly see that I am the author of my story, that I have everything I need to live the life I want right now. A simple message. A gesture. An acknowledgment that I wanted connection, and could find connection, that all it took was me asking for it, showed me more than any professional training, financial freedom, time, or tools ever could. As we celebrate this new issue examining the choices of motherhood, let's not forget the choices we make for ourselves, both the direct decisions and the lack of consideration. The delays and the rushing. It is easy to overlook the choices we make on the fly. The little shifts, the decisions by default, the gesture you look back on and can't quite explain why you even did that — these are all choices too, and often it is these choices, mere reflexes, that determine where we go, and who we become. There is power in the choices you make. If you haven't made a choice to write your own story, you are ultimately choosing NOT to write it, and by not writing it, you're allowing someone else to do that for you. You're putting yourself in the supporting role of your own life. You're opting out and you don't even realize it.

I'm not talking about writing a novel or becoming a published author or even writing for this magazine. I'm talking about putting the words down and looking at them and recognizing your thoughts on a page. Reflecting who you are back to you and only you. I'm talking about facing those words and using them to make sense of your world. I'm talking about making your thoughts real. I can't separate my seemingly small act of messaging two women from my writing. Leading up to my choice to send these messages, I was writing more than I had in years. I was journaling about my pregnancy and spending so much energy trying to preserve who I was in the moment. I didn't want to lose myself in motherhood. I didn't want to forget my thoughts and feelings and worries and hopes. Without analyzing or even re-reading my own words, I had put my wants and needs and haves and thoughts into orbit. Because it was out there and written, and I'd seen it and digested it differently than most other thoughts that so often disappear from memory, I held onto it stronger, and that guided me to making the choice to connect with other women. You have more power, more control, more opportunity than you think you do. Being in community, listening to stories, seeing shared experiences and what different people are doing with them, helps keep you at top of mind. Communicating and connecting with each of these women, giving them the advice I was subconsciously giving myself, was a constant reminder to check in with me. Eventually, that became a habit. Eventually, I recognized a need for more. Eventually, I started to believe that I not only could go for what I wanted, but that I needed to if I wanted to live a life at the standard I'd set for myself. I couldn't have gotten here without first bringing my story to light for myself. Once it's in the world, it gets seen. Somehow, that was enough for me to see and seek what I needed to survive

motherhood. And from there, Motherscope was born. Our actions are choices. Putting one foot in front of another is a choice. We think less about these choices, because they've become reflexes. This happens naturally, the more we do a thing. What are the reflexes that work against us? All the reflexes that spark every time we tell ourselves we can't do something? Listen, if I've learned anything in motherhood, it is this: we are a constant work in progress. It is only now that this realization feels freeing. You'll never reach the level you think you need to reach to tend to your wants and needs. The day-to-day life you are living right now, the one you call a season, that turns into years. Believing you can come up for air when everyone else is taken care of will fail you. It is never going to happen. When I say Choose Your Own Motherhood — I'm challenging you to choose you and to do it now! Be okay with the imperfection of yourself. Embrace the messy route you might have to take for a better long-term reward. In my experience, when you work from this mode of thinking, the things you expected would hold you back don't — because you don't let them! By choosing you now, you're going to find the other things — managing housework, the stress of tending to children, maintaining relationships — will get easier. You'll begin to see how little you need and how much you have. If you don't recognize yourself anymore and feel so overwhelmed with everything else going on that you find yourself leaning into thoughts that begin with "I can't" — remember, your relationship with yourself is the longest one you're ever going to have. Remember that you're right here, there's no driving to visit, or date to arrange, or scheduling conflict with yourself. You have more power, more control, more opportunity than you think you do. All it takes is that reminder, that shift, to go from "I can't" to

"I have." What's in your hand multiplies. If you're literate, if you can write down your ideas with words, you have so much you can create for yourself and do for yourself with that one tool. You can say you don't have time, you don't have help, you can't possibly do another thing right now, because . . . instead, think about what you do have, even if it is just your hand. You have five minutes. You have a phone. You have thoughts. You have focus, knowing how precious and fleeting time is, and you also know how much you can now do with that time because you are a mom. You have it! See it! You also have choice. All those things that get in your way, that weigh you down, they are all the choices you make for yourself. For your life. For your family. What youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re modeling for your little ones, is that what you wish they do to themselves? My hope for you all is to feel that same switch, I felt. The one that led me to reach out and connect with two women I am now forever bonded with. It's a subtle shift, but it comes from a place of urgency. Urgency comes from recognition of need. Recognition, awareness, reflection -- that all comes from writing. Carve out that space for yourself to write. Make your wants, your needs, your story real, so you can see it. And when you can see it, you can't hide from it. You also can run to it. You know what you're running to. Recognize that you have everything you need to have selfacceptance, to be the author to your story. Feel that power and the promise of more for yourself. No one can give that to you, but you have it waiting for you, for whenever you choose to see it, and use it. Choose you now.

A NOTE ABOUT

I couldn't step into the theme of choice without thinking about the women and children and families not too far from where I call home. I remembered these lines from the poem, "Home" by Warsan Shire: you have to understand, that no one puts their children in a boat unless the water is safer than the land I couldn't look away from the images of mothers and babies and children crying. The stories of separation and loss. I came across a news story about a breastfeeding mother detained in an ICE facility for over twelve days, separated from her four-month old child. I couldn't even imagine the pain of that situation, the fear, the worry. It unsettled me. Reading the comments under the news story was a glaring reminder how easy it can be to dehumanize issues. This unsettled me more. And maybe, because this was fresh on my mind, I took notice of an organization doing something to help. Border Kindness responds to the immediate needs of migrants and refugees in the Mexicali/Calexico Border Region. Among other services, Border Kindness provides women and children safe temporary living

spaces with the comprehensive resources they need. Border Kindness believes everyone should have the opportunity to live free of pain, hunger, intimidation and fear. To support our neighbors at the border, Motherscope is donating 15% of all proceeds from Issue 2 to Border Kindness. You can learn more about the work they are doing by visiting borderkindness.org. As you flip through the pages of this magazine, pay attention to the thoughts that creep in, the judgments, the assumptions. Take the time to ask where they are coming from. These stories are a practice of understanding, a way to challenge yourself to embrace the choices of motherhood, the nuanced, varied, specific, personal ways that each of our experiences differ. Embrace the community we can build in motherhood instead of treating it like a club we will never fit into. Never forget to find yourself in another person's story. See to be seen. Thank you for choosing to support Motherscope and embracing the stories of motherhood.

Jackie Leonard

Photo by Aubree Lynn Photography

I Choose to Fly By Kaylene Victorio

Does a caterpillar choose to turn into a butterfly? The state of pregnancy with my first child was what I imagine it would feel like to go from a hungry caterpillar to a too tight, and slightly uncomfortable, cocoon in vast anticipation for the final POP! Now, half a decade into motherhood and two children later, I have come to realize that all mothers start their journey of metamorphosis the same â&#x20AC;&#x201D; we may not look the same or feel the same, but we are the same and we are united. For some, the transformation of female to mother will bring devastation, to others utter joy, and for us all, it will bring change. A change in perspective. A change in our whole self: our minds, bodies, and spirits. Some of it may be radical change and other slow-moving. Motherhood has changed how I see myself â&#x20AC;&#x201D; how I love myself. I deeply believe that becoming a mother, in whatever context that title means to you, is an illuminating experience in both the best and worst of ways. The only picture to paint around motherhood is that it is constant. It is always happening around us and yet amplifies the fact that

nothing stays the same â&#x20AC;&#x201D; not you, not your child, your body, your partner, your routines, your expectations . . . I have learned to embrace the shifting landscape of my new life rather than be engulfed by it. I will have to admit there are those moments that I want to lay victim and say, "Swallow me whole, here and now.â&#x20AC;? We take ourselves too seriously â&#x20AC;&#x201D; humanity as a whole. We are so harsh, self-berating, never good enough, do better, strive for more... I wish I could count on two hands the amount of times I have lost special moments of myself to consuming facades and thoughts of lack. Lack of self __________ (love, compassion, grace, empathy, grit, strength). We, as women, forget how strong we are in the midst of our own pity parties. We forget that we are capable of holding compassion for ourselves. We forget that we are instilled with grit and bestowed with grace to face the toughest moments, minutes and seconds. Sometimes we simply forget to breathe. Remember, united we are as we spin our cocoon of motherhood. Whether it be the brightest, lightest corner or darkest, dampest cove, our transformation is just as sacred, as worthy, as messy, as beautiful, as heartbreakingly female as every other sister's around the world. Coping with change is a lot easier when you know you are not alone. Looking past the shadows of my own self-reflected fears and insecurities illuminates a sea of hope and empowerment. I choose to spread my wings. I choose to fly.

Dani, you are the talent behind Issue 2's amazing cover art â&#x20AC;&#x201D; introduce yourself and share a little about the woman behind the studio. Hi!! I am so honored to have been able to create the cover for Issue 2. I am a mama to two, a wife to a US Army Soldier, and an Army veteran myself. I run a design and illustration studio under my name, Dani Aziz Studio. My goal is to empower others in believing that their work and story matters, and being able to convey that through their brand and imagery allows them to connect to their clients and audience authentically. I fiercely believe that the power in us all lies in empowering others. I am all about spreading girl power vibes and bringing to life the stories you have to tell. More about me: you will likely find me cozied up in my home studio binging Netflix while I create, reading thriller novels, or 14

spending some family time with my favorite human beings. I don't discriminate when it comes to coffee, but woo me with a vanilla iced latte with oat milk and I will be your best friend. Your work screams women empowerment! Who are some women who inspire you? Ah, this makes me so happy to hear! My main goal is to empower and inspire women through my art and creativity so I am so glad it is working!

"This life we are living may be hectic and stressful at times, but it fits us and our beliefs and what we think is most important in life."

Such a hard question, because there are so many. It may seem odd with the type of business I am in, but my number one inspiration, pretty much for my whole life, is Jane Goodall. She is such an amazing woman who truly made her dreams come true. As a noncollege educated woman back in 1960, she was able to put herself where she wanted to be and prove to the world that she was not only smart but strong and resilient. I just admire her so much. You are the wife of a US Army soldier and are yourself an Army vet! Can you share a little bit about that experience, especially with your husband currently away for a year-long deployment? Anything you'd like the public to know about military families? We have been a military family since we've been married, going on seven years now, so it has been all we know. We absolutely love the

community that surrounds military members and the fact that no matter where you are from, everyone is family. The biggest challenge has been moving away from a true military community when my husband left the Marines for us to move to Portland. He is now in the National Guard and is currently deployed. Funny enough, it is our first deployment so it has been a rough transition (not that it will get any easier as we rack up the deployment count). With two small kids that are old enough to know Daddy is gone, but still young enough to not understand exactly why, it has been an emotional roller coaster. I think the biggest thing that I would like to share with people who may not understand the military lifestyle or deployment is that we (the spouses at home) may carry it well, we may seem like we have it all together, but every night when the house gets quiet, when the outside world isn't peeking in, we feel it all. Our own sadness, our kids' sadness, our spouse's sadness. Yes, we may have chosen this life and "knew what we were getting into," but that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make it any easier. The smallest things like a friend checking in on you, it means the world to us. To be honest, I wouldn't give it up for anything. This life we are living may be hectic and stressful at times, but it fits us and our beliefs and what we think is most important in life. What has been your biggest challenge or hurdle as a businesswoman? What helps keep you going? One of the biggest struggles for me has been my mindset around my business. I struggle with anxiety and depression, so running a business has been a really interesting and eye opening ride for me. I think it is really hard for anyone running their own business to maintain a positive outlook at all times. We all struggle with not feeling good enough, or that no one likes what you are creating, or

that we should just give up. I have to constantly check in with myself and remind myself that this negative talk is all false. Honestly, my supporters keep me going every single day. I have so many amazing people in my corner that share my work, spread the word, and tell me they love what I am creating. My love language is words of affirmation and it can be tough to get that when you are a solopreneur, so just the smallest acts from my friends, family, and supporters truly means the world to me. And my kids and my husband. I am doing what I am doing to be with my family, help create a life we love, and to share experiences around the world with my kids. That end goal makes me keep going. Issue 2's theme is Choice. What is a choice you've made as a mother that you feel most proud of? Parenting in a way that works for us. I am most proud of not letting all the noise out there in the mom shaming and parent shaming sector of life affect me. We parent how we feel is best for our kids and ourselves. I have never felt pressure from the outside world to change how I raise my kids. I think that it can be really tough to silence the noise and I am really proud that we've been able to create happy, thriving, and loving children in a way that is best for our family.

By Elizabeth Dingmann Schneider

Diptych

1. Paper gowned and vulnerable, I tell my doctor we’re not planning for more children. Surprise arches across her face, and she immediately asks questions: Was the pregnancy so uncomfortable? Was it the difficult birth? I find myself trying to explain the practical reasons: Daycare is expensive, and we don’t want to start all over again, five years older, J starting school. But the truth is, our tiny family is complete, we always only wanted one. And even if we hadn’t, why can’t it be enough to just enjoy the success of our beautiful daughter without having to worry about more IVF transfers, more heartbroken failures? Why is it surprising to choose the joy of what we have, what seemed impossible for so long?

2. My guilt flares, mourning the embryos we will never use. Our bubbly little J started out just like that, a few cells frozen in a lab, and now those other 12 possibilities are gone. 13 babies always an absurdity, this loss unavoidable, but still I imagine them: Some with their dadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s crystal blue eyes, some short and dark-haired like their mama, bits and pieces of Nickâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s parents resurrected in a certain smile, the shape of a jaw.

Thirteen

Embryos

It took twenty-five self-administered injections, four pelvic ultrasounds, two thousand miles driven round-trip to the clinic that specializes in affordable infertility care, and thirty minutes under anesthesia to retrieve twenty-four eggs from my sore and swollen ovaries. Every couple of days the IVF clinic in New York calls with updates: Fifteen of your eggs fertilized. Thirteen embryos are still going strong. Somewhere on I-90, making our way back west across Ohio, I give my husband a high-five. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s taken three years, more than thirty thousand dollars, and unnumbered broken hearts, but now we know we can create life, growing in a test tube six states from home.

Two-Week Wait

I count down the slow days until I know if I’m pregnant, knowing each symptom could be a sign that I either am or am not— tender breasts, a slight cramp— in the two-week wait, it all feels the same, whether it’s pregnancy or PMS. I try to distract myself from the waiting, but my thoughts never stray far from the precious embryo, life in my womb for the first time, but life that could still fail to quicken, fail to latch on to the life-giving lining I’ve so carefully been growing with the help of eight doses of medication each day, a lifeline formed by each pill, each needle in my flesh.

Should I Stay or Should I Go? By Amy Dunkel

Photos by Jenny Stout Photography I'm one of the lucky ones (insert eye roll right about hereeee). You see, I've been given the choice. The choice of whether to work after motherhood now that these baby children reside in my home. How weird is that? The good news is my husband's job financially supports our family. Definitely a bonus. If not, we'd currently be on a canned beans diet. If I don't want to, I don't have to work. Gosh, to even have the choice and complain about it makes me want to punch myself. It seems like we're killing it? Crushing it even? Then how come this choice so hard? Not everyone has the choice, this I know. I see the momma at the end of the day at my son's daycare. She wears the same uniform each time I see her. Same shirt, different day. I know without a shadow of a doubt, she has no choice. She works, she works hard. Long, cumbersome hours. For her, there is no choice. No painful questioning, she does what needs to be done.

PHOTO BY: AUBREE LYNN PHOTOGRAPHY

On the other side, I have dear friends. They are stay at home mommas. They are loving it, reveling in it, cherishing it. They own this domain. They know what to do. This is their territory. They've got the bag packed, snacks loaded, and a plan in place. Meanwhile, I'm trying to convince a toddler to put on pants. I rarely make it through the day without losing my patience, and for the love of God if that baby pours the yogurt on her head One. More. Time . . . . Choice. Why is this so hard? To want to work, and also be home with your babies. WHERE IS THE EASY BUTTON? More importantly, why do I question this choice? Back and forth and back and forth I go. How much to 25

work . . . how much daycare do we do . . . how much do these kids need to see me face-to-face? These questions roll back to me in waves. Breaking hard and fast against the shore. For me, there is no easy button. There is no clear answer. One day, not so long ago, I had a revelation. Ready for it? Here we go. I'M NEVER GONNA KNOW THE ANSWER TO THIS QUESTION. To this choice. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m never gonna know. Plain and simple, I'm never gonna know! I'm never gonna hold the official sealed document answer on how much I should work. On how much time I should hold them, and rock them, and love them, and then do the creative work that sets my soul on fire. Alex Trebeck is never gonna fill me in. So, maybe I should stop looking for it. How about this? What if I straddle the fence? With one foot dangerously close to the stay-at-home territory and the other reaching for the uniform? Maybe that zone right there is where I live. Always ready to get on the field. Always ready. With each foot, there is work to do. With each foot comes unwavering love along with never-ending questioning. But, with each foot, I can finally stand strong. I love my babies without a shadow of a doubt, but I love my work too. What if that is the answer? Each day it looks a little different, but each day the message is the same. Having the choice isn't easy. There is no easy in this love triangle. The choice is yours though, Momma. Do what works for you and don't question it! The answer to what you seek is already inside, so what if you lay down the guilt trip and just do you? I'll be over here telling myself the same thing. You've got this, Momma.

Let Love Grow Growing Babe 27

Postpartum | Bridget Moore

Choose to Normalize | Bridget Moore

Pump Up the Jam | Bridget Moore

Tandem By Kaitlin Solimine

At first it was all pain no pleasure mastitis engorgement cracked nipples teething biting pulling off the latch distraction sleep regression then it was don't worry don't time don't weigh don't measure don't worry don't count don't schedule don't play-sleepeat or eat-sleep-feed or what the heck is that anyway no drowsy but awake no extinction no cry it out no put down no crib no time no sleep no crying no books with answers no blog no lovey but this lovey here, wait, this lovey is me so only the two of us, day in, day out so then no refuse no offer no overnight wakeups no morning tankups and then another between us, growing so big she'd lie her hand on him, on her, on cherry, she said, on apple, she called the growing bump, a tree to hang her head on and still she persisted despite the fact I had no goal nor she â&#x20AC;&#x201D; what was her goal? Connection. Reconnection.

A home somewhere and this one happened to be warm, smelled familiar, between open arms. They say she'll go on with it until she's in college but no one ever does — do they? — and so we are extended now, full term, over-baked, or something like that and one night they are jet lagged and holding hands and they call this tandem except it wasn't first one then the other like tandem biking or tandem skiing although I guess technically it was a little like that except there wasn't first one love then a second but a bleeding through a growing together that seems to know no bounds because there are only two nipples, two kids, one heart. They say breast or bottle. Sleep training or not sleeping. Cosleeping or crib. Pacifier or thumb. Strict or permissive. Mother or wife. They say there are choices when there are only inbetweens — not neither-nor or either-or but this way now and that way then and he's on the left and she's on the right and in the middle there's the woman I was before, the one I am now, the one I will become — and if I look too closely, the lines cross and I am all of them, all at once.*

*This piece was composed in iPhone Notes during late night nursing sessions, typed by thumb.

a Face s s i l e By M

Having It All: Another Myth of Motherhood When my daughter's kindergarten teacher called me at 10:00 in the morning, I stepped outside my own classroom and took her call. Delaney had woken up with a cough and hoarse voice, and though I was hoping she would get through the school day, I was also expecting she might not. "Delaney is asking to go home," her teacher said. "She's upset and saying she just wants her mama." "Tell her I will be there in a few minutes. I need to write down some sub plans," I told Delaney's teacher.

I could have checked with my husband to see if he was free; we've split our work day in the past in order to take sick kids to the doctor. But, I didn't. Delaney asked for me, so I made arrangements to go get her. I notified the office that I would need coverage, organized my plans for my students, then filled out a leave slip and left. While I was driving to my daughter's school, I thought about an interview I watched recently on The Today Show about moms "having it all." The guest, a local author and entrepreneur, stated that moms can have it all, but can't necessarily do it all themselves, meaning there are times when we must delegate certain tasks and responsibilities. I thought about whether or not I agreed with her. I wondered what I could possibly delegate to someone else. But, for starters, what does "having it all" even mean? When this phrase is used, it is often in the context of a mom who has a fulfilling, rewarding career, and is also fully involved in raising her children. I am not using "fully involved" by accident, either. Working full time and parenting feel a lot like being on fire and not in the casual, upbeat meaning of having a string of successes. So do I "have it all"? I get to spend each workday

with talented, artistic sophomores. We discuss classic literature, modern novels, and important worldly issues. We practice grammar, complete journal entries, study vocabulary, and improve our writing. I am fortunate that my days are never boring or repetitive. Even the same lesson will solicit different discussion topics each class period. Plus, I always have the option to instruct in a slightly different manner, learn from the mistakes of a previous class period, and improve my delivery the next time around. Another great part of my job is the schedule. I am able to pick up my children from aftercare at a reasonable time in the afternoon and help them get started with homework before my husband gets out for the evening. And then there are the breaks. I am fortunate to spend ten weeks with them in the summer, in addition to spring break, winter break, major holidays, and snow days. I am "fully involved" in every aspect of their lives, and I love it. But do I "have it all"? Sometimes I think I do.

"Working full time and parenting feel a lot like being on fire and not in the casual, upbeat meaning of having a string of successes."

But then there are days like last Thursday, when I sat in a monthly faculty meeting, listening to coworkers receive accolades for their hard work and commitment levels. In that moment, I realized I definitely do not "have it all." And the main reason for that is a big part of "having it all", for me, means feeling appreciated for what I do and the

Photos by Pipe Dream Photography

sacrifices I make. One of the employees praised at the meeting had recently taken on coaching the volleyball team as the season was about to begin. That was an honorable thing for him to do; the team needed a coach. Another teacher received accolades for agreeing to take on sponsorship of the junior class, an important and time-consuming responsibility. And though these extra tasks come with stipends,

that monetary amount never compensates for the time and work individuals put in. Taking on more responsibility at work is not an option for me right now. I will never be interested in a coaching position, and it will be years before I can dedicate the time required to serve as a class sponsor. At that meeting, I felt like if these are the things that bring the most value to the school and constitute a "great" employee, then I may never be one. I left work that afternoon feeling depressed about my job and disappointed in the myth of "having it all." I felt like giving it my all in my classroom isn't enough anymore. Brainstorming lessons in my time off and right before I fall asleep isn't enough. Correcting student papers in the car, while leaving for a weekend trip with my family isn't enough. Working while worrying about a feverish child isn't enough. And finding the mental energy to type up lesson plans at 5:00 in the morning, after cleaning vomit off my five-year-old daughter isn't enough. It isn't enough anymore. And was it ever enough? The really sad thing is that there are few careers with schedules more conducive to parenting than a teaching job. And though I have never had my sick leave or time off questioned in my current position, I was reminded of my days missed on a summative evaluation at a previous school. I had to sign off on a document that stated I had missed 25 days during that contract year, the year I gave birth to my first child. Never mind the fact that I had to use my own sick leave for some days; some were unpaid, and I purchased a short-term disability policy to cover the difference. Purchased it. Out of my monthly, pre-tax income. "It doesn't count against you," the assistant principal told me, when she asked me to sign. But I felt it was unfair for them to type

my maternity leave on my end of year evaluation in the first place. My husband didn't have to sign anything about his paternity leave at his job. It served as another reminder of never being able to give enough as a working mother. So do I "have it all"? I definitely do not. But I do have what is important. I have a husband who believes I can do anything I want and who helps me every step of the way. I have two children who are curious, interesting and kind, and who appreciate everything they have and everything I do for them. I have a job that makes a difference, coworkers who are supportive, and students who try their best to make up for the areas in which our government has fallen short. Teaching, though I do love it, is not my sole identity. I won't burn my candle to the end for this job or any other. And I shouldn't be asked to in order to feel valued. At this stage of life, no one needs me more than my two children do. So if choosing them means that my name is never called for employee of the month at a faculty meeting, I can live with that. I don't need to "have it all." I just need what matters.

By Angela Dribben

He is my sixteen-year-old son and I feel his life run through my fingers like sticky water, like oil or grease. I scrub, the residue of responsibility for him remains while control slips away down the drain. The knowing of choices he will face in this life tears though where my ribs meet sternum, so visceral, they cause me to exhale in grunts. It would be more honest to call him our son: mine, my husband's, and my husband's ex-wife. I am often met with the toss of a wrist or throw-back of a head when asked the gender of my middle stepchild, or when people discover he is not my biological child, as if raising a child is easier when it is a boy or if he didn't come from my womb. I have heard it said I cannot know what it is to really love him. But, it is never easy to feel charged with keeping someone safe from our world's imminent and many dangers. To feel responsible for his every choice and their outcomes. Even briefly imagining his absence in our lives sends loss ricocheting up and down my spine; my diaphragm flattens, refuses to expand; my lungs harden in place. 41

I want to hold his head and harvest every idea or thought he has. Chew it up, digest it and give it back to him, clear and straight and safe. Safe thoughts, not thoughts of finding out how fast his car will drive. He is bold and filled with testosterone; so, he pushes boundaries, 60 mph in a 35 mph zone. For the first time, he receives more than a warning and learns what it is to be held accountable for his decisions. A policeman issues him an expensive ticket. Eli comes closer to an understanding that his car is a 3400pound weapon he is expected to control or consequences will increase in severity. His dad and I took him to court for his ticket. My emotions whipped me about like riding all alone on an uncontrolled tilt-awhirl. Moments of tenderness when he asked if he had his dad's button-up shirt on right twisted me into thoughts of how handsome he looked while also being terrified that this won't be the last time we go to court. What if this isn't the worst thing we ever go to court for? What if a little girl had ridden her tricycle out 42

in front of him and he hadn't seen her? Hadn't been quick enough to the brake? Or his friends had been in the car and he'd lost control and killed them? Had to live with that burden? I have known it to happen, witnessed its impact. I told him to line up the buttons with his fly, it looks better. He asked if he had the belt on right and I told him he did. I commanded my knees to hold me up, my face to remain blank. To love a child is to become intimate with the knowledge that we control nothing. When we walked down the hallway to the courtroom, I couldn't help but overhear why we could be there. We passed a lawyer with her briefcase and her client with visible tattoos. I thought to cover mine up for court, all 60 hours of ink covering back and arm and thigh. I wonder where this man's mother is. She would've told him tattoos are best unseen in certain situations, to wear a buttonup because we have to give the judge every opportunity to see the best in us, to not be swayed by judgments he brings with him inside the folds of his robe. I wish this man had parents to hold his hand today, to tell him to get a haircut and to line the buttons up with his fly. I hear the man with visible tattoos say he hasn't had a drop in two weeks and I think that could've been me and that could be Eli one day. I place my hand around his hips and pull him to me brushing my temple against his bicep in prayer. I can't cry. I can only keep saying everything is going to be okay because our son is scared. He needs me to believe things will be alright always. What I know is that this mistake is not ours to govern. We don't have the capacity to unground him or straighten something out with his teachers. He is growing beyond our reach now, in so many ways.

Our son likes a girl he met on Instagram. Her last boyfriend hacked her account and was cruel. Eli, just like his father, a natural-born hero, stuck up for her. She broke up with the other boy and came for our son. Her father brought her over to spend supervised time with Eli and to meet us. While we respect and expect him to protect his daughter, I want to protest when he says, "You have to be careful with daughters." A few things prevent me from correcting him. One, I don't want to put ideas of power in her head. Two, I don't want to embarrass Eli. Three, I am someone's daughter and I know he feels truth in what he says. But, the whole truth is we must be cautious with all of our children. They spend most of the afternoon on the couch watching Pineapple Express, holding hands beneath the blanket despite warm temperatures and no air conditioning. Our son is sixteen. She is fourteen. Based on Idaho's laws, our son could go to prison, be forced to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life, if his daughter has consensual sex with our son. Her shirt stops just below her breasts and her jeans have no knees. She is interested in anything Eli is interested in. She is provocative in a way only youth can be. I don't sleep because I love a boy fast becoming a man. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know how to keep him safe and he is a good boy. He says, "Yes, ma'am." He gives hugs freely. He asks how to be a better human. He tells me he is only sixteen and needs to be parented. He says he is sorry when he is wrong. He says "thank you" for supper. His idea of cleaning his room still involves putting all of his clothes in the laundry basket for me to wash and fold. He is a boy, my stepchild, and what my daddy would call "a fine young man." Yet, my sleep follows him everywhere he goes, my dreams and my nightmares are always right behind him.

By Lindsey Maureen Jones

Photos by Meghan Branlund | Rise Photo Co Behind closed doors, Look around as you drive by, You would never know. So unsure of the truth, working so hard to keep it together, to hide the chaos, so you would never know. Babies crying, mommies crying, daddies crying, you would never even know. Lies being fed, smoke easing the dis-ease, always on eggshells, and you would never even know.

Inside is so dark, nothing lives there anymore. The pain makes me start to talk, but otherwise, you would never know. People listen, I talk. People talk, I listen. They know. I taste it, the sweet ease. I feel it, the deep ease. The storm inside settles, and then the work begins, but you would never know. Unsure, reconciliation, hope. Fighting, hands around my neck, always my fault, scratchy throat screaming, invitations to rehab. You might never even know.

Wild woman comes out, she cannot breathe, she fights for her life. She takes over, she cannot take any more. Not one more second. Now, you might know, for she is loud and knows no fear. Wild woman brings clarity, boundaries, sheds secrets, does whatever she wants, protects her children, knows her truth. Sides are taken, lines are drawn in an unseen battleground for control. Life burns down to ashes. Relationships severed. Throat seizes up, tears choked back, so you would never know.

Food stamps, cognitive distortions, therapy, support groups. Wasn't always my fault. Feel my truth. Feel it shining all over my skin, warming me and opening me up. I feel the heat of my confidence, Gratitude and Love open me up, shoulders back, chest out, arms back, heart open. Leaning forward with courage. Despite fear, There is love and action and compassion. It's all there. Stretches her new wings, Phoenix is reborn from the ashes. She talks, she cries, she shares, she laughs, she doesn't hide. Phoenix, wild woman, inner child, eternal watcher, we all rise up. And now you know.

Introduce yourself and share a little about what makes you you! My name is Melissa, I've been cooking and baking since I was nine years old. My love for food is infinite and my need for creativity is endless. I'm a mother, artist, self-taught baker, and chef thriving in Riverside, California. I run Vegancitas, a Xicana Vegan Bakery that specializes in pandulce, bread, desserts, and custom cakes. Tell us more about what first led you to create Vegancitas, and the journey it's taken you on to get to where you are today. I was a social worker working with autistic children for about three years before I became a mother and had my own children. After becoming a mother, I began my struggles with chronic illness. It became so debilitating that having a job became extremely overwhelming to fulfill while being a mother and dealing with chronic illness. I dealt with so many hospitalizations, being stuck in bed for days, constant doctor visits, and feeling

healthy became a huge challenge for me that developed depression, anxiety, and a lot of hopelessness for real expectations. When I could, I used baking as a form of therapy. Even if eating was impossible (which it usually was), baking gave me so much love and satisfaction. Food memories, and recreating those food memories, made me so happy. Once my vision was clear, Vegancitas became something I wanted more of in my life and I began seeking out how to manifest it. Your work is a celebration of your culture, familial traditions, and local community â&#x20AC;&#x201D; what do you most love about the Inland Empire? The Inland Empire is home. A home with so many hidden gems, genuinely humble folks, and the friends I miss when I'm away. I grew up in Moreno Valley, California, amidst my grandparents most of the time. They'd take me out with them on the weekends to explore and eat. Mexican-American culture was the foundation of my childhood in the IE; whether it was the mariachi music or the amazing food, I grew up knowing that my culture was a huge part of my identity. Your desserts are truly a work of art. Where do you find the most inspiration? I'm inspired by food memories I've collected over my lifetime. Whether it was the matriarch of my lineage, the matriarch of my comadres that were willing to share their gifts with me, or intergenerational friends that would share recipes with me and and create new food memories together. I'm inspired by ancestral memory and aesthetics of Xicanisma that challenges us to go beyond traditions, status quo roles, and experimenting in plantbased foodways that respects ways created and carried out before me. My love for pan is a real love that few understand but many appreciate. Nothing makes me happier than connecting with

others through my love of food. What has been your biggest challenge or hurdle as a businesswoman? What helps keep you going? A big challenge I had was taking myself seriously as an artist and a businesswoman. Dessert business is extremely competitive. Vegan dessert business is even more competitive. I'd find myself so worried and full of anxiety stressing over creations and if folks would like it. Feeling I'm worthy enough to be creating and sharing with everyone, yet calling it "mine" or "original." Fortunately, I've made friends in this journey that have encouraged experimentation or supported me when I'd have bouts of impostor syndrome. I've been on this journey as a baker and a chef for at least ten years, and I've barely been able to call myself either of those things within the last year. Chronic illness made me feel like I was rising up, hitting the ground, and breaking. It's taken some time to build myself back up again. It's taken some time to remember who I was and to value that again. When I hear my sons tell their teachers they want to own a business or be a chef like their mom, that's what keeps me going. When I buy groceries or dinner for my family, that's what keeps me going. When I've made my last batch of croissants on my eighth or ninth day of work and I come home with empty boxes, that's what keeps me going. Bearing the fruits of my labor is what keeps me going.

Artwork by Molly McIntyre

Just as your baby Has been born into your arms So you are new Never to be the same again Everything has changed As muscle and bone Woven so tightly Opened to let life through So your heart is ever opening Irresistibly out of your control If you're dizzy with love, hold on If you're feeling numb, hold on Your body is tender and so is your soul Be gentle with all you hold Call on your angels Whoever they may be You can do this, I promise I know there's so much you don't yet know Especially your own strength Oh if you're deep in happiness, hold on If you're tired and lonely, hold on Draw yourself close, just like you do your baby Spread your roots into the ground Hold your branches strong and proud Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re a miracle, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re beautiful

I see you.

Photo by Keidrych Wasley

The song "Held" is about the first moments of a mother being alone with her baby as she experiences the huge, earth shifting changes that are happening to her heart, mind and soul. Changes she is both welcoming and resisting. That she feels both ready for and also completely unprepared. 57

The voice of the song is a comforting one, a mother for the mother, as she finds her bearings in her new world.

By Cheryl Pullins

My thirty-sixth birthday was quickly approaching. Actually, it was a mere three days away. There was already turmoil and angst in my house because my husband and I, at the time, were in the process of separating. Things were weird. Everyone was walking on eggs shells, including my two daughters, Valerye and Julianna. Val, as we lovingly call her, was about eleven years old at the time and her sister, Julianna was a month from turning six. They were faced with the emotional, mental and physical upheaval of having their parents split after being married for twelve years. This night their father and I got into a huge fight. It was really bad. So bad that I attempted to call the police, however, he tried to prevent that from happening and being that I am a fighter, I didn't back down. Before bolting out of the house to run to the nearby police station just at the end of the block, I hit him in the face with the white house phone in the living room. It busted up his lip pretty good. I could see a bit of blood welling up in the inside of his bottom lip. He made it a point to show it to me. Why was that significant? Ironically, he made his living teaching people how to live according to the Bible.

There I was running out of the house. I managed to grab one dress and my work briefcase. My oldest daughter was standing between her father and I, at the same time pleading and crying for me not to leave. My heart bled like never before. But I had to go. At that moment I had to save myself. Choice Number One. I chose me. As horrifying as that night was, I was in no way prepared for the journey I was about to embark upon to regain my freedom, and ultimately, my peace.

". . . I was in no way prepared for the journey I was about to embark upon to regain my freedom, and ultimately, my peace."

At this point, you may be thinking, but wait, what about your daughters? Did you leave them in a dangerous situation? The answer is "no." What I knew for sure was their father would not harm them. Once I made it to the police station I asked a couple of the officers to check on my daughters. Two of them left. They returned shortly to let me know that my oldest daughter, Val, had everything "under control." That comment was a glimmer of humor in a dark situation. Weeks went by, and we eventually landed in family court, fighting for who was going to have primary custody of our precious daughters. "God, how did my life wind up like this?" Their father fought me at every turn. It was ugly and I was an

emotional mess. "Is this what life is like when you choose you?" It certainly looked that way. Now, there are lawyers involved. One day, I received a call from my attorney. She called to inform me that my children's father was going to have my oldest daughter go before a judge to say which parent she wanted to live with. Of course, this was an effort to get her to say she wanted to live with him. It was at the moment when I was faced with Choice Number Two. With tears streaming down my face. As my stomach churned in knots and with a whispering voice, I said to my attorney, "I am dropping the custody case." This day, I chose my daughters. I took on the responsibility, as their mother, to protect them from being used as pawns in their father's game. The one he was playing against me. Everything came to a screeching halt that afternoon, and it was the hardest choice I have ever had to make in my life because what mother chooses not to be with her children on a daily basis? I allowed my daughters' father to be the primary parent. It tore me apart. I cried every Sunday for months as I dropped my precious bundles of love off at their father's house. Initially, the pain of being away from my children for days at a time was both unexplainable and unbearable.

Years passed and things got better. Much better. Their father married an amazing woman. Eventually, proms and graduations became family gatherings. The angst and struggle of days gone by were far into the distance. I had made Choice Number Three. Forgiveness. We never would have gotten where we are today, some twenty years later without it. Some years ago, I made the decision to purge my heart of all the ugly and yucky feelings I had towards my children's father. The truth was, it was only destroying me. It was like my heart was a black bottomless pit of vile hatred. I had become a bitter, angry and emotionally reckless woman and wanted to blame it all on my ex-husband. But at some point, I had to take full ownership of my life. I could no longer ride the blame wave. I had to make a better choice and choose a more enlightened path. The most beautiful thing about choosing to forgive is that it took me full circle. Forgiveness took me back to my first choice â&#x20AC;&#x201D; me. What's the moral of the story? There may be times when life presents you with some really tough choices. At the moment you make the choice you may not be totally convinced if it's right or wrong, it's just the choice you make at the moment that feels like the right one. But life always offers you a full circle moment. It's the chance to discover that right or wrong, a choice can eventually become part of the story you tell to help someone else become okay with their choice.

I cho os e me.

By Suzy Harris

At six he cries I am a girl. I am a girl. And so his parents buy him t-shirts with unicorns, glittery petticoats. He becomes Maise or perhaps Dawn and gently, carefully relatives are told, classmates are asked to use she and her. Outside the fraught circle, we are left to wonder why, at six, he and she must be so different. And then, I remember years ago shopping with my young son for sneakers. He was maybe four, a solid boy with dark hair and dark eyes. He wanted the pink ones, he said. I smoothly talked him into a different color, red perhaps, not so far from pink.

Breastfeeding to the Bittersweet End By Shanthy Milne

Photography by Stuart Milne I never imagined our breastfeeding journey would last so long. Yet here we are, still feeding more than two and a half years later. The early days were fraught with problems — from initial delays in my milk arriving through to engorgement and blocked ducts followed swiftly by mastitis. With great perseverance, daily doses of sunflower lecithin, and an array of complex feeding positions (some upside down and worthy of yoga names), we eventually broke through the difficulties and grew to enjoy our breastfeeds. Despite its inherent challenges, breastfeeding proved to be our most precious sanctum. Even when it wasn’t quite working as it should, breastfeeding still provided a way for us to close the doors on the confusion and chaos around us, and meditate on our bond and the fascinating unconditional love we were discovering. Even now, with years having passed and our newly forming identities strengthened, we find safety in this space, anchored by the physical continuum of those feelings of love, which ignite the hormonal activity that enables my milk to flow. In the moments following his birth – when my son slowly guided

himself to my breast, searching out my nipple using primordial instincts that I will always marvel at and never fully understand – our bond of mutual dependency was sealed. He knew what he was doing, even when I didn’t. I took great comfort in this knowledge and the realisation that somehow, he carried an innate biological understanding of how this mother-child symbiosis was meant to work. As I stumbled through the motions of motherhood, making haphazard guesses as to what I should be doing when in truth I had no clue, I vowed to keep listening to him and to follow his cues. Through sickness, hunger, exhaustion and fear, breastfeeding has remained a safety net, allowing me to hold him close until he finds the strength to face the ever-present challenges of the wider world. During my pregnancy, whether or not to breastfeed was not a choice I deliberated over. I was resolute that if I could, I would. The choice, should it ever present itself as such, was always going to be around the decision of when to stop. In my naivety, I never imagined how complex the factors in that seemingly simple choice would turn out to be. I’d read the World Health Organisation advice that breastfeeding was beneficial up to age two and a Moroccan friend I met mentioned that the Quran also advocated for the same. Though I’m not religious, the idea of an ancient culture supporting the most up-to-date medical advice struck a reassuring balance in my mind. Conversely, the cultures and voices that promoted earlier ends seemed to be heavily influenced by the external pressures of our fast-paced world and, of course, patriarchy -- both of which were forces I had no intention of allowing into our sacred motherchild space. And so, two years became my unspoken aim. As his second birthday drew nearer, my son showed no signs of wanting to stop and, as a co-sleeping toddler, he was still regularly

feeding through the night. Around me fellow mums had all successfully weaned, many naturally â&#x20AC;&#x201C; either at their childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s initiation or through a natural end to the mother's supply. A few brought things to an end through deliberate weaning but, in all cases, the transitions were smooth for all involved. I'd hoped for a similarly easy and natural end to breastfeeding to present itself to us around this time, but it never materialised. As our breastfeeding continued, I began to feel slighted by the inevitable surprise from people who discovered we were still breastfeeding. My increasingly anxious mind couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t help but read this surprise as being laced with judgment. I grew resentful of carelessly delivered advice and, in particular, suggestions that I was encouraging the feeds due to an inability to let go. If anything, as an individual, if not as a mother, I was desperately craving a little autonomy and independence. Despite my inner resolution that only my son and I could possibly know what was best for us, the human in me became haunted by the words of others. The obvious myths that my bones would become weak and that my son would never drink alternative milk or sleep on his own began to blur the lines of my genuine worries. I began to wonder if, in fact, our extended feeding was the reason he was relentlessly crying for me at his morning preschool sessions, which were in turn resulting in daily early pick-ups and a lack of independence on both our parts. I was also becoming increasingly troubled by my own physical aversions to breastfeeding. I longed for uninterrupted sleep and felt frustrated during play sessions and classes when my son wanted only to feed and not take part. When my breasts grew sore or my body ached from awkward feeding positions, I even grew to resent my son's incessant need for me. I increasingly craved my own space following toddler tantrums and difficult behaviour that inevitably ended with an angry and upset, but still suckling,

toddler. As the chorus of voices against my extended breastfeeding began to outweigh my arguments for it, I caved. I convinced myself that, to take control of the situation and change how I felt, I had to take action. I told myself it was ultimately for my son's own good. I reached out to lactation consultants offering free support to discuss an approach to weaning and they asked if he was still feeding three or four times a day – their reactions when I confessed that sometimes it was closer to ten made me realise that gradual weaning was never going to be a realistic prospect for us. We'd never established any sort of feeding routine beyond regular demand feeds, and our experience of trying to delay or postpone feeds to reduce the overall number had never proved successful. So instead, following the lead of the mums around me who had successfully weaned toddlers, I explained to my son that my breasts were sore — which they were — and, as he was growing up, it was time to drink milk from the fridge. I let him know that I would be there to hold and cuddle him whenever he needed me. The ensuing four days of withheld milk hurt us both in ways I hope never to repeat. My breasts grew swollen and painful and nothing I could do would pacify his desperate cries for milk. As I bore witness to the visible confusion behind his tears — as he struggled to comprehend why he was being denied the comfort of my breasts and the safety and reassurance he'd come accustomed to there — it all began to feel increasingly unnatural and wrong. I was watching the person I most loved, and wanted to protect, grieve. Whilst I shared in his grief, it was underpinned by the awareness that I had deliberately thrown him into this deep state of mourning at a point in his life when he was most vulnerable and when he most needed me to protect him. On the fourth night, when he'd finally cried himself to sleep, it

was my turn to cry in my husband's arms. I begged for his support in undoing this. To his credit, despite having experienced the first and only night of uninterrupted sleep since my son's birth as a result of the weaning process, he encouraged me to follow what I felt was right. A few hours later, when my son reached for me, I let him come to my breast. The immediacy with which everything felt right again validated my feelings that this was not the right time or way for us to wean. I took some time to take stock and came to the realisation that, to the outsiders looking in, it may well look like a relationship of dependence. But, my honest belief is that, in continuing to breastfeed my son, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s actually his long-term independence that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m nurturing. If we are lucky enough to be able to continue breastfeeding until he makes a conscious decision to self-wean, and I realise not everyone is able to get to this point, my hope is that he will do so with the strength of mind and lasting independence of a child who is truly ready to face what comes next. After all, true and healthy independence is something we choose for ourselves when we feel ready and equipped for it, not when something is forced upon us. In the meantime, he may cry at preschool and prefer the warmth and comfort of my bed, and I will try to remind myself that, though at times these things may be inconvenient or require the sacrificing of my own freedom and independence, they are also short lived, entirely understandable and very, very human. As we approach the three-year mark, my son is still feeding as regularly as ever. I never offer the breast, but also rarely refuse if he seems to genuinely have a need for it beyond simple boredom. To the people who ask me when we'll stop, the answer Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve finally come to settle on is when we are ready.

A Community Submission

We asked our community to finish the sentence: An unpopular mom choice I made was . . . These are their anonymous responses.

. . . waiting until my daughter was six to send her to kindergarten

. . . letting my child throw a fit in the middle of the Starbucks floor. While I stood and ignored. . . . my kids co-slept until they were ready to move into their own beds â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;til about five & six.

. . . not finding out the sex of the baby while pregnant.

. . . letting my daughter tell me no and respecting it. Mom isn't always right.

. . . letting my toddler watch a video on my phone at the restaurant so my husband and I could chat while waiting for food.

. . . opting out of team sports for a season. Mama needed a break.

. . . not circumcising my boys.

. . . to co-sleep with my first for over a year. None of my friends or family supported it (and no one knew how long I really did it for).

An unpopular mom choice I made was . . . 74

By Esme DeVault

At long last, my son, we are here. The grandeur of the misty mountains, disrupting the cobalt coast is extraordinaryan extraterrestrial landscape pitched onto our ordinary canvas. The slow drive along these fierce, twisting, cliff-side roads, is frightening. I hold my breath the whole way. You have to really want to come here, to suffer through the terror, the sheer steep drop, death whistling past you, to see this spectacle. But oh, it is so worth it! You ask to get out of the car. "What's the point of being here if we can't get out?" you say.

I try to make you promise to not stand too close to the edge of anything before I will let you go. But you won't promise, so we don't stop. We are both righthow can I risk so much and how can you not? This is how it is, how it will always be. If I was you, I too would demand to set foot on unsteady ground. I know that, and I respect it.

But I still cannot let go. Later, I let you stand where you want to, But I don't look, I can't. I walk away and ask you to take a photo of what you see, and then send it to me so I can know just how you felt. Someday, perhaps you too will understand this terrifying beauty that I see in you.

Ligatures By Kate Hutchinson From the kitchen window, I see my daughter sitting cross-legged under the swing set, her dark curls lifting in the spring breeze. Mattie trots over to lick Leah's cheek, and up she hops, running toward the house, mouth moving, with the dog in playful pursuit. Bossy already. I smile, mindlessly scrubbing out the crusted banana bread pans. Oh, yes, she'd be just like a Larkin girl â&#x20AC;&#x201C; like the grandma she'd been named for. The sounds of Ramon's advancing steps and monotone hum bring my attention back to the sink, and I turn on the water for rinsing. He hugs my legs from behind. "Moe!" he cries. His word for Mom. "Whatcha doin', buddy?" "White car?" he asks. Though in Ramon language it sounds like "why cow?" Good idea, I think. We could both use a little exercise. The clock reads nearly four. I look out and see the motorized toy car in the corner of the yard, nestled inside the fence. "Okay, go get your shoes from the closet." I upend the pans in the rack to dry and wipe my hands on a hanging towel. I turn to follow Ramon, willing my mind and body

to face the steady and gentle lessons in conversation and appropriate behavior. The next morning, I sit at the computer and type two words into the search bar. Tubal ligation. Ramon and his father have both left for school, and I still have an hour before I need to head off to teach my classes. In seconds, the screen is filled with links to Female Sterilization, Ligation, and Getting Your Tubes Tied. I see, incredulously, that I have over half a million choices if I care to search them all. So many doctors ready to tell us all about it, to show us diagrams. To cut us open and snip our little lifelines in two. I click on WebMD's site and read about the variety of ways one might have it done, from clipping or banding, to cutting and stitching, or burning them closed. Choose your torture. I read the fine print from Mayo detailing hidden risks, like how 5 in 1,000 get pregnant afterward anyway. But nowhere can I find the voice of a woman who can help me understand how the whole thing might make me feel. Dr. Goodwin had explained some things to me at my last annual appointment, how it was just a simple outpatient procedure, "like having a tooth pulled." How they use laparoscopy for this procedure now, making a tiny incision in the belly button and inserting all their tools from there. I automatically suck in my stomach at the thought. "Then we take pictures, using a fiber-optic camera," he had said. "So you can see without question that they've been severed." This was to prevent a lawsuit afterward, in case of pregnancy. In some freak cases, Dr. Goodwin explained, using his wiggling fingers as a visual aid, the cut ends of the tubes actually find each other in the darkness and reconnect, in an eerie act of natural preservation. His two fingers locked together.

Several of the online doctors say no woman under 30 should have a ligation at all. The process is permanent – it can’t be reversed or undone. Some emphasize this with bold letters, advice likely to fall upon blind eyes with some in the younger crowd who are currently slathering themselves with tattoos. I think back to myself at 26, the year I hurtled headlong into marriage with Michael because he was fun and cute and was a teacher like I was. I imagined all the summers we'd have traveling. How was I to know that he'd soon move into administration and start working year-round, wearing a suit and tie, and losing his sense of humor? That he'd become more concerned about impressing the staff and parents than being the father and husband I needed him to be? That he'd take to belittling me and my friends, scoffing at my insistence we start saving money, and blaming me for our nonexistent sex life? Permanence has become a dirty word, I think as I scan a few more sites looking in vain for testimonials from women who have had tubals. Marriage, pregnancy, implants, liposuction, plastic surgery – these are just items on a menu anymore. Click, click. Even those ultimate wet blankets -- time and death – can be tricked or cheated. I accepted long ago what was permanent. I lost my mother young, and I've dealt every day with my son's disability. These are nonchangeable, non-negotiable realities. That isn't what drives my hesitation. I know I'm not capable of nurturing a second child, as it appears I am going this alone, married or not. What I want to find are the voices of the women who would share how they felt a week or a month after having the surgery. Did it change them? Did they mourn? If any of my friends have gone through it, I'm unaware. It's not something I've felt I could bring up in casual conversation. But maybe this is precisely why I can't find anyone who's shared it online.

I descend the basement steps to the laundry room to take out the clothes I washed last night. Just what will happen to my ovaries, I wonder? Those little b.b.-sized nuggets full of microscopic eggs, all dressed up with nowhere to go. One website told me that every baby girl is born with all of her eggs already inside of her, hundreds of pinpoints waiting to be released, one at a time, into the womb. At 37, how many did I have left? A couple hundred, maybe. Would the eggs all shrivel up and die if their lifeline was cut? Or would they leap into the breach when I reached menopause, disappearing into my tissues like passengers on the Titanic? Really, though, was that any worse than what had been happening to them every month for twenty years? They were just eggs, after all. No fingers or toes. Not even eyes. Just tiny dots in a tiny sack.

"Just what will happen to my ovaries, I wonder? Those little b.b.-sized nuggets full of microscopic eggs, all dressed up with nowhere to go."

I reach back for one last item in the dryer: the netted lingerie bag into which I'd put all of Ramon's socks. I remember the thumbsized white and blue booties from his infancy, the long, easy days of that first summer when he was content to sit in his swing or lie on his tummy on the alphabet blanket. That blissful first year before the tantrums, the sleepless nights, the endless psychiatric evaluations, speech therapists, IEPs, medications â&#x20AC;&#x201C; most of which I'd had to navigate alone. "I called the doctor today," I announce as Michael brushes his teeth. I'm already in bed, knees up, a book of Jane Kenyon's poetry propped on my lap. Otherwise, it's called. Its title had

caught my eye last weekend at the book store. "What's that?" Michael calls through the bathroom doorway. He spits, then runs the water. "I said I called Dr. Goodwin. About the surgery." He crosses the room and stands at the dresser in his underwear, pawing through the pile of old t-shirts until he finds one of his old favorites – a souvenir from our trip to Tampa before Ramon was born, white with a Corona logo. Before putting it on, he pauses, tilting his head just slightly as if he smells something unfamiliar. "Surgery . . . " he says, then turns to me. I look up and hold his eyes briefly. Then I turn back to face the white page of the book and its blurring words. Michael slips the shirt over his head and turns back to the dresser. "Did you ask him...?" "It’s all set," I interrupt. "The sixteenth at 9:00 a.m. If you can’t take me, Jan says she can. And Becky can watch Ray next door till the bus comes. It’s just out-patient, no big deal. But I’m not supposed to drive the rest of the day." I flip a page absent-mindedly and wipe the corner of my eye with my knuckle. At the top of the page, I read a title, "Walking Alone in Late Winter." Michael sits at the far side of the bed, his profile to me. "You're sure? I said I could do it if you want. We never really talked it through." He doesn't move.

I read silently: Those days of anger and remorse came back to me, your fidgeting with your ring, sliding it off, then jabbing it on again. He sits back against the pillows, the huge bed allowing enough space between us for another couple. From the hall, Mattie's tags jangle as she scratches herself. "No, I need to do it," I finally say, keeping my voice steady. "I won't be having any more." I don't look up at him. "Well, I said I'd . . . " he starts, then says nothing. "You might decide you want to. Later," I reason, with the tone of a realtor or a financial analyst explaining options. "You never know." I pick at the corner of the page, gazing upon the word "Chill," the long, straight lines of its letters like tiny soldiers, keeping my attention here, in this moment. "Chill," the line reads, "or the fear of chill . . . ." And then he doesn't argue. I've known he wouldn't. Still, a small part of me is disappointed, having hoped that he would suddenly grasp, in the weight of the moment, that some sort of mythic chivalry is required. Or that he doesn't want me to close this door. But no. There is only silence and the space between us. "Well, since you're sure," he offers feebly with a wry smile, then lies down and pulls the blanket over his chest. I close my eyes. It was so simple after all. Why had I doubted, fretted over the decision all these months? I read the lines of the poem once more:

And the sun, bright but not warm, has gone behind the hill. Chill, or the fear of chill, sends me hurrying home. Michael has his back to me. I set the book on the night stand and reach up to turn off the light. Outside the door, Mattie lets out a wet sigh. I lie still and imagine Ramon's peaceful face as he sleeps in the next room, see his small back rising and falling. He will be with me, will need me, long into the future. Michael hasn't allowed himself to accept that yet â&#x20AC;&#x201C; he still believes Ramon will magically outgrow the autism, become a normal boy and go off to high school and college, get married, join him in an occasional round of golf. I know it will be otherwise. I now see my own path clearly, the one chosen for me the moment Michael's sperm swam to meet my egg, the combined genes creating our beautiful son who will never be independent. Yes, these rooms, this house, and Michael, too, will all fall away. Like the dream of Leah Joyce, the girl with her grandmother's face and name, who was to carry forward the blood and the spirit of the Larkin women. She would remain deep inside me now, an imperceptible dot, marooned. I close my eyes and push away the familiar image of the imaginary Leah who has lived in my mind for so long â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the canny Larkin eyes and full cheeks, the mischievous grin. Instead I can see the aging faces of my mother and grandmother, expressionless and distant in my own fading memories. I imagine the ghostly outlines of all the other women who share my blood, stretching back over the centuries, those whose ova had held the seeds of my own life. In time, I will ask their forgiveness. Tonight, I will forgive myself.

Fever Breaks By Lisa Mase

By Lisa MasĂŠ

I seek grace to weather this fierce passage because I will survive mastitis, breasts burning with too much milk for my daughter, antibiotics poisoning each waking moment with fear that I am not enough, that I cannot be mother. Yet the truth of earth abides through the darkest night, guides me to the window at dawn. There is a peregrine perched atop white pine, touching freedom for me with wings that can hold the sun. It takes flight, circles, circles, then dives for its prey with swift elegance. I witness the gift of nourishment and know I must give it, too, because my grandmother could not, because my mother was trapped in a world where no one nourished her. With the past as my protector, its stories my teachers, I step in rhythm with my heart again, leaving sweat-soaked sheets behind.

Hello, mighty moms and women warriors of all ages. Please allow me to introduce myself, as we have not had the pleasure, my name is Joy Blessman. I am the owner and artist behind Bokujoy, a company comprised of organic and natural shower, bath, and spa products. Bokujoy is a play on the French word "beaucoup" meaning "more" or "abundance" â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Bokujoy simply translates into abundantly joyful, and for me, a means to share my joys with the world. Bokujoy is where I am now, but not where I began. For that story, sit back and relax, it will take a moment . . . Rewind the tape 23 years, where I found myself in my closet curled into a fetal position crying out of earshot of my five year old son, London. I didn't want him to hear me crying and I didn't want him to experience the pain that was a part of my everyday life. I worked hard to keep his life "normal" as I struggled with a drug addict for a husband. That was the last time I kept a truth from my son, cried over my ex-husband, AND the last time I felt sorry for myself without taking an action for myself.

It had been two years of trying to make us work, when I realized it was time to make me work instead. I told my husband he had to leave. I told him I was not willing to raise my son — his stepson — with a using addict. I can still hear his response, which was sobering and rang loud and clear, "You can't survive in California without my income." I can still hear my response which rang louder and much more clear: "Just watch me!" It was the beginning of the month when he left me — with a full house of responsibilities and an empty bank account. When I got married, I'd quit my corporate America job to stay at home and be a housewife. I wanted to join the PTA and do arts and crafts, like make soap, pottery and ornaments. After working six days a week, often twelve hours or more a day with a child in daycare, I welcomed the new title of "unemployed." Quickly, I searched every room in my brain for what I could do to survive — the logical room in my brain said go back to corporate America, It's an arena you know well. The practical room in my brain said, by the time you find leads, interview, go through the hiring process and then wait two to four more weeks for a paycheck, you will be homeless with a five year old. That's when I entered the creative room in my brain. Hey, remember when Denise [an old college friend] came to visit last summer and you guys spent the weekend drinking wine and making soap? All of those supplies and raw materials were still living in the closet with other forgotten art projects. That's it, I decided. I'll start a bath company. I often made my own bath products, being unimpressed with the quality of products on the market, so here was my chance to do something better. I already had the supplies. All I needed was a name. My five year old helped me come up with the name Beauty and the Bath, a spin on the book I often read to him, Beauty and the Beast.

So, armed with my courage and my stubbornness, I set out with a few tubs of soap, homemade bath salts, and my son. We sold at every craft show and home show I could find. Much to my amazement and divine amazing grace, at the end of the month, I had enough money to pay the mortgage AND buy more soap supplies! I cried tears of joy and never looked back. Beauty and the Bath was born. That name served us well and helped us survive. It was derived from a place of lack so, years later, I changed to Bokujoy, so I could operate from a place of abundance. Being in business over twenty years, I have learned the importance of being discerning. Discerning with one's mind, body, and spirit. It's my mental discernment, that navigated me out of the relationship with my ex-husband. Then, and now, I constantly create and re-create a healthy mental space to dwell in. Realizing my value and letting it empower me is an important part of that. The largest limits and hurdles to reaching my goals are the ones I impose on myself. I have daily conversations with myself through journaling, meditation, soaking in a warm tub of water, and talking out loud about how to move the mountain that constantly gets in my way. The mountain, being ME! A strong mental space gives me the courage to face the challenges while honoring my body and spirit. Honoring our body helps to keep us on earth and helps us to thrive. Our skin is our largest organ so developing products that protect our vessel was and is vital. After all, 60 percent of what goes on our skin goes in our skin, so YES, we should be discerning. With this in mind, I use essential oils made by nature as opposed to synthetic fragrance oils, which can have harmful toxins. I use ingredients that are gentle on the skin like vegetable glycerin, shea butter and beeswax. I love blending additives in my products that improve our resolve like arnica, flaxseed, and borage.

I absolutely love what I do for a living and when I am not working on the product line, I spend as much time as I can in the garden. That is where I most often nurture my spirit. Since my humble beginnings, and eighteen years ago now, I moved from the home I shared with my husband to the second oldest adobe house in Escondido, California. This home sits on two beautiful acres of land that I have carved into little garden rooms and retreats. It is here that I walk the labyrinth to let go of old things and welcome in new things. I visit the Boredroom â&#x20AC;&#x201D; no, that is not a typo â&#x20AC;&#x201D; to empty my mind amongst the oak trees and be bored, a rarity in my world. Sometimes, I go down to the City of Angels to visit with the spirits that are flying low. This space, that I call Avocado House, has been such a healing and nurturing retreat for me that I decided it would be nice to share it with others. All the things I do for me, I try to share with the world. We are in this together. I am here on Earth to contribute and share my gifts, my love. We all are. I am having an extraordinary journey through motherhood and I wouldn't change a thing. I consider it all, the easy and the difficult, all a part of my wonderful life. I have had the pleasure of birthing two amazing souls. London is 28 years old now. He graduated from Clive Davis School of Music in New York and he is an American song writer and utilities provider. Check him out, he is amazing â&#x20AC;&#x201D; London O'Connor. He grew up strong, confident, and firmly planted in the belief that he is the captain of his ship in life. He makes the choices he lives by, no one else. He has toured the world performing and is now is working on releasing his second album called I Love You. I also have a beautiful light named Aian. He is sixteen years old and an incredible artist and percussionist. As a single mom, I often tell people that I don't raise my children, rather we raise each other. It's a unified learning experience. Of all the titles and jobs, MOM is by far my favorite!

By Melissa Martinez

i hate what the family welfare system has done to us it has made us needy. it has made us desperate. desperate for things we don't want this system disconnects us from what we might be lovers, cultivators, creators. it makes us case numbers, social security numbers, papers pushed aside until tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. then, i think of my comadres birds, poets, caretakers, mythic beings their strength reminds me of my courage courage to have to fight courage to have flee beyond the worry as a mother, as a wombyn a wombyn with seemingly unanswered questions then i remember that life is better. love is better better than shitty moments in time moments that can seem like eternity to escape. and i am calm again.

Yu-Jie By Allison Hong Merrill This day, December 12, 2018 –– five months before high school graduation –– my seventeen-year-old son, Yu-Jie, walks out of the house with my husband, Drake, and I know I’m witnessing a historical moment. Yu-Jie is clearly Drake's son. They have the same face. Same broad shoulders, sculpted arms, long legs. He definitely doesn't look like me, his Chinese mother. Right now, it looks like two Drakes are walking into the car and heading to Yu-Jie's school to withdraw his enrollment. My son, a high school dropout. Growing up in Taiwan, in an academically competitive culture, I heard about various macabre dropout methods. Taiwanese students had one job –– to be at the top of the class. But only one person could be number one, so sometimes a number two student, as well as others who took the competition too seriously, drank pesticide, jumped off tall buildings, or hanged themselves in a bathroom, their suicides a plea for the national education system to loosen up. Unfazed by those students' choices to take their own lives, I convinced myself I had no time to pause, to think, to understand the rationale behind these extreme measures. I had homework due, research to do, and my parents' expectations to meet –– especially

when it came to passing the university entrance exam. What happened after that? I didn't know. They didn't tell me. The great Chinese philosopher Confucius embarked on a learning journey at age fifteen, and was intellectually independent by age 30. For centuries, his teachings have been a moral bible for the Chinese, so I assumed I should follow his example and finish my studies before I turned 30. Perhaps 30 was a magical age when everything fell into place. Maybe then I could finally pause to reflect on what life experiences I'd forfeited while living up to others' expectations. Well, when I reached 30 and finally grew still, quiet, and alert enough to examine my past, I discovered that the same demon that had consumed those suicidal students' souls had been nibbling at my spirit too. Anxiety and depression, I didn't know I had them. In the early 1990s, no one openly addressed mental illness in Taiwan. Was it taboo, or was it because people simply didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know how to approach this topic of discussion? I wish I knew. The awakening of understanding mental illness didn't occur until the 2000s. I passed the university entrance exam in 1992 and attended a prestigious school in Taipei. My first couple years in university were great. I had good grades, good friends, a part-time job that paid good money. I ate out daily, went to a movie weekly, bought new clothes monthly. But when I was twenty, I wrote in my journal, the first recorded evidence of self-awareness: Why am I so mad and sad? There's no reason why I should feel so bad. I have no control over depressing thoughts. Where did they come from? I cried for no reason. I lost the motivation to get out of bed. I skipped and flunked most of my classes. At 21, I deferred my education for eighteen months to serve a mission for the Church

of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It was perfect. I urgently needed a break from school, a gap year (and a half), to figure out life through full-time service. During my mission, I entered the real world of adulthood, interacting with people much older than I –– some four times my age –– explaining doctrinal teachings, sharing spiritual thoughts, and tending to their needs. I baked banana bread in a rice cooker to give to a young single mother. I spoon-fed a dying woman in a nursing home. I joined other missionaries and biked an hour in a raging typhoon to clean out a disabled couple's home ruined in a mud slide. We took a train to a remote village to build cardboard shelters for homeless people. We took a bus up a steep mountain to a Buddhist shrine to help the monks clear the surrounding wild, grassy land to expand their facility. In serving others, I forgot about my own struggles. I mistakenly thought my past depression was a phase I'd outgrown. After my mission, I received a scholarship to a university in Texas. I studied the only way I knew how. I have one job –– to be at the top of the class. My English wasn't great, but my GPA was 3.8. Good grades, however, didn't make me completely happy. I still cried for no reason. Most days, I dreaded getting out of bed to face life's demands. After eighteen months in Texas, I transferred to Brigham Young University in Utah, met my husband, and dropped out during my senior year to start a family. This time, my withdrawal was more than justified. It was a life-saving decision. At BYU, I was on the Dean's List but I often experienced nauseating migraines. I was burnt out. If I'd stayed in school, I'd have eventually jumped off a tall building or hung myself or drunk pesticide. Starting a family was a glorified excuse for my escape. I told myself, "School will always be here. I'll return and finish my degree later."

He may wear Drake's features, but his spirit is every bit like mine. - Allison Hong Merrill 100

And I did. I got my bachelor's degree at 40, my master's at 44. I've gone farther than my parents expected me to, albeit at a much older age. I didn't become a doctor or a lawyer like most Chinese children are told to be. I chose to be myself, an artist. Even though I was brought up in the traditional Chinese educational system, the typical path wasn't for me. I'm not a conventional person. My body, spirit, and mind all have their own way –– and their own pace –– of growing. In a metaphorical world of learning, I'm a marathoner, not a sprinter. To me, the most effective learning process is the same way a runner approaches a long-distance race –– taking interval breaks to recharge, refresh, and renew. If I was born a marathoner, but forced to be a sprinter, I wouldn't be able to reach my highest potential. Nor could I develop the gifts and talents that were uniquely mine. Frustrated, I might even stop running all together. Granting myself the permission to be myself is the greatest gift to myself. Even as a preemie born two months early, Yu-Jie had a fighting spirit to defy and thrive, to prove all the nay-saying doctors wrong. To those who said, "He'll stay small" and "He’ll be in and out of the E.R. all the time," I have an open invitation to come and see him today –– a six-foot-three state volleyball champion. Starting from his first birthday, the only time he was sent to the E.R. was when he accidentally cut his foot with an axe at a scout camp for twelve-year-olds. At eight, Yu-Jie tested into the school district gifted program. He's gifted in his own way. While his teammates compiled data for a science experiment, he stayed up past midnight cutting out little windows on the team's trifold poster for hand-drawn illustrations. His teacher advised him to focus on STEM subjects, the important stuff. He corrected her, "You mean STEAM, A for art?" Winter in Utah is brutal. School starts at 7:30 a.m. To be on time,

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Yu-Jie needs to get up at 5:00 a.m. and drive on the slippery I-15, inching carefully toward school, most days in a dark-night blizzard. The sun doesn’t rise until about second period. He's usually tardy, which counts as an inexcusable absence, and is required to pay a fee to attend sessions to make up for those missed hours, or he gets an F. The monetary penalty and the threat of receiving an F destroy his confidence. School becomes a dreadful place to be. He fakes sick, refusing to get out of bed. He spends countless hours drawing animation in his room and asks for art supplies for his birthday. Days, weeks, and months of absences snowball into endless F's –– which makes him suicidal. He refuses counseling or medical treatments, saying that he's passed "The Point of No Return" and the only solution is to drop out. He doesn't cry, or at least not in front of me. But I know the emotions he must feel about where he stands in the educational system. I've been there. My understanding of allowing everyone the freedom to choose for himself and to be himself anchors my feet firmly on the ground as I watch him walk out of the house –– first time in weeks –– to find his own path, to create his own life. I don't call him back or threaten to disown him or yell behind him, "You're going to regret this!" I stay here, continue to love him. Yu-Jie's strong frame contains his anxiety and depression. It also contains his hopes and dreams, his passion for art, and his longing for a creative life. He may wear Drake's features, but his spirit is every bit like mine. He's my son. And there would be absolutely no peace in my heart if he never got to choose to be himself, freely.

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A Community Submission

. . . going back to work. Ended up helping my PPD [postpartum depression] worsen until I broke.

We asked our community to finish the sentence: A choice I didn't want to make was . . . These are their anonymous responses.

. . . having to go back to work with my first at six weeks. He was at work with me, but not in my office. When I went back to work with my second at six weeks, I quit two weeks later. Just. Couldn't. Do. It. . . . having a c-section.

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. . . leaving my job after my second to be stay-at-home mom. I loved working, but we couldn't afford childcare. . . . scheduling an induction with my second daughter so that my family could fly to stay with my oldest.

. . . ending my marriage.

. . . to stop breastfeeding. She made the choice for us and it was really hard initially.

A choice I didn't want to make was . . . 104

Accept and Change By Sunayna Pal I moved to D.C. from a small, shy college town in Connecticut. The personality of the town suited mine, until I had my baby. I realized that I barely knew kids my son's age, making it difficult for me to teach him social skills that I too lacked somewhere. It delighted me that my new community in D.C. came with a clubhouse and its various activities. The best one was their storytime session for toddlers with their caregivers every Wednesday morning at 10:30. Along with the location, it felt ideal for an exhausted new mom like me. Though I was happy about the prospect of going there, I was also anxious about it. Pregnancy had changed my body. The lack of any time for myself, along with the absence of exercise, made me look fresh from the delivery room, especially in the tummy area. I had puffy eyes and dark circles from lack of sleep. I barely had time to condition my hair, which formed a frizzed halo around my head. My clothes, still sat very snug on my body, enhanced all the curves on my torso. Maybe I could lose some weight at home and then try to make friends in the community? Maybe they would like me better? I observed many other issues about my body that made me want to stay in the comfort of my home, but I also observed my son and felt that he needed friends NOW.

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Our new pediatrician echoed my thoughts. My son was over a year old and it was about time he attended such sessions. I decided to just get myself ready and go for it. The first Wednesday, I was exhausted from sleeping a little later than usual the night before and it felt too cold to step out. The second week, I had cramps. On the third one, my son didn’t finish his breakfast, which meant he would be cranky. On the fourth one, he pooped at 10:00 am and I didn’t want to create a bad impression by walking in late. Finally, after a month, I was tired with myself and my excuses. I stopped waiting for the perfect occasion or the weight loss. If they like me with a little extra weight, they will like me more when I shed it. I was determined to just go. I did the best I could do to get ready. I washed and dried my hair, applied and removed a face pack, and wore the best of my clothes. It was early spring and I hid my curves under a sly jacket. I dressed my son in the best of his clothes, packed him in the stroller, and left home without lingering near the mirror to create second thoughts. I could feel my heart beat quicker than usual, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the anxiety or if it was the first time I left home for an actual walk. My mind thought even faster than my heart. What would everyone think about me and my tummy? They must have already made a group. Why will they include me? Could — or . . . worse yet, would — they ridicule me? Along with these thoughts, I found myself standing behind a circle of people from various ethnicities and ages who were happily clapping and engrossed seeing their kids or grandkids trying to pop the bubbles. I parked my stroller with the others and got my baby out. It wasn't 10:30 a.m. yet, but the session had probably started early. Hurriedly, I grabbed my baby from the stroller and walked closer

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to the group. Trying to find myself an empty seat, I looked around and realized all were taken. A lady who was sitting with her son in the chair next to him saw me and lifted her son in her lap to make space for me. I blushed at her kind gesture and plopped on the chair, thanking her more than needed. She smiled and blushed a little. Most kids were popping bubbles, but her son looked smaller than mine and sat watching the bubbles. My son looked at the different colors around him and, just by chance, pointed to the boy sitting next to him. The little boy looked at him too and they giggled. I looked at the boy, and then at the mother, and she looked at me too. We smiled. I let go of my breath, not realizing I was holding it for so long. The organizer of the group stopped the bubbles and sat in the chair placed in the center of the circle. She welcomed us all and introduced herself and her daughter to the group. She sang the first song, "Wheels on the Bus." I held my son's small hands and did the actions with him. This went on for the other songs. It delighted him and he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop smiling. Then, the organizer read a book. She recommended all the kids come close to her. I asked my son if he would like to sit down with the other kids, but he declined. The lady next to me didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even ask her son. She probably knew he wouldn't go. We sat with our kids and, somehow, it seemed right. After the book reading, the organizer emptied a pack of toys and the kids selected their favorite toys to play with them. Some moms left at this time. Just as I was trying to decide my next step: to leave or let my son play, the organizer came to me, introduced herself again, and asked if I was new. "Yes, we moved in a few months back." "Wonderful. So glad you finally came to know about us."

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We smiled. I let go of my breath, not realizing I was holding it for so long.

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"Yes," I gulped. Finally. "How old is your son?" "Fourteen months." "Mine is thirteen," peeped the lady sitting next to me. "Ah! I thought so," the organizer said, eyeing both our boys as they played with the trains. "My daughter is sixteen months old, but looks older. You know, all these kids will be in same grade." "Oh, yes." I admired her planning skills. "We should hang out more often. I know two other moms with kids the same age. I have playdates in my home often for kids my daughter's age. Maybe I can invite you two too.â&#x20AC;? "Thank you," I mumbled. "That will be wonderful," the lady next to me chimed. I realized that this lady was relatively new to the group too. We exchanged numbers. My son had already made a new friend and seemed so happy to be with him. As the session was about to end, the organizer sang the cleanup song and, in a few minutes, everyone left except for the organizer. "So, I spoke to the other ladies and tomorrow seems doable, would you two like to join us tomorrow for a playdate at my home?" "Sure," I said without thinking.

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Thursday came quickly, and it was easier to go on this playdate. I took along some oranges as my son was at a stage where he loved eating them. Surprisingly, all the kids except one loved eating them too and everyone thanked me for bringing some. In the playdate, I also discovered that I wasn't the only one who had issues with weight loss. Everyone was struggling. Some of them tried to go to the gym in the evenings, but felt exhausted. I suggested that we could get together in the mornings and look after each other's kids while half of us went to the gym. It worked out for some and slowly I made a gym buddy â&#x20AC;&#x201D; the same lady who had offered me a seat and whose son was a month younger than mine. It has been about two years of gymming and chatting and supporting each other. I have not only crossed the weight I was before my pregnancy, but also gained confidence and a sense of community. So much so that when the organizer went on vacation, I organized the storytime session in her absence. We have celebrated our birthdays, milestones, and also some farewells as a few members from that group have moved but now, we have added new ones and the sense of community remains the same. I feel so grateful for stepping out of my house despite my flaws and for making the choice to take the first step. My life has changed from that day and continues to do so for the better.

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By Victory Corwin Dear Father, just for today, I surrender Liberty Jane. Remind me now that she is Yours and not mine. Please, give me faith that You are working with her and nurturing her in a way that I cannot. Please, show me the gifts I have received today from my relationship with her. As I interact with Liberty today, Keep me in touch with my deeper emotionsthe fear,

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the despair, the loneliness, the sadnessthat I may be saved from anger and resentment towards her. Grant me acceptance of these feelings. Free me from the expectation that I have placed upon myself to be immune to the harsh words Liberty might say or the disappointment she may have in me. I pray to let go of the compulsion to punish myself for having my feelings hurt by her. I ask for wisdom to know whom to confide in about my struggles in parenting Liberty. And please, put in my path those who can love and accept me despite my flaws in parenting, And grant me courage to let into my life those who can love and accept Liberty as she searches for the peace only You can give.

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The Mystery of Me By Frances Rove

I thought I knew who I was, until I found the hidden poems. At age forty-two, they gave me clues to who I really was â&#x20AC;&#x201D; and wasn't. I began to think of time in terms of before and after my discovery. The poems my deceased mother had saved whispered

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to me a suggestion I never imagined: I was adopted. After my mother died, I was forty, unmarried and childless, and I had moved back to her house, my childhood home. The puzzle box where I discovered the poems and hints to her other secrets had seemed innocent enough, just a place for keepsakes. But it held a web of lies that I'm still unraveling. One poem was a newspaper clipping written by Fleur Conkling Heyliger: Not flesh of my flesh, Nor bone of my bone, But still miraculously my own. Never forget, for a single minute, You didn't grow under my heart, but in it.

The second poem was by Carol Lynn Pearson, written in my own handwriting, though I had no memory of this. I did not plant you, true. But when the season is done, When the alternate prayers for sun and for rain are counted, When the pain of weeding and the pride of watching are through, Then I will hold you high. A shining sheaf Above the thousand seeds grown wild. Not my planting, But, by Heaven, my harvest. My child.

On reading them, I knew in my DNA that these poems meant I was adopted. Much later, I would wonder about the poem in my handwriting. Did my mother try to tell me, and I was too dense to understand? Or, was the secret of my adoption something I felt but couldn't let myself bring to conscious thought?

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All my life, I had tried to mirror my mother perfectly as she required, despite our periodic arguments and her angry retreats into silence. It had been hard to tell where she ended, and I began. We were the center of each other's universe, especially after my father died when I was eight years old. I would be 50 before I learned the psychological term for my mother's and my relationship â&#x20AC;&#x201C; enmeshed. We were so close. How could she choose to keep such fundamental information, my adoption, from me? What were her reasons for keeping the secret? Maybe reasonable minds could differ in 1960, the year I was born, about whether and when to tell children about their adoption, but we had spent 40 years together. Was there never a right time to tell me? The adoption revelation unraveled my identity. Who was I if not my mother's "mini-me"? After the detailed stories my mother had told me about the day of my birth, and her eager memorializing of her pregnancy with me, this information shocked me. It opened the door to what would be years of investigation about the truth of my life. Was anything my adoptive mother told me true? Did the extended family I infrequently saw as I grew up know this secret? Did I have another family somewhere? I must have had a birth mother and father who chose not to keep me. Why did they choose to give me up? It had been a secret so long â&#x20AC;&#x201D; were my birth parents still alive? Questions and memories hurdled through my mind like a slide projector gone wild. For a time, I distrusted everything, even my mother's love. Was I merely her possession? Was I not even a real person? I had doubts about my mental stability before I found the poems. I'd always thought when my mother died, I would kill myself. I'd surrender to the emptiness I would feel when she was no longer my everything. I had felt especially worthless when my mother told me I had failed to love her enough. Now, what did all that mean?

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The day I found the poems, I felt as if the blood drained from my body. I thought I might disintegrate like Marty McFly in the "Back to the Future" movie when he traveled to the past, and in a family photo, he began to disappear from the picture as it seemed his parents might never meet. That day, I paced the house to drain energy from my racing mind. Who was I if I wasn't who my mother raised me to be? Who was my mother â&#x20AC;&#x201D; the one I thought I'd known so well, loved and missed so much? How old was I â&#x20AC;&#x201D; was I really 42? Would I be able to find my official birth and adoption records, since so much time had passed? What else had my mother lied about? She had fooled me so long. Could I trust my judgment or intuition about anything in my life? Whom could I trust? I regained some will to live when I found the adoption poems. I had a mission to prove that my intuition about the poems was true. But why hadn't my mother chosen to tell me I was adopted? Why hadn't she chosen to leave me a letter explaining that she had tried a million times to find the right moment to tell me the truth? Why just leave me poems, clues to a mystery? I didn't know how I would ever reconcile the person I thought was my mother, with someone who would go to such lengths to deceive me. I felt stupid, angry, and confused. But I knew I had to discover answers to these and other questions. I would have to find and claim my own identity. I had to try and understand my mother's motives and make a choice to forgive her. At the very least, I had to mourn the perfect mother I'd believed was mine. At most, I needed to shore up my emotional foundation and begin to unravel the mystery of me. A few months after I found the poems, after some of the shock had worn off, I phoned my cousin Sandy to confirm my intuition about the poems' meaning. I was almost twenty years younger

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than Sandy, so we weren't close, but she probably remembered when I joined the family. My mother had told me that she lavished gifts on Sandy before my birth. They always joked and interacted without expectations like Mom and I never could. I admit I was jealous. They'd been more alike than my mother and me. Now, I thought maybe they shared a gene for lightheartedness that I lacked. I phoned and asked Sandy to lunch. She responded as if I'd invited her to the running of the bulls at Pamplona. "Us? Lunch? Why?" "My mother hid two poems about adoption," I said. Sandy chuckled. "Well, it's about time you knew!"

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I swallowed hard as an earthquake cracked my fragile foundation, as if a hand reached back and changed my past like a naughty time traveler. It was true. I had been adopted. The next day, Sandy arrived at the restaurant carrying a faded tote bag. We ordered, and I described the puzzle box and the poems. She laughed and looked out the window. "That sounds like your mother, playful to the end and beyond. She loved a mystery." My mother had been "playful" with my identity. It was hard to believe she had lied to me for so long about something so important. I looked away. I didn't want to alienate Sandy by venting my growing irritation. She might have more information. "Everyone knew you were adopted, but we were afraid to tell

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"My mother had been 'playful' with my identity. It was hard to believe she had lied to me for so long about something so important."

you," Sandy said. I felt like I'd been slapped. "Everyone knew?" I whispered. Sandy unrolled the silverware from the napkin and said, "Both sides of the family knew, but I don't know the details. Your parents brought you home from Texas and tried to pass you off as their own child."

I glared at her, suddenly wanting to kill the messenger. My face smoldered with embarrassment for my parents and myself. I couldn't believe I had discovered this, decades too late. Sandy continued, "You looked nothing like your green-eyed mother or your swarthy, Italian father with your reddish hair, fair skin, and blue eyes." I clenched my jaw, willing myself to sound composed despite my shock and anger. "Why was everyone afraid to tell me?" I asked. "You know better than I do, your mother had a temper. No one was willing to risk her wrath, not even your father, even if we disagreed with her." "People thought my mother was wrong and still didn't tell me? Daddy wanted to tell me?" I still thought of my father the way I had when he died when I was eight. My voice was intense and

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shrill. I'd forgotten where I was. "Franny, calm down. It wasn't our place. Your parents were both 46 when you were born out of town. We let your mother have her fantasy." I wondered why was I merely a prop in her fantasy, not a real person worthy of respect? "I always thought the whole family hated me because there was something wrong with me! Now I find out there was this secret, this wall, I felt between us." I was almost shouting. Sandy turned to see if we were drawing attention. I gritted my teeth and said, "No wonder I felt like I had no real family except my mother." "I think your mother wanted to keep you to herself, and keep everyone at arm's length, so you wouldn't discover the adoption," Sandy said. "And what about after she died? It's been two years! No one could tell me then?" I got out of my chair. "I'm leaving. I'll pay the check." "Wait, Franny. Your mother gave me this bag. Your baby bracelet from the hospital is in the front pocket." Bewildered, I took the bag and looked inside. Betrayal burned all the way down my body. "What are you doing with these?" I thought the photo albums and baby book were in storage. "I've never seen a baby bracelet." The bag held a treasure trove of my history.

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Sandy shrugged and said, "Your mother just told me to give it to you after she died." I was steaming about the lies and being the butt of family gossip all my life. "When were you going to give me these if I hadn't called you?" Sandy stared at me and didn't respond. I started crying before I reached my car. I thought of all the conversations I'd never had. Would my father have told me the truth and helped me to set boundaries with my mother? My mind flashed through the years I'd felt isolated and inferior. In the car, I examined the bracelet of tiny pink and white beads that spelled my last name, "R-O-V-E." It barely fit around two fingers. I wondered how I could be adopted but a Rove at birth. Somewhere was or had been a birth mother who had also made a choice that fundamentally affected my life forever. But my adoptive mother still took up so much real estate in my mind, it would take time before I could search for my birth family. It would be years before I would untangle the lies and adoption records and have the emotional strength to meet my birth mother. Eventually, I'd uncover numerous other secrets in both my adoptive and birth families. Tears blinded me as I tucked the bracelet back into the bag. I started the car and sat for a moment trying to get back into my body. I drove home with the heater on as a chilly wind blew, but I felt I'd never get warm again. Leaves drifted off the trees. They were naked to face the coming winter storms.

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The dough is tacky. It wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t release from rolling pin or cookie cutter. In the yard, water keeps coming. Now climbing the sliding board backwards. Now kicking at the high swing. And in the basement, the walls are weeping all over the infant toys, area rugs, and other junk we wanted to sell or give away. No matter how much I flour, the shapes stick and stretch, stars and hearts, deformed, almost unrecognizable.

By Autumn Konopka

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Is there nothing rigid, set, reliable. Freeze dough for 30 minutes. Flour work surface. Roll. Cut. Bake. But not today. Today it pours rain. We are trapped inside together, my toddler and me. The same toys and games, the same routines that bore us both. And none of our easy distractions. I did my time in the glider, with the boppy pillow, nursing bras, lanolin. Now Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m through. So we bake. Special cookies, no eggs, because she is allergic. It was thoughtful. I was thoughtful. I considered her fickle diet, and I baked. It is not my body, no. But it is something.

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I always say "Emotions that are expressed and validated with empathy are relieved." So, my name is Miriam Torres and I am a mom of two little girls. I live in Rexburg, Idaho with my husband and children. I love serving others whenever I can. I love all things motherhood. I strive to empower and validate mothers and women and people whenever I can. I am a sexual assault survivor. After I was assaulted on several occasions by two separate people, I blamed myself for what had happened. For years after, I didn't even know what had happened was even considered assault. It wasn't until I gave birth to my daughter that I suddenly understood. With the support of trusted individuals, I was able to report the crimes that were committed against me. Through the process of seeking justice and therapy, I had the realization and felt strongly

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that I am someone who needs to help others who have survived sexual crimes. So, I made this Affirmation Deck. A deck of cards that survivors can have with them, and read: when they are experiencing selfdoubt, when they are having a panic attack, when they remember what happened, when they need positivity, they are having a hard day, or when they feel that they can help someone else. Or, when complete strangers blame them for the crimes that were committed against them. I want to help survivors at any stage of their healing process so that they don't have to talk about or tell anyone what happened, if they are not ready. They can go through these affirmations that will help their healing start. The Because Of What Happened affirmation deck provides help not only for survivors but anyone who knows someone who has been assaulted. These affirmations will say what they donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know how to. They are gender neutral, non-triggering and simple tool that actually helps to say: "I believe you, I care and I want to help."

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I want to help survivors at any stage of their healing process so that they donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to talk about or tell anyone what happened, if they are not ready. - Miriam Torres

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When to Release By Susan Alkaitis Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m trying to hold my hands so you cannot slip through but you do again, again I could dream about this. Rough muscle catching everything but my fingers. I held your whole body in my palms once, held your neck. You hug me now to measure your height, armpits close down on my shoulders. Next. Chin rests on my head. You love this part. You brute beauty.

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By Jetti Mares My story started when the man I fell in love with had two younger boys. I had stepparents growing up, but I never thought I would be one myself. Those two younger boys weren't just there for the weekend, they were there every. single. day. The truth is, when I found out about the boys, I was so excited. I wanted to make sure I did everything right. So, I researched everything I could about being a stepparent. I went to the bookstores and bought several books. I went to the library and rented books. I possibly read every blog I could on the internet just so I could know SOMETHING. I just needed to be prepared. I was 22, and about to become a mom of a seven and nine-year-old boy. Oh, and also, I was raised with five sisters so I knew absolutely NADA about boys. In the middle of my research, I found out a lot of things. Every book, every blog, every article started the same way: "I loved my stepchildren, at first" . . . "I hated my stepchildren" . . . "my stepchildren are so annoying." You get the point. Negatives, all negatives. Only negatives. Now, don't get me wrong, I found a

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few books that started out sweet about their stepchildren, but then you got a few pages in and, BOOM, here we go again. I had a stepparent, or two, or three. They all started out the same. They pretended to be there and said that they were here for us, but they really weren't. Heck, my dad wasn't really even there for us. So, slowly, my stepparents' interest in us would fade away as my sisters and I became nothing but baggage in my dad's relationship. Enough about all that. I was determined to be anything but that. I knew I had the heart that could be there for them. I could do it. And I was going to do it. I just had to start my own story and that is exactly what I did. Now, going back to my boys. I know many of you are probably wondering where their mom is. She was pretty much non-existent in their life. Apparently, she would find the crappiest of the crappiest boyfriends and run off for months to years at a time, leaving them behind. Their father had full custody, and she had visitation rights. However, when I came into the picture, she had been gone at least nine months. Her boyfriend had dragged her with a car while she was pregnant in front of the boys. So, my husband got a restraining order against her boyfriend, but she decided to go back to him. Since he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be around the kids, their mother left, only to see them a few times in the past nine months. And when I say "a few," I really mean, like, twice. I assumed I was getting into an easy situation. Yes, I said it, I really thought it would be easy. I never for one second thought about replacing their mom, however, I thought I wouldn't have to deal with any drama from her. I had heard some pretty awful things, but I THOUGHT I was in the clear. Boy, was I wrong. If you tell your dad this happened, then you might as well start calling her 'Mom' because I will never see you again. The start of many ways my bonus babies' mom would try to turn them against

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my husband and I. She was a master manipulator, but she was also their mom. She had finally returned after months of not seeing her children, and in their eyes she was home again. I understood. I felt this way many times about my own father or about my stepmom when she would start being nice to me again. What made it so hard was that I wanted to protect those babies from all the lies I knew were coming. And trust me, they are STILL coming five years later . . . . The younger of the two, Isaiah, and I connected great. When we first met, he was shy â&#x20AC;&#x201D; so shy. I remember his beautiful chubby

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cheeks at seven years old trying not to smile as I told the corniest jokes to him at the zoo. His older brother, Josh, was so sweet as well. He had a go-with-the-flow attitude, definitely laid back. He still is laid back, but a teenager now â&#x20AC;&#x201D; 'nuff said. Still, the truth is, I seriously never could have imagined how hard things would get. Isaiah would come home throwing fits, because he didn't want to do his homework. They both had never done chores. They had never cleaned their room on their own, before I told them they needed to. My husband works until 5:00 p.m., and I would try to make sure it was all done before then, so he could

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come home to the perfect household. Ask me how many times that worked. A handful, if that. The truth is, there was always some reason for them not to like me. Their mom telling them lies about me. And, I screwed up. A lot. I still screw up. I am a perfectionist. Everything has to be cleaned and go smoothly. You know, because perfect equals happy life? Not by a long shot. All I ever wanted (still want) is just for my boys to love me. For them to see that I am trying so hard to make sure everything is perfect for them. It's never going to happen. I can never make their life perfect. I can never right the wrongs their mom did. I can never undo the damage she had done, and I can never fix it. What can I do? Choose. I can choose to be there. Sometimes, that's all they need.

"This time, they needed a different type of listening. I would listen harder. I would listen with my heart and my head. I ache for them. As she continues to make her choices, I will make mine."

If something happens, I am going to leave and you just come find me when you are eighteen. Another manipulated lie told to them a few weeks ago. My response this time was different. In a way. I mean, yeah, I'm pissed off. Why do you keep doing this to your babies? Don't you see they love you and they just want you here for them? This time, I would listen. I listened before a lot. This time, they needed a different type of listening. I would listen harder. I would listen with my heart and my head. I ache for them. As she continues to make her choices, I will make mine.

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I once saw a meme on Facebook that read, "Your kids don’t need a perfect mom, they need a happy one." Man, that struck me like a knife going through my stomach. I read it months ago, and every time I see it, I still get the same feeling. I have the gut wrenching feelings of the day before, when all I wanted was to come home after my second 10-hour work day to a clean house and dinner made, of course, with the help of my husband. All I wanted was for the boys to wipe their pee off the freakin' toilet! Seriously, how hard is that? What I chose to see was everything wrong. I didn't see how my boys are still going through a tough time and may just need some extra love. I didn't see is that maybe they just wanted to relax like I did. I didn't exude patience like I should have. Instead, I told them that they needed to hurry, eat dinner, shower, and get in bed. The great thing about choice is that today is a new day. I can still actively choose today how I am going to respond. I can either have everything perfect, or have a few things perfect — cause, you know, I need some grace — and be happy. Though I will try not to, I am going to mess up. I am probably going to yell at them again to get in bed. Or to wipe off the toilet seat. Or to brush their teeth. Today, I will choose to sit with them at dinner and talk. I will choose to spend more time being there for my children, rather than making sure everything is perfect. Happy mom — not perfect — but happy. And if I mess up, I can choose to make tomorrow a new day.

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By Anna Forsberg

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You woke me up with two pink lines the whole world seemed different Suddenly there was A whole world Inside of me You woke me up With a rush of nausea Every morning For weeks And weeks And weeks But it reminded me You were there Strong and growing You woke me up With a kick Deep inside my belly That only I could feel Our secret language Encoded by you I lay there Imagining What you will be like What you will feel like In my arms

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You woke me up With a rush A hopeful And panicked Moment You were ready To meet the world Outside of me You woke me up With more rushes The most intense work THE most rewarding In the midst of it a flash of regret Soon swept away By the thought of seeing your face The face I dreamt of All my life You woke me up With a cry Your first one Arms outstretched For the first time Reaching for me My soul In that instant Changed forever You marked me

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You made me yours You made me reborn You woke me up You woke me up Again And Again I like sleep I need sleep But for you I am sleepless For you woke me up In a way no one No one else could have You will wake me up Tomorrow the next day years from now In different ways And some day I pray a little soul Will come to bless you And wake you up The same

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CONTRIBUTOR BIOS SUSAN ALKAITIS is a writer living in Colorado. Her poetry won a 2019 CauseLit Poetry Prize and has recently appeared in Rattle, The 2018 Punch Drunk Anthology, Slow Trains, The 2River View and Glass. She has an MFA from the University of Utah and is the recipient of a Colorado Council on the Arts Recognition Award. VICTORY CORWIN loves to write! As a young stay-at-homemom and home-educator of four children, she finds many exciting topics and events to write about. She uses writing as a tool to explore her reality, to express herself to others in a vulnerable way, and to connect with a Power greater than herself. Aside from writing, she also enjoys playing the harp, serving in her church congregation, playing soccer, and hiking. ESME DEVAULT is an attorney, poet and mother who lives in Rhode Island with her husband, son and dog Charlie. ANGELA DRIBBEN attended Bread Loaf 2018 as a contributor and is a student in Rainier Writing Workshop's MFA program. She is a finalist in the 2019 Bellingham Review's 49th Parallel Poetry Contest. Her poetry and essays can be found or are forthcoming in Crab Creek Review, Crack the Spine, Sisyphus, Cirque, Mudfish, decomP, New Southern Fugitive, and others. Her first book, Southern Comfort, a full length poetry collection, is due out in 2021 from Airlie Press.

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AMY DUNKEL is Momma to two littles, a podcaster at Moms Who Rule the World, a lifestyle photographer, and wannabe writer. She considers herself a creative dreamer and selfproclaimed coffee addict. MELISSA FACE is the author of I Love You More Than Coffee, an essay collection for parents who love coffee a lot and their kids . . . a little more. Her essays and articles have appeared in Richmond Family Magazine, Scary Mommy, and twenty-one volumes of Chicken Soup for the Soul. Connect or read more of her work at melissaface.com. ANNA FORSBERG is a mother of three boys who have chosen her and continuously awaken her spirit to new light. Thanks to them, Anna has found her life's passion as a postpartum doula and finally can answer the daunting question: "What do you want to be when you grow up?" SUZY HARRIS was born and raised in Indianapolis and has lived her adult life in Portland, OR. She is a retired attorney. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Calyx, Clackamas Literary Review, Oyster River Pages, Rain, Third Wednesday, Willawaw Journal, Windfall, and other journals and anthologies. She and her husband have two adult children who live in Portland, one dog and a granddog. KATE HUTCHINSON has just retired from a 34-year career of teaching English to high school students and has begun her next life's work as family caregiver and library volunteer. She's had two books published, The Gray Limbo of Perhaps in 2012 and Map Making: Poems of Land and Identity in 2015. Many of her poems and personal essays have also been published in journals and anthologies and won recognition, including two Pushcart nominations.

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LINDSEY MAUREEN JONES is a mother with a 4-year-old daughter, and lives in San Diego with her family. She loves hearing stories, cooking beautiful food and making women look and feel confident. VICTORIA JANE KEARNEY is a singer, musician, and songwriter. Giving birth to a daughter was the spark that lit a creative fire leading Victoria to write, record and produce her debut album, BIRTH, a memoir of becoming a mother. In nine songs, it takes you on a journey from pregnancy and birth, to the intense experiences of motherly love and loss and the deep reconnection with creativity. AUTUMN KONOPKA is a poet, parent, teacher, and literary organizer in the Philadelphia area. Her poems have appeared in bedfellows, Rock & Sling, Main Street Rag, Coal Hill Review, APIARY, Literary Mama, and Crab Orchard Review, among others. Her chapbook, a chain of paper dolls, was published by the Head & the Hand Press (Philadelphia, 2014). In 2016, she was named poet laureate of Montgomery County, PA. She is the current president of the Philadelphia Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Conference. JETTI MARES hasn't entirely learned who she is yet, but one thing she knows is that she is a mother. Jetti grew up in a small town stuck between the divorce of her parents. She hated middle school, hated high school, and partied hard throughout college. Out of seemingly nowhere, a wonderful man and his two sons stepped into her life. Three months later, she went from becoming a senior in college to a full time mom of two wonderful boys. That is where her story began. MELISSA MARTINEZ is an artist, vegan baker, and mother from Riverside, CA. Eleven years ago, she started out as a Social Worker, and later developed a chronic illness once becoming a mother. Refusing to submit to illness, Melissa committed herself

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to baking once a day as self care/therapy. Vegan baking became her specialty. As she chronicled each bake, she created a small side hustle for herself in 2008 making vegan desserts for a local coffee shop, and providing custom orders from time to time. Still chronicling her dessert adventures, 2017 arrived with the overwhelming attention toward veganism and latinx culture. With social media, Melissa's baking turned into a business with the support of friends and family. Now, she has Vegancitas, a thriving small business where she make conchas (Mexican sweet bread), custom ordered cakes, and cater events and provide a pop up bakeshop weekly throughout the year. LISA MASĂ&#x2030; (she/her and they/them) writes about family, food, geography and the invisible thread that weaves them. She teaches poetry workshops for Vermont's Poem City events, co-facilitates a writing group, and translates poetry. Her poems have been published by Open Journal of Arts and Letters, Jacard Press, the Long Island Review, K'in Literary, Inlandia Review, Press 53, and Silver Needle Press among others. ALLISON HONG MERRILL was born and raised in Taiwan and immigrated to the U.S. at age twenty-two. She has her BA in Chinese Teaching from Brigham Young University and her MFA in Creative Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She writes both fiction and nonfiction in both Chinese and English. Her work won Grand Prize in the MAST People of Earth writing contest, first place in the Segullah Journal writing contest, Honorable Mention in the 79th Annual Writer's Digest writing contest, among others. Her previous publishing credits include the Life Story Anthology (Taipei, Taiwan), the Ensign Magazine, the Liahona Magazine, Flying South Literary Magazine, Dialogue Journal, and LDS Beta Reader Mind Game Anthology. Allison is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a finalist in Eyelands Book Awards and DL Jordan Prize for Literary Excellence. Allison is also a model and an actress. She lives in Utah with her husband and their three sons.

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SHANTHY MILNE is an Amsterdam-based writer and journalist. Prior to becoming a mother she was a documentary producer making films for the BBC and Channel 4. She also sits on the policy council of Liberty, a UK-based human rights organisation. BRIDGET MOORE is a Los Angeles-based artist who is better known under the moniker, Handsome Girl. She mainly focuses on digital illustrations revolving around intersectional feminism, body positivity and female empowerment. Her design path started as a therapeutic outlet for her own eating disorder, in which she secretly struggled on and off with for over fifteen years. Moore started drawing as a way to celebrate the beauty of her own body and other women's bodies. Celebrating all the different shapes and shades beauty can come in. She later moved on to adding in playful takes on sexual health, snacks, and positive affirmations. All things that have been fundamental elements in her personal recovery and her ongoing journey to practice radical self-love and appreciation for all the diverse beauty in this world. Born in Mumbai, SUNAYNA PAL moved to USA after marriage. She opted out of her corporate job to embark on her heart's pursuits â&#x20AC;&#x201D; selling old art for NGOs and became a certified handwriting analyst to help people understand themselves. She is a new mother and devotes all her free time to writing and heartfulness. Connect via sunaynapal.com CHERYL PULLINS is a red lipstick loving, stiletto-wearing, goto personal branding strategist for multi-passionate women. Her passion is showing them how to build, leverage and profit from their personal brand. Connect via IG: @iconofbranding FRANCES A. ROVE is a non-practicing attorney. She has written poetry and short stories since grade school. Frances is writing a mystery memoir about being a late discoverer adoptee and numerous other family secrets she unearthed after her adoptive mother's death. She has journalism and law degrees from 145

the University of Kansas. She has taken many online writing courses and participated in the Iowa Summer Writing Festivals. In 2020, part of her memoir will be published in an adoption anthology. In October 2019, her poem "Prairie Decoration" was included in Blue City Poets, an anthology of Kansas City area writers. She is a member of Mensa, The National Association of Memoir Writers, The National Alliance for the Mentally Ill, and The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Place of Kansas City. She enjoys advocacy for mental health and animal rights issues. ELIZABETH DINGMANN SCHNEIDER lives and writes in Minneapolis. Her collection, Blood, is available from Red Bird Chapbooks, where she formerly served as a poetry editor. Elizabeth's work has also been published in Sleet, the What Light Poetry Contest, Commons Magazine, Mosaic, the Saint Paul Almanac, and Streetlight Magazine. KAITLIN SOLIMINE is author of the award-winning novel, Empire of Glass (2017), and forthcoming Sleeping Stones, a multilingual children's book (2019). Her work has been published in The Guardian, National Geographic News, The Wall Street Journal, Guernica Magazine, and several anthologies. Her next novel examines the intersection between childbirth and climate change. She resides in San Francisco with her partner and two children. KAYLENE VICTORIO's sisters call her Kiki, her sons call her Mama, and her husband calls her Babe-let. Kaylene's favorite color is green, she loves to write, and has an affinity for words. She is daringly passionate and never holds back when it comes to what she believes in. She is a holistic wellness educator and nothing sets her heart on fire more than helping others.

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A SPECIAL THANK YOU

Thank you to our Write Beside Her participants. Your enrollment in Motherscope's first writing workshop is funding the first print run of Issue 2: Tiffanie Hoang Natalie Hodgkin Courtney Amber Kilian Marci Kilian Caroline Mays Shali Nicholas Libbi Peterson Carrie Rich Jessica Schmitt Raluca Slate Kaitlin Solimine Megan Vos Write Beside Her is an online writing workshop for women facilitated by Motherscope founder & editor, Jackie Leonard, as they embrace their inner storytellers in community with one another. Look for our next workshop offering at motherscope.com/

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A MOTHERSCOPE EXCLUSIVE

50 Writing Prompts For some story inspiration, here's some ideas, prompts & topics to write about... 1. Describe your mother

2. An item you lost that you really cared about

3. Go to Merriam-Webster Word of the Day website, and write a story about that word

4. Write about a difficult conversation you had recently 5. 5 things you'd like to say no to

6. Think of someone you know or know of â&#x20AC;&#x201D; then, write about the most difficult choice you think they've had to make 7. Something good that came from getting lost

8. Write about your hometown and what it will be like 100 years from now

9. Create your own horoscope for today

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10. Think of something you don't like about yourself, or that

others treated like a weakness â&#x20AC;&#x201D; then, write about it as if it was a gift

11. List 10 things that make you smile

12. You are being featured on the evening news â&#x20AC;&#x201D; why? 13. Write a letter to the editor of your local newspaper 14. Best advice you've ever been given 15. The earliest memory you have

16. Write a review for the best meal you've ever made (even if it's just a sandwich)

17. A moment you felt shame

18. Something you wish others knew about you 19. A story you heard about your childhood 20. Write a love letter to your body 21. Describe your perfect day 22. A story for your child

23. Something holding you back

24. What always brings tears to your eyes 25. What does enough look like for you

26. Something you find beautiful that others often don't

27. Write a journal entry from the perspective of yourself five years from now

28. Describe the last time you had a conversation with a child 29. A moment you'll never forget

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30. What is something you've never done but always wanted to do?

31. What makes your heart beat strongest? 32. A recent lie you told

33. How do you feel about love these days

34. What are little ways you create magic in the world 35. A story told to you by an elder 36. Write about your favorite pet

37. One thing you would say to your teenage self

38. When out in public, spend some time observing a stranger

(while at restaurant, at grocery store, at the park . . . ). Write their story.

39. What does your happy ending look like?

40. Describe someone you've loved from afar

41. The last thing you remember dreaming about 42. A favorite song from the past

43. A memory you have that others remember differently

44. Describe your morning routine living in a different country 45. A story you've never shared

46. What is the last thing that made you laugh out loud

47. Something you did for fun that left you feeling energized 48. A talent you wish you had

49. Write a postcard to a friend from childhood 50. A memory linked to a smell

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