A couple months into my pregnancy, my mom gave me and Andreas a gift certificate for 12 hours of private Hypnobirthing training with a certified instructor. The initial lessons were challenging, not because the practice itself was all that difficult (both Dre and I have had lots of exposure to and belief in focused breathing exercises, guided meditation, etc) but because the program felt, well, sort of silly…

Continue reading "Hypnobirthing isn't really hypnosis, and it's not just for birth" →

Last Friday, while at drop-in gymnastics, Oliver and I had stopped at the water fountain to get a much-needed drink of water. (I am aware that any germ haters in the audience are starting to get a little squirmy here). After Oliver was done his drink, I found myself starting into the face of a (really cute) silent little urchin (we'll call him Timmy), who seemed to be indicating that he needed me to hold the fountain button for him. So I asked Timmy (the little imp) if this was indeed the case. Timmy nodded so dramatically that I thought he must be dying of thirst. I started to hold the button down.

Just as little Timmy was bowing his head to drink, I hear from behind me a loud and (I'm not even exaggerating here) prolonged:

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Continue reading "A germy affair" →

This is the story of what happens when two children of lesbians (each their mother's only child) have a kid. The short version of the story: picture a swarm of grandmas circling the baby like the world's most loving vultures.

The long version:

Continue reading "Tavi's got four grandmas" →

The response to Natasha's Queer Parent 101 post was so overwhelming, that I've asked her to become a regular contributor here on Offbeat Mama!

I am a feminist. I believe firmly that a woman's "place" is wherever she wants and needs to be. (I wish very much that we lived in a world where that were possible for all women). I also believe that happy (reasonably) well-adjusted parents make happy, (reasonably) well adjusted children, regardless of whether those parents work outside or inside of the home. So why is it that I find it so difficult to answer the question: "What do you do for a living?" I find it equally distressing to respond to the ever present: "So, when are you going back to work?"

I hate the word housewife. I hate the word homemaker. These words are so loaded with patriarchal bullshit that I can barely utter them in any seriousness, much less use them to describe myself or what I do. Yet that's the check-box that applies to me. And because of it, I get dismissed by the folks at the bank, the car dealership, and occassionally, other parents. It feels like a pretty limiting check box. But what else do I call myself? How can I encapsulate what I do, day in and day out, without sounding either overly-simplistic or self-denigrating?

Continue reading "Yes, I am a feminist housewife" →

My father-in-law generously gifted us a super fancy stroller before Tavi was born, and last week we took it for its inaugural stroll.

Dre and I have already gotten super used to baby-wearing, so using the stroller felt like a huge novelty. You mean, the baby sits in there? And I push this thing? And we walk behind it?

This particular stroller is called a BOB, and if you know strollers, it's totally the SUV of baby-pushing devices. Even though we got the lowest-end model, the thing's got shocks, for godsake! We just call it The Overkill Stroller.

Overkill or not, there's no denying it was a smooth ride…

Continue reading "This is me pushing a stroller and feeling weird" →

I recently miscarried a child that I wanted very, very much. I went to the doctor last Wednesday and the doctor told me she couldn’t find a heartbeat, and the baby looked a little “under-developed.” About three weeks under-developed to be exact. She wanted to do a follow-up to be sure, so right after my appointment with her I went and picked up my husband and went back for another ultrasound. Same result. Two days later, I went in for another appointment. My pregnancy hormones had dropped off the chart, the baby had no heartbeat, and had been nesting in my belly lifeless for about three weeks. Three weeks?! Hello body, any sort of signal would have been nice. I had no signs of miscarriage, problems with the pregnancy, health, nothing. Low and behold, a part of me was literally dying inside and I didn't even know.

Continue reading "The "safe" zone wasn't so safe" →