The Most Dangerous Game…

The helicopter whirls outside in the near distance.  He lay tense beside her.  “Are you okay,” she probes. ”

He jumps in surprise as if he has forgotten she is there.  “Why do you ask,” he inquires hesitantly.

“You’re shaking…” she starts.

Am I?  He wonders.  He looks down at his hands and realizes that he is.  He hadn’t even noticed.

She continues, “and you’re barely even breathing.  Are you okay?”

He takes a deep breath.  She is right.  He is not breathing.  The helicopter whirls on and the dispatcher can be heard inaudibly perusing their target.  The exact words are not clear but the purpose is.  A man is being hunted.

“It could be me…” he answers her inquiry.  “Every time you hear…every time they are near…it could be me.  You get used to the possibility and after a while you’re just numb.  You can’t be afraid anymore.  You just can’t be– the threat is too often– too severe– so you live with the fear…and you start to question: I wonder how they’ll get me…”  He takes another deep breath but he still doesn’t relax.

She reaches to touch his face beneath his beard.  It is too dark to see, but she can feel him.  He is still taking deep breaths trying to calm himself but he isn’t responding to her touch.  He is still somewhere else.  She holds her touch to his face, gives a gentle stroke, and then reaches both hands to feel for the top of his head.

“You’re with me,” she whispers then kisses his lips.  “You’re with me,” she repeats.

His breathing slows and though she can’t see him she can feel his gaze.  She positions her right leg across his left leg and pulls him under her.  She rubs her hands down the sides of his face along his neck down to his hands and places them on her hips.  “You’re with me right now,” she repeats.  “You’re warm, and you’re safe.  You’re hidden and free.  You’re with me.”  She kisses him again and this time he kisses her back though he doesn’t say anything.  She spreads the kisses across his face and his neck.  “You’re with me she whispers in his ears.

The helicopter whirls and the voice keeps coming.  It is inaudible but a man is being hunted.

She keeps spreading the kisses on a mission to drown out the sounds.  He isn’t breathing again and his hands are no longer participating with her.  Right as she is moving to remind him where he is he stops her; gently.  He holds her face in the darkness and kisses her deeply–intently–then pulls her close and holds her there.  “I love you,” he whispers, then he gently moves her off of him and sits up at the side of the bed.

The helicopter whirls and the voice gets close then far then close then far.  The lights flicker across the bedroom window.  They are still in pursuit.  A man is being hunted.

“It could be me…” he whispered… “I’m sorry.  I just can’t shake the fact that it could be me…”



Look to Your Children…Another Day of 365


Of all the advice I’ve been given regarding parenting:
-Let your baby cry.
-Don’t hold them all the time.
-Discipline them.
-Take them to church.
-They will try and control you if you let them.
-Take time for yourself.
-Don’t have any.
-Parenting is the hardest job.
-Kids take your life.

NO ONE–not ONE. SINGLE. PERSON. has advised:
-Love your children.
-Hold them and kiss them when they cry.
-Speak gently to them and take care to handle their feelings warmly.
-Play with them and thank God for blessing you with the opportunity.
-Teach them everything you know.
-Allow them to teach you and push you to learn new things.
-Respect and value them.
-Listen to them.
-Do not provoke them to wrath.
-Deal with your residual issues from your own childhood so you don’t pass them on.

While the advice I have been given is in some ways valuable, it is incomplete, and is, furthermore, secondary.
Maybe this speaks more to the culture around the parenting/children and adult relations of my roots, but all my life the topic and idea of children and child-rearing has been saturated with nothing but negative feelings and complaints:

You announce you’re pregnant and people (mostly elders) feel sorry for you, get nervous, worry, and verbally wonder if “you’re ready”.
…and then you have children, you’re on your own because raising them and even assisting and guiding you in raising them is nerve-wracking to those same elders, and you’ve only been forewarned to dread and fear and lament the day and…big surprise–you’re not “ready”.

…and then you find yourself inside of the same repeat cycle of complaining, lamenting and neglecting your children because you’re overwhelmed by the task that no one around you can encourage, teach or guide you through.

…and then you have a mental, physical, and spiritual break-down.
…and everyone is surprised.
…or excited.
…or worse–thrilled because you are confirmation that they were right–and that no matter how beautiful your family appeared…no matter how hard it seemed you were trying …no matter how happy and healthy your children seem…you can’t do it either.

Well, I’ve since realized a few things:
1) It is only damn near impossible if you’re doing it alone because, and I don’t care who tries to pretend otherwise, it wasn’t meant to be done alone. Those same elders who refuse to, or can’t help for whatever number of reasons they come up with, had mamas, sisters, aunties, friends–somebody they depended on to help them care for (and in some cases) raise their children. So, you know, miss me with your judgments.

2) Even with help, the task is yours and only becomes more difficult if you try to avoid it. So…you know…you have to just grow the [bleep] up and do it.

3) (and this is most important) You know what REALLY makes it easy? Loving it…and loving your children (and your spouse if you have one).


Finding joy in the blessing of being chosen and able to reproduce parts of yourself and extend your name and your legacy makes it easi[er]. Sending time with your children, getting to know them, accepting and cultivating who they are and who they can grow to be, makes it rewarding. Belly-laughing at the darndest things they say and do, and seeing parts of them that are undeniably you (even when you wish you could deny them) makes parenting fun.

So yeah…

if you’re isolated and alone and getting negativity or silence around your parenting journey–it’s hard and not always fun. But if there is anyone in your life who is responsible to you: parent, grandparent, guardian–then they owe it to you to help you and you owe it to yourself to make them if you have to. Trust me, somebody helped them with you. Remember all those nights at grandma’s house? All those summer visits with aunt so and so? Straight up LIVING WITH someone else? Yeah, you remember.

If you’re sitting your child in a corner watching the clock and waiting, hoping, praying that time will just speed by and make them not need you–it’s going to be miserable.

Time will not speed by,

they will always need you,

and you are always obligated to help them because they are always yours.

This is your life now.

The end.

You only risk them hating you because you haven’t loved them as you should (and the day will come where they will express this to you in word and/or deed), you risk not knowing your own children because you haven’t raised them, and you risk having some generally effed up kids…who become effed up people…who become effed up citizens contributing to an effed up world.

…and then you know, you’ll be even more miserable and depressed because now you’ve riddled yourself with all these regrets and if you can’t deal with them because they’ve piled onto all the other regrets you haven’t dealt with in your life, not only will you have been a horrible parent (because just pushing them out and keeping them breathing does not automatically make you a good one), but you’ll probably be a horrible grandparent too (more regret, etc, etc.).

So, yeah…

To avoid this slippery slope of sadness, anger, regret, and depression, just love your kids…or seriously… don’t have any…but if you do, know that you’ve been chosen, and that the most important part of the responsibility of the forward progression of humanity is up to you.

That ain’t nothin’ to play with.

My Second HomeBirth

If you follow my blog then you probably already know that I had my first home birth in February of 2015.  So…without being too long-winded, I’ll share my the highlights of that experience and share what I took away from it.  My hope is that it encourages, inspires, and educates.

Unlike my first home birth, which lasted 5 days,  this one one started at about 11 am on Friday, May 20 and was over 2:50 am on Saturday, May 21.  Here are the highlights:

  • I predicted the day of my labor.  The due date was May 23 but for some reason my ears heard May 21.
  • I had the support of a beautiful group of women:  we fellowshipped with food, laughter, exchange of gifts, and massages during early labor and once things picked up everyone–and their spouses pitched in to help rearrange the room, fill the pool with water (even though I didn’t use it), and to help clean up afterwards.
  • I swear my doula was made just for me.  She ensured that everything we talked about before labor was done, massaged me dring labor, and took these beautiful pictures.  I didn’t have to ask or request a single thing–she just did it and I was able to focus on labor.
  • My first born was safely tucked away with a family I trusted so I didn’t have to worry about that.
  • My midwife let me labor on my own.  She didn’t rush me, check me, stand over me–none of that.  I was allowed to take more control of this labor without stress and it happened as God intended.
  • I breathed, moaned, and swayed my hips through contractions.


  • My husband was just all around awesome.  He filled in every gap and at the end he broke my water by applying pressure to my back and my pelvis.
  • Jeremiah Moses Brown (AKA Big Jolly, AKA Chunky Fat) emerged.

That’s pretty much how it went.  There are few words for this birth because it was honestly one of those things you just had to see, but it was absolutely amazing and absolutely beautiful.  I’m always up for answering questions I didn’t think to address so ask away!



For Margaret Garner…and the many unknowns…


Margaret Garner, February, 1856

Sometimes I feel like I’m the Receiver , and history- past and present- is the Giver.

The more I learn + the more I experience= the more I understand=the more I grow.

When I first read the book Beloved by Toni Morrison, I was amazed.  The work was brilliant.  It introduced me to intricacies of slavery that I had known, in theory, but hadn’t thought about practically.  I witnessed the slave family struggle to form and then struggle to stay in tact.  I witnessed the black male slave’s attempt to be his family’s direction and security, all while battling his reality of inferiority to a white master whom his family, and even he, actually depended on.  I saw the slave woman harden to the point of insanity after succumbing to the wiles of compassion and motherhood, and I observed how all of this divided them from their children.  I had been enlightened.

When I read it a second  time, I had trained as a birth and labor doula and had become a wife, so family had begun to mean something different–something deeper–something tangible.  Watching my husband search for work and be told he was too qualified for low level positions, but not qualified enough for higher positions, I sympathized with Halle’s frustration but inability to provide though he desperately wanted to.  Finding work quickly and thus becoming the security of my family, I understood Sethe’s self reliant-driven actions, but I could only sympathize with her and Baby Suggs’ ordeals as mothers.  As a Black mother’s child myself though, I also understood how the residual affects of slavery drove Sethe to drive her children from her, though it was not her intent.

I attempted to read Beloved a third time while I was pregnant, but I didn’t finish and so I figured the book and I had gotten all we could from each other.

Fast forward: my son is born.  As a first time parent, there is no one and nothing able to prepare you for the changes you are about to undergo.  In the beginning you’re tired, frustrated comparing your new life and new experiences to advice from “the books” and the advice from others around you.

How do I breastfeed?  Am I doing it right?

Should we “co-sleep” or “train” our baby to sleep on his own?

Is it possible to hold him too much?  Will that spoil him?

How do we balance providing for him and getting time for ourselves too?

Should I console his every cry or is he trying to control me?

Is it okay to leave him with someone?  Am I “acting funny” if I don’t?

I struggled with these thoughts, questions and ideas for three months, and I was unsure until I began to read Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present by Harriet A. Washington.

The first chapter detailing medical exploitation on slave plantations opens with the quote: “Celia’s child, about four months old, died last Saturday the 12th.  This is two negroes and three horses I have lost this year.“–David Gavin, 1855

I read that quote and looked at Sammy and thought about how much that baby must have meant to Celia; how she had probably smiled at, kissed on, held up, and loved on (or at least desired to) that baby just as I do Sammy.  I put myself in her world for a moment and the thought of losing Sammy in any way hurt–just the thought.  I could only imagine my baby leaving this world and tearing me apart but still somehow, amidst all of my grief, my anguish and my sorrow, to my “master” nothing more had happened than the loss of a horse…or any piece of livestock…

And then I thought of Sethe…

I thought of how she was determined to be a mother; to love her children…about how Baby Suggs had advised her against it because of the heartbreak she’d endured when she’d tried to love her own; only to watch them ripped from her, like puppies, and sold to the highest bidder.

I thought about Sethe’s determination to keep her children for herself: how hard she had struggled and the lengths through which she had gone to do so and how, in the end, out of 4, she was still only left with one of them.

I looked at my baby and I empathized with Sethe.  Yesterday, I was her.  I was overworked, underpaid, and deprived of most of my time with the people I loved, and who needed me most.  Today, where far more black babies die than any others do, she is me.  She is overworked, underpaid, and deprived of most of her time with the people she loves, and who need her most. The only difference is that she set her mind to hold her babies because she couldn’t.  In that moment, I set my mind to hold my baby because I can.

I breastfeed according to the needs of my baby.

We “co-sleep” because we don’t feel comfortable with our child sleeping off in another room on his own.

We enjoy holding him as much as he enjoys being held.  Will it “spoil” him?  I don’t think so, but I guess we’ll see. 

We find ways to take time for ourselves that involves him too, and so far nap times have made the best getaways.

If my baby cries I’m coming because even if he wants nothing more than my attention, he’s crying for a reason.

He’s only 3 months so he’s not down with being away from mommy and daddy that being the case, I don’t like to leave him either.

But that’s just me.

We have our own parent personalities and those are formed based on what we value and what we believe.  I have no desire to dictate to another parent what they should do, or how they should interact with their children, I only wish to share my testimony based on what I now realize I value and what I understand myself to believe.

Though Beloved is a work of fiction, it is historically based on Margaret Garner, Toni Morrison’s inspiration from Sethe.  Morrison learned Garner’s story and was moved to write Beloved.  I read Beloved and was moved to write this.  I have Received the Memory of motherhood under European chattel enslavement now.  Toni Morrison Gave it to me and maybe one day this will Give it to you.

Pregnancy Blog 3: My Homebirth


37 weeks

When I first told people that I planned to have a home birth I think many of them thought I was crazy, or at the least their minds flooded with all the things that could possibly go wrong.

On February 27 at 5:20 a.m. I gave birth to my first child. Samuel Amos Brown…at home (well at my mother in law’s home) and all went well.  No one died.  The walls did not cave in.  The earth did not stop turning.  So…I thought I would briefly share my experience to dispel some of the fear around home birth and to maybe encourage someone on the fence about having a home birth.

Getting right to it…

I was in labor for 5 days.  Yes.  5…days…

When I say that though, I don’t mean that I was experiencing intense contractions and pushing for 5 days, I just mean that the process of Sammy getting here took 5 days.  It kind of went like this:

Day 1:

I went to the bathroom that morning and found blood (bloody show) in my underwear signifying that effacement (the thinning of my cervix) had begun.  Excitement!  I called my midwife and we kept in touch throughout the day.

As was already planned the day before, my husband and I spent some time at the library, got some groceries, and went home.  The day just kinda passed by uneventfully aside from some extremely mild and sporadic contractions, and I didn’t even mention to Erick (my husband), or anyone, that I thought I might be in labor.  I wanted to be sure before I alarmed people.  That evening, we played Uno around the dining room table and later that night we visited friends.  On the car ride over I finally told Erick I thought I might be in labor.  We got to our friends’ house and watched “The Voice” and part of “Love and Hip Hop” and that was Day 1 of labor.

Day 2:

Coincidentally, we were scheduled for my 39 week appointment with our Midwife the next day anyway, so she came by around 11 to check my progress.  I was 80% effaced and 2 centimeters dilated.  Because it was still early, she left to attend to other clients.

To pass the time, to move things along, and to grab some last minute supplies for our home birth, my husband and I window-shopped around the mall and shopped around K-mart.  I can’t exactly remember, but at some point in the day contractions picked up.  They were still pretty mild and sporadic and I didn’t have to work through them.

We let everyone know labor had begun and instead of the frenzy I expected, the celebration began.  My mother in law started cooking like it was Christmas and didn’t stop until the day after Sammy was born and I started nesting. The atmosphere was so warm and excitement was everywhere.  Watching the news that night, there was talk of snow, but we were all skeptics.  And that was Day 2.

Day 3:

Day 3 rolled around intensity and frequency of contractions built.  I now had to pause slightly when one came on, but with some light breathing and some rotations on my exercise ball, they were easy to work through.  Because of the weather predictions of snow, school was canceled.  Since everyone in the house works for or attends a school, it indeed became a holiday.  It did, indeed snow, so the midwife came early for fear of being unable to get to me later on.

We all ate dinner that night, and after Erick triggered some pressure points, contractions intensified.  Now my exercise ball wasn’t so effective.  Instead I had to make deep, low moaning sounds to open my core up and assist my body in assisting the contractions. While everyone else watched movies, Erick and I retired to bed to get the last bit of rest that we could.  Sleep was a series of catnaps between contractions.  Erick was there to help me through each one.  He was my epidural.  That night my water broke at 11:20 p.m.  That was day 3.

Day 4:

By this point I was becoming disinterested in eating.  I drank water and spinach and fruit smoothies, but for the most part food was the last thing on my mind.  Contractions were about 5-7 minutes apart now and I needed Erick to hold my hand and remind me to breathe through them.  I was starting to break down.  Day 4 was the longest day ever.

By that night everyone was frustrated and losing hope.  Talk of going to a hospital surfaced and I started to feel like a failure.  A hospital birth was just not what I wanted and I was determined for this birth to go as I wanted because it was mine. Plus, I wanted to normalize home birth to those around me and I couldn’t do anything but increase fear if I’d attempted one and ended up at a hospital.  Not a good look.

I found a new energy and tried to fight through my extreme fatigue to prove I really wanted to have my baby here at home.  Under the midwife’s orders we walked to increase the contractions, which were just about unbearable at this point.  They came with this intense feeling of pressure to my pelvic floor.  I felt like a constipated person needing to have a long over due bowl movement.  We were so tired though that Erick and I could hardly keep our eyes open.  We were literally falling asleep as we tried to walk throughout the house.  I guess at that point it occurred to the midwife that we should all maybe sleep.

Day 5:

At some point that night or morning (it was all running together at that point) I woke to a contraction that was taking control over my body.  My body was pushing in what felt like turbo speed.  I tried to alert Erick but he was out of it and I guess I was too because though I’m sure something happened between that and having the midwife standing over me telling me to push, I can’t recall any of it.

The next thing I recollect is the midwife standing over me saying “good job, Shayla.  I can see your baby’s head”. While I was relieved and excited initially, the immediate next thought was “oh God…a baby has to come out of there…this is probably like a contraction times 10”.  I wasn’t at all looking forward to that.

Poor Erick was so out of it I don’t even think he understood what was happening until the midwife told him to get behind me to support my back.  At some point someone went and informed Erick’s mother that the baby was coming and she came in and supported me from behind as well.  Thank God for everyone else in the room because I was so tired I really wasn’t up for pushing a baby out, but Erick, his mother, the midwife and her assistant cheered me on and encouraged me to push.  I appreciated it because Lord…there is no book or YouTube video that can prepare you for that type of physical challenge.  I thought that boy’s head was never going to get out and I just knew that I’d be completely ripped apart in the process.  I had read that to prevent tearing I should just breath through the pushes and allow my body to move naturally.  Please.  My body was naturally on “go as fast and as hard as you possibly can” and there was nothing I could have done to take any semblance of control over that process.  I just pushed and figured I’d be alright.  If not alright I knew I wouldn’t die.

After a series of smaller pushes, I gave one huge push and the next thing I knew a whole body appeared.  I literally felt nothing after his head passed.  Then there he was, placed on my chest, looking at me.  He whimpered a little, but he didn’t really cry.  5:20 is the time that “Granny Gran” noted as the time of his debut.  After 5 days of labor, we were finally looking at the reason for it all: our Sammy, Nuke Nuke, Duecy, Fat Man, Boo Boo, and all the other names he’ll acquire from here on out.

That was my home birth experience.  It was made particularly special by everyone in the Brown Household.  As nervous as I’m sure Mr. James, my father in law, and Gabe, my brother in law were, they held it together.  If anyone freaked out at any point, they didn’t show it.  I appreciate that.  Miss Regina, my mother in law cooked, kept calm, allowed us to do this in her house, and made sure I didn’t have to lift a finger to do anything as I recovered.  Chelsea, my sister in law willingly assisted the midwife in whatever tasks she was given, provided comic relief and provided anything Erick and I asked of her as well.  My labor team drove over an hour through the snow, slept on couches, labored with me for 2 days, delivered my baby, stitched me up, and ran me an herbal bath after.

Because of everyone else’s contribution, Erick was free to focus on supporting me and I was free to focus on laboring.  It wasn’t perfectly aligned to my birth plan.  It wasn’t as structured as the books made it out to be or as effortless as I had seen things going I my mind…it was better.  It was painful.  It was exhausting.  It was mentally and physically taxing.  It was long.  It was hard.  It was labor…and I did it.  I didn’t die.  The walls didn’t cave in. The earth didn’t stop spinning.

I have a new respect for mine and all women’s bodies and for women in general for going through it every day.  There is a woman with her own birth story for every single person alive that we know.  There are approximately 7 billion people on earth and each one of them came through the labor of some woman. That’s big…and at the same time, because it’s the natural order of things, it isn’t…which is how it seems most women approach it…because they keep doing it…7billion times apparently.  That has a new depth to me now…all because, of those 7 billion, 1 came through me.  🙂 How cool is that?

sammy feet

My little man’s wittle feet. 🙂



Pregnancy Blog 2

So, apparently my life is moving a lot faster than I realize. I wrote and posted Pregnancy Blog 1 at 23 weeks. Today as I type, I have completed week 27 and am fastly approaching week 28, the 7th month and 3rd trimester of this pregnancy. Where does the time go?

Anywho, as I mentioned in the last post, I have one more part of my “why I’m just starting my pregnancy blog so late” post before I actually get to this pregnancy–and here it is…

After my ordeal with the miscarriage and the trauma associated with it, I decided to move on by simply getting pregnant again (as if I had control over when God would bless me with the gift of life). Because I had begun the process of learning to track my fertility, I assumed that all I had to do was conceive what I understood to be my period of fertility, so I did.

Without any consideration that my plan could fail, I assumed that since I had done what I understood to be all I needed to do, conceive during fertility, I assumed I had gotten pregnant. Did I take a pregnancy test? Yes, I took several, and all of them were negative. However, at this point, I completely distrusted man-made products and, looking back on it now, I refused to accept my reality. I refused to accept that I couldn’t have my way and that I wasn’t in control of when I could. Thus, despite what the many negative tests said, I secretly believed, more like hoped really hard, that I was pregnant and so my body reacted to my mind.

I don’t really want to go into too many details about that, but long story short, after months of hopping from doctor to doctor (including the awful lady from Pregnancy Blog 1), not believing or trusting any of them, and going back and forth between doubting and reassuring myself, I came to the conclusion that I was not and had not been pregnant. Another devastation for me–one I still wasn’t ready to deal with completely, though I thought I had.

For the next 6 months I pushed forward with trying to conceive. I drank teas, I changed my diet, I gave up some habits, I read books, I tracked my fertility, I exercised… and it seemed that nothing I tried worked. I was starting to think that something was wrong with me…and then one day while talking with my husband, I honestly evaluating myself, and my feelings toward my situation, and I realized in all my moving and pushing and trying, I was avoiding the truth. While I focused solely on my body, I was avoiding my mind and avoiding my spirit. I was avoiding critically thinking about my situation, and avoiding what I’d felt.

I was avoiding accepting the hurt. Medical personnel and some of the people closest to me assured me all my tragedies had somehow been a blessing. I tried to use that.

I was avoiding feeling disappointment. “You can always try again” I kept hearing others say; basically “pick yourself up and try again”. I tried to use that.

I was avoiding being angry. Who would I direct it to? God? My family? My husband? The doctors? I told myself I wasn’t allowed to do that. This was my problem to fix alone. So I tried that.

Most of all, though, I avoided breaking down and giving up control. I was trying to avoid accepting that I could not control my situation because that meant I couldn’t make my problems go away. It meant that I would instead have to face them and accept them, and maybe even not know what to do about them. Maybe I’d just have to wait. Patiently. With no clue as to when I would have my wish.

And it became clear to me. Like that. The truth…clarity: “I am hurt, and I am so, because I am impatient. I am impatient, because I am afraid. I am afraid because I unwilling to let go. I unwilling to let go because it requires that I trust a force outside of myself, and I’ve never been able to do that…ever. I deal with all my problems all on my own because in this world (I’d reasoned), who is there to depend on?”

And like that, I was free. Saying those words out lout to my husband…more-so to myself…I was free. I could properly address my issues because I now knew what they really were. I wanted to be independent and in control. Families can’t operate like that. The universe and everything in it depends on the universe and everything in it. I needed to trust and understand that the greatest strength comes form one’s ability to be weak. Taking the time to stop and react to a trauma is not whining or complaining, it’s being alive and feeling. Not only is it okay, but it is necessary to do in order to heal.

That was mid June.

July 2 I found out I was 5 weeks pregnant. Apparently It was already done. I literally had to let go and let God.

The lesson I took from that experience was patience, and I learned that if ever there is something that you want more than anything, but it seems that nothing you do gets you that thing, you either don’t need it, you aren’t ready for it, or there is a lesson you need to understand; a growth you need to make before you can be rewarded with it. Stop, take your time, and think about what that could be.

God is a master teacher, but more over, a master parent. He knows what we really need when we think we do, but in actuality, we really don’t. His thoughts are above our thoughts, and His ways are above our ways, and in order to understand His lessons we have to be willing to elevate our minds and our spirits to receive Him. I’m thankful for that. I’m thankful for his example and that He challenges me and helps me to be better.

So, while I have yet to decide on my baby’s name, or to go shopping for clothes that I’m sure he’d look adorable in…one thing I’m certain of: I want parent in wisdom, and from a higher place of understanding. I want to challenge my son to be better, elevate him to wisdom, and help him grow in love. I want to be, to my son, the master teacher, and loving parent, that God is, and continues to be to me.

Until next post, Peace.

Pregnancy Blog 1


What’s a baby bumb without a bathroom selfie?

Since I was a little girl I knew I wanted to be a mother. I knew I wanted a house, a husband, and kids. I had many dreams, many of which changed throughout my life, but my desire to have a family was the one aspiration that stayed constant.

Today as I write this, Wednesday November 5, 2014, I am officially 23 weeks pregnant with my first child. I had always thought I would log every moment of pregnancy, but it is only now that I finally feel comfortable enough and confident enough to put things into words.

Here’s why…


February of 2013 I miscarried my first pregnancy at 4 weeks. I hadn’t known I was pregnant, but I did think I might be so after a night of severe cramping and heavy bleeding, I visited a public clinic to have myself “checked out”.  While I was hoping to hear news of a pregnancy, the “nurse midwife” attending to me was so rude, so insensitive and so nasty that I honestly left feeling belittled and as if I had somehow done something wrong. She very matter-of-factly told me that no, I wasn’t pregnant, and she said it as if with her results she had won some competition that I hadn’t known we were in.

She assumed I had poor health, which baffled me because I had began my journey to vegetarianism a few months before, yet, here she was telling me that her numbers and figures from my urine samples, and the presence of blood and tissue, suggested otherwise.  She assumed my husband was my “friend”, whatever that means, and seriously spoke to me with such an attitude you would think we had beef prior to this appointment.  I didn’t know this woman, and as far as I knew, she didn’t know me.  She was at least 3 times older than me so there was no way we could have mutual friends or even mutual enemies.  To this day the only thing I can reason is that I was treated the way I was treated because I was young, black, female and in a public health clinic, which to her meant I was poor…which apparently means you don’t have feelings and that every ailment that befalls you has done so because of your indifference, ignorance, and negligence of your health.

Whatever the case, in the midst of all of this undue hostility, I’m sitting across from my new enemy, slash health care provider, with a broken heart and completely confused about everything.  I’m not pregnant, which is a disappointment to me, but I’m also not having my cycle which is…what is this?

Emotionally bruised and a bit traumatized, I go home and google my symptoms.  From my own very short research I discover I’ve just had a miscarriage.  This hurts even more. What I can’t seem to figure out though, is how could this 60 something woman who has been in women’s health all these years not know or even entertain this?  How could she be so insensitive?  How could she be so…mean?  Why did everything BUT this cross her mind?

My devastation from learning of my loss, coupled with my anger at replaying the appointment in my head, tied in with my recent personal interest in natural alternatives to women’s health, and the knowledge I was gaining of the abuses black women have suffered at the hands of “modern” healthcare began my distrust for modernized medicine.  I made up my mind then that I wouldn’t trust anything man-made.  I think part of me somehow blamed this woman for my loss.  I didn’t realize it then, but looking back on it, I think that’s where I put the focus of my hurt and my anger.  Since, up to that point in my life, I was what some would call a control freak when it came to my emotions (I was convinced I could control them by willing them away as opposed to working through them), I resolved to defeat this woman and all the white coats she stood for.  I resolved to overcome this hurt and outsmart her, by doing anything related to my personal health as a woman, on my own.


So that’s part one of the “why I’m just now starting a pregnancy blog at 23 weeks” saga…

 There’s one more part before I actually get to this pregnancy, but for now I’ll leave it at this.  I guess if I had to sum this part up, it’d probably be labled as “Chapter 1” in a lesson that God understood I needed in my life, and as sad as it seemed then, the “aha” I got in the end was well worth the pain.  Isn’t God a master teacher in that way?

Well my interests in women’s health still remain, and I’ve even trained as a birth doula since then so if any women have any similar situations they’d like to share I am always here for that. 

Until next post, Peace.