How's this for "I am Woman, Hear Me Roar?"

This was not my intended article. Initially, I began a piece about the glorious world of “mom-nesia,” which then turned into a piece that I think would help new moms during those first few days home with a newborn. Those pieces will probably be reworked and show up here in the near future, but I couldn’t stop my brain from wandering and so, in the end, as it’s sometimes easier to do, I stopped fighting and let this piece push its way out.

In a world that could still, even in this advanced day and age, be considered a man’s world, I’ve never completely understood feminism. Now before you start sending me hate mail, let me explain.

In junior high and high school, I read about the feminist movements. I thanked the Suffragists for planting strong roots, avidly read Madam de Beauvoir’s Second Sex, and questioned the homemaker after The Feminine Mystique. With protest envy, I dreamed of burning my bras, making a stand with Gloria Steinem and standing in the factory with Norma Rae when enough was enough. I know the simple statement of “my body is mine” was hard won with Roe v. Wade. During college, I listened and absorbed as I came into contact with a wide variety of feminists that ran the gamut from one extreme to the other. From the women with adult children who broke free of their marital chains to the cropped hair, camo pants and wallet chains of the androgynous extremists, I’ve known the many faces of feminism. The “click!” I waited for never came. I just never quite fit.

Equality is one thing, but I’ve never wanted to be treated like a man. I don’t want stupid shoulder punches and Milli-Vanilli chest bumps. I am well aware that I am able to open my own door, but it’s nice when chivalry isn’t dead. Being a secretary never seemed like a demeaning career choice, as I enjoyed my job and was proud that I was damn good at what I did. While hiking in the woods of North Carolina, I saw a handsome man come riding out of the trees on a white horse and my heart actually went pitter-pattering (true story!)

Call me a mush bucket, but I actually wanted that white knight. Donna Reed always seemed in control. She was calm and well dressed (although I’ll admit the pearls and heels were a bit much while vacuuming the carpet, but when you love your shoes …). While the women of the feminism meetings talked of their desire to be viewed as people and not as women, I kept quiet and dreamed of a little yellow house with shutters and window boxes, kids playing in the yard with the family dog yelping happily, all nicely shut behind that pristine, white picket fence. Oh yes, I was a phony feminist. No one but my closest friend knew, because in that group of strong, determined women, I was afraid to admit my desires. I was afraid they wouldn’t have understood my Susie Homemaker tendencies. It seemed as if I was on one side of the coin and they were on the other.

Some years later, I was realized there is no equality between men and women. There can never be. Is it because women can never live up the same potential as those stodgy, old men holding up inside the gentleman’s club? Of course not! It’s because try as they might, men will never be able to live up to us!

My body, which I once lamented and compared to every woman under a size 4 I happened across, carried a child and gave birth to new life. Goodness gracious, I might get equal pay for equal work, but no man can come close to what my body can do.

Over the majority of a year, my body took a tiny cell and created a person. There are classes and books and tons of websites that will give you instructions on what to do and not to do during a pregnancy, but the fact of the matter is: none of it matters. My body would have done it regardless. I took birthing classes and read the books and prepared mentally, but if I hadn’t? My body would have done exactly what it was made to do. My husband was wonderful. He fed my cravings, painted my toes and bit his tongue when my hormones had me crying over the wrong flavor of granola bar. I think he innately knew that during this time, I deserved to be pampered and cherished.

This body, that I had insulted with embarrassment and punished at the gym, went through 40 weeks of pregnancy. It overcame four months of nausea and vomiting. My skin stretched to accommodate my growing baby. Cravings of red meat and olives were giving that tiny baby the vitamins and minerals that it needed. Even my organs moved around to make space inside my body. My stomach relocated (and the bladder, ugh). On May 14, my body was on auto-pilot when it delivered my beautiful baby boy. Talk about “I-am-woman-hear-me-roar!”

What I had been missing all along was the fact that our simply being women was the basis of our strength, the foundation of our superiority. It doesn’t matter if we play with the big boys or we stay at home. Our chaos could be Wall Street or our living room. We could have 18 children (and still counting!) or choose to have none. The differences don’t matter. The fact remains that we are women. We are strong, we are capable and we are the world. Hell, it is called Mother Earth. After years of struggling to find my place in the world of feminism, it only took one look into the face of a tiny baby boy to teach me that the power of feminism IS femininity. There’s a reason that Botticelli praised the female (and really, bless him for praising the curves). We deserve it.

The First Days Home

To say that having a baby is a joyous event would be like saying the Titanic hit an ice cube. It’s monumental and life changing. There is a ton of information dedicated to the event, but not nearly enough that focus on the days following the birth. Those first fearful days when you no longer have nurses or doulas or family there to help you seem to be glossed over. After the adrenalin wears off and the exhaustion sets in, there’s a period of time that is simply frightening. So I’ll try to give you a little insight into those first few days, maybe a couple of tips to help you out, at the very least, something to laugh at. While pregnant, I made the promise not to be one of those women who spews the worst of the worst to anyone pregnant, and I won’t. But I can’t give you all a bouquet of happy flowers, but I’d rather give you the truth. And with the truth comes the knowledge that it gets better. I promise.

Take It Easy

The infamous and infallible “They” always say to sleep when your baby sleeps. While that’s super in theory, if you’re like me, you think, “When the heck am I supposed to get stuff done?” In the beginning, you’re going to be tired. You’ve spent the last 36 weeks or so preparing a human being to join the world. During that time, your body has gone through some massive changes (like your bladder being compressed into the size of a walnut). Not to mention the fact that you’ve just gone through some serious trauma. You have a baby in your arms, so you’ve either passed that not-so-tiny bundle of joy through what you’ve discovered is a very stretchy little hole, or you’ve been cut in half while awake. Uh, yeah. I’d say the greater part of a year has been a little stressful.

Now, you’re awake every two hours to feed the baby, waking out of a dead sleep just to look at your baby and make sure they are still breathing, and if you’re breastfeeding, feeling like a human bottle. Those crazy pregnancy hormones are still running rampant, although now they’re called post-partum hormones. You’re tired. I know. So take a nap when you need it. If you can sleep when your baby does, that’s great. If you want to just sit on the toilet and pretend you can poop, do that. I would rather sit on the couch watching reruns of CSI: Miami while my baby slept in my arms. The main thing is that you need to take it easy.

You Don’t Have to Do it All (Part 1)

Accept help whenever it’s offered. Smile and say thank you when people bring you frozen dinners (they fed us for the first two weeks). Your mother-in-law wants to clean your bathroom? Super. Swallow the urge to defend your ability to clean your own bathroom and accept her offer. No, she won’t clean it the same way that you do, but does it really matter? It could be a while before you get the time and energy to do much more then clip your nursing bra closed. No one is going to think less of you because you ask your parents to stop at the grocery store for you and pick some things up, or vacuum the rug in the guest room. Heck, no one will think less of you if you just close the door to the guest room and pretend it doesn’t exist for a while.

You Don’t Have to Do it All (Part 2)

Sometimes, you’ll actually have to ask for help. I actually thought about packing up my newborn baby and leaving my husband because he didn’t offer to bring the pile of laundry from the laundry room to the master bedroom. Couldn’t he see that I needed a little help? Honestly? No, he didn’t. If you’ve always been the one to do it all, don’t be angry at your husband because he doesn’t jump to do something. He’s used to you doing it all. He’ll be more then willing to help (anyone will), but you actually have to break down and ask for help.

I found that a lot of my family and friends didn’t want to offer because they didn’t want to intrude. Pride is bitter and nasty when swallowed, but the amount of people eager to jump to your aide is worth it.

Mommy Does it Like This

While you’re swallowing your pride, you should have your husband try some too. Ask him if wants or needs coaching or not. Just like he can’t read your mind, you can’t read his. Some men will want to be gently told when they’re doing something wrong or if they should be doing something different. Other men will want to fumble through and figure it out on their own. I found out that my husband was somewhere in the middle. He didn’t want to be bombarded with, “You’re doing this wrong. You’re doing this wrong,” but he also didn’t want to either hurt the baby or look stupid in front of someone. I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t asked him.

So he learned on his own why a clean diaper goes down under the baby when the dirty one has been pulled out. He learned the signs that our son is about to … uh … let’s say fire his gun. But there were times when I stepped in to offer advice. When I saw my little Bug’s head lolling around while he sat on my husband’s tummy, I stepped in and said, “Uh honey, you have to hold his head. Yeah. All the time.”

My Promise



I consider myself a wonder woman and the transition to super-mom has been a little rough. There are times when I feel like my entire world is built on Jenga legs and I’m simply delaying the inevitable crash as it all falls down around me. For a planner who has always lived in routine land surrounded by lists and schedules, it’s more like torture than a “readjustment.” At times, I swore I was in hell. I questioned my ability as a mother, as a woman, even as a person.

While it’s tough to admit that I haven’t gotten it all together yet, it’s a work in progress and the little milestones I see keep me from breaking down. The first few days, it was enough just to take a shower and remember to change my clothes. I’ve left the house without shoes on, forgotten the nipple pads (you only do that once), toted my diaper-only clad son to Grammas house because I thought that two changes of clothes would be enough for him over the course of a three hour visit (wrong!) and the list goes on. But things even out. Milk production regulates, sleep patterns emerge and you learn how to juggle all in a way that works for you and your baby.

This morning, I grabbed my coffee and my packed lunch, reminded my husband about the bottles in the fridge for Grandpa Daycare, kissed my fed and diapered son goodbye, and made it to work on time, nicely dressed and with matching shoes. It gets easier, I promise (or at least you learn to adapt).

Cloth Vs. Disposable: An Organic Green Mommy's Dilemma

(This was my second article with OrganicGreenMommy.com)

There are some major decisions in life that take so much of your time and energy that you’re left drained and wilted once the decision is finally made. For those of us trying to be environmentally friendly while preparing for the imminent birth of our child, nothing seems as vitally important as the decision on which diapers to use.

I’d like to say that the decision has been an easy one. As easy, say, as deciding to breastfeed or make our own baby food when the time comes. But in all honesty, it’s been one that has weighed very heavily on me for the past nine months and has made me feel hypocritical and selfish. Being that disposable diapers haven’t been around for very long, it seems that while the question of what to do with baby poo has been around since the dawn of time, the dilemma between cloth and disposable has only been weighing on environmentalists for a few decades. As a tree hugger, I shudder at the thought of a mountain of soiled, plastic diapers clogging up the mouth of Ol’ Faithful, resulting in a steaming mess of stinky landfill. My husband and I do all we can on a daily basis to ensure that the planet stays green for our children, so cloth diapers seemed like the most obvious choice, right?

Cloth diapers have been around for centuries and have a huge, cult-like following. I might joke about staunch environmentalists, but there is no one on this beautiful Earth who can be as rigid as a cloth diaper devotee. With cloth diapers, the benefits to the planet (and my baby’s tushie) are relatively obvious. No mountain of poopy plastic, no harsh chemicals against delicate baby skin. While it might seem like a no-brainer, there’s a part of me that can’t get past the idea of my delicate panties being washed in the same washing machine that only hours ago held 45 pounds of poopy cotton.

The anal retentive (no pun intended, I promise) side of me, the one that folds towels a very particular way, puts them into the closet according to color and than rotates stock so none of the uniformly folded towels feel left out, just doesn’t want to put poopy panties on my hoo-hoo.My other concern, and one that weighed more heavily than poopy delicates, if you can believe it, was the time and cost necessary to clean soiled cloth diapers. In my area of Florida, there aren’t a lot of choices when it comes to a diaper service. I could get a mail order pick-up (yeah, the UPS carrier would love that), but there than arises the use of oil for transport to and from my house to add to the environmental equation. Cloth diaper services wash en masse, which saves on water usage, but one of the companies I found in my area uses so much bleach to clean the diapers that they suggest you wash the diapers again when you get them home to soften them for your baby’s booty. Huh? If I have to wash them at home, why send them out?

If I can get over the idea of poop particles floating in my washing machine just waiting to attach themselves to my delicate underthings and decide to take care of the cloth diapers at home, what are my options? Talking to cloth diaper aficionados, I’ve found there are two schools of thinking. Step one is to take the soiled cloth diapers and do what’s basically a dip rinse in the toilet to … uh … rid the diaper of most of the offensive mess. Group number one has a bucket of water (with some vinegar maybe mixed in) that they then toss the diapers into until they’re ready to do laundry. The second group bypasses the bucket and simply tosses the soiled diapers into a filled washer, wait until there’s a full load (it’s actually hard to avoid the puns) and wash away.

Washing poses another series of variations, but basically, you’d run the diapers through a cold cycle and then a hot cycle, although some people claim that three washes is the best way and some claim that one good wash in hot water is enough. Average it out, let’s just say it’s two cycles of wash, using both electricity and water. And let’s not forget that baby clothes need to be washed separately to begin with, but no one washes diapers with clothes, so we’re adding more loads.

Now, I know that some of you are going to get upset with me, but please understand that I’m just trying to work through a decision that I think most newbie/wanna-be/trying to be environmentalists are thinking. I’m expressing my honest opinion and yes, playing devil’s advocate, but I’d say that there are a few issues with cloth diapers. First off, there’s buckets of stagnant water filled with excrement that is not only an issue with scent, but also drowning hazard for a little one crawling around. Then there are at least two extra loads of laundry, using water and electricity that could be saved. Because I don’t have a diaper service in my local area, that option was out immediately for me just based on the transport factor.

Selfishly, and I totally admit it, there’s also the factor of time that weighs in on my decision. I work 40 hours a week, I commute 10 hours a week and I’m about to have a baby that will become my entire life. The way I feel, I will be gone from my baby’s life enough as it is, if I can save even ½ an hour not doing laundry I don’t need to do, I’m going to take it. That’s more time with my child. I know, I know, it’s selfish, but I’m being brutally honest with you all.

So where does that leave the average Joe Green? I guess in pretty much the same spot my husband, Paul, and I are standing. We’re trying desperately to weigh the monetary and environmental costs of our decision making. Nicely enough, there’s a new diaper hybrid on the market that’s gaining attention. Earth friendly and disposable diapers! (Insert the angel choir here). They’re chlorine free (Seventh Generation), biodegradable (Nature Boy and Girl), and even have a cotton blend (Tushies). There’s also a totally flushable and compostable (do not get me started on the idea of human fecal matter in my compost pile) G-diapers, which are a protective exterior with an insert, kinda like a sanitary napkin for your baby. The green diapers are typically a little more expensive than regular disposable diapers, but for those of us stuck between a poopy washing machine and a stinky landfill, this might be best choice.

With only two weeks until my due date, this is a decision we’re going to be forced to make pretty quickly. After baby showers, we’ve been gifted with a variety of disposable diapers, and in this economy, we can’t afford to turn them down. But we’ve decided that we’re going to test drive the eco-friendly diapers out there and attempt to cross the bridge between disposable and Earth friendly. Stay tuned, and I’ll let you know how they work out. Like most things with a new baby and a first time mom, this is going to be an on-going learning process.

A Pregnant Womans Guide to Dealing with Pregnant Women

This was my first article with OrganicGreenMommy.com. It's a great site, check it out!

I am once again shocked at the utter lack of tact that people seem to have when dealing with a pregnant woman. Perhaps it's a silent virus that causes all sense of right and wrong to drip out your ear when exposed to too much progesterone. It's becoming more and more surprising that women even want to have kids based on all of the wonderful things they hear while pregnant. Before I was pregnant, when my hormones were stable, my ego was strong and I still had control of my body, if I complained of something (anything) people would respond with a positivity and optimism. "Don't worry, you're smart, you're strong, you'll figure something out. Everything will be fine. Don't fret, it's just temporary."

Then my uterus became home to a quick growing, constantly moving tiny human, and suddenly things change. Now when I tell people how I am, grey clouds of doom gather overhead as they prepare their prenatal fire and brimstone responses.

"How you doing, Dina?"

"I'm good, just super tired." (Grey clouds sweep in from all sides, a-la the movie Twister. I have to squint as the wind picks up, whipping my maternity shirt).

"Well you'd better get used to it, it's not like you're going to sleep once the baby gets here.

This is a little sampling of what I've heard this week. I'll never have sex with my husband again. My dreams of going back to the gym after the baby are as likely to happen as winning the lottery. Any vaginal strength I might still have (why my va-jay-jay is a topic of conversation, I don't know, but that might need to be a totally different post) will be pushed out with the placenta, leaving me to a life of Poise pads and soiled panties. Following the birth, my nipples will dry out like a desert mesa, leaving them cracked and seeping. My stomach will be loose enough to tuck into my panties, perhaps saving some money on Poise pads, there's a plus. At some point, my hair will fall out in clumps, leaving me standing in the shower wondering if I'm starring in a horror movie. I might not bond with my baby. The baby will probably be covered with lesions and only have one giant Cyclops eye. Alright, now I'm getting out of control, but I'm pretty sure that you get my point now.

Let's just point out now that the entire world runs on the fact that women are stronger than any man-made metal could dream of being. We bleed for a week, each month, for about 35 years and basically put the vaginal equivalent of a band-aid on it and keep going. A man gets a headache and is in bed for three days. Through the years, we've hunted with our men, plowed paths across continents, fought for equal rights, kept factories going during war, drenched our hands in blood to save others, brought babies into this world, helped soldiers leave it peacefully and now stand in the front lines defending our country. And all the while, we've cleaned the house, made dinner, fed the dog, washed the car, made the grocery list, sent birthday cards, wiped runny noses, changed dirty diapers, paid the bills, brought lasagna to a sick friend, drove Gramma to the doctor, coordinated soccer, ballet, football, graduations, birthday parties and slumber parties. Oh, and we've managed to produce every person on the planet, carrying them through the nine months of pregnancy and caring for them until we die.

Jeekers people, do you think that this is the appropriate time to suddenly decide that the honest truth needs to be heard? For crying out loud, what I think all pregnant women want to hear is soft and loving, supportive affirmations against what they fear the most. We're hormonal, we're tired, we have sublet our bodies out and all we want is a verbal hug.

Do I know I can do it? Yes. Do I know it's going to be hard? Of course I do, I'm not a stupid girl. But do I want to hear about how hard it's going to be and how much the odds are stacked against me? Hell to the naw! I'm the size of a house, my feet look like those of the boneless humans in Wall-E, I can't remember the last time I've seen my hootie, I'm hormonal and I've developed an addiction to anything that is primarily high fructose corn syrup. I want to be coddled for a little bit!

Thank God, Buddha and the Great Mother Earth Goddess for my husband. While everyone around me tosses out gems of destruction and doom, my husband has been the superman I've always know he is. He smiles and tells me that the only place I've gotten bigger is my stomach (ah, even though I know it's a lie, it still feels good to hear it), that we're going to be fine, that I'm the strongest thing he knows for doing what I'm doing, that I'm beautiful and smart. I'm going to get back into my pre-baby shape, my vagina is going to go back to normal, and my stomach is never going to look like a deflated balloon.

At least I'm getting love from somewhere.