by Lara Catone

Exhaustion, leaky breasts, spit up, hormones that climb and dive like the hills of a roller coaster—the reality of new mommyhood does not necessarily sound like a steamy recipe for a hot sex life.  Not to mention a baby in your bed, new pressures on your relationship and vaginal dryness, scarring and pain.  A recent survey says that 25% of relationships become sexless following the birth of a baby.  Many sex experts estimate that this number is closer to 50%.

As a birth doula and childbirth educator I see many empowered women passionately prepare for their labors and births—reading, researching, talking to other moms and taking prenatal yoga and birthing classes.  These women and their partners are well equipped for all that they might experience during the sacred transition into parenthood. What I have heard countless times from the couples I work with is that they wish they could have been more prepared for what happens when the baby actually arrives.  As a sexual wellness educator I see that my students who have had children are often looking how to rekindle their relationships and experience more pleasure.

Perhaps one of the reasons pregnant women don’t find themselves preparing as much for the postpartum period is that there is much less widespread and specific information on the changes that occur during this period than there is for their births.  Through modern living we have lost the tribal structure of support from other women and today moms often feel isolated and alone at this time.  Culturally, the topics of vaginal changes, painful sex, relationship challenges and feelings of depression are still taboo in many ways.  Focus among friends and family tends to be around the joy of the sweet new baby. Postpartum care from doctors and midwives typically ends after just a few weeks so professionals are not checking in on these topics with women throughout these crucial first few years of motherhood.

Two women, Jaiya and Ellen Heed, are on a mission to shift this cultural phenomenon and illuminate the mysteries of postpartum health and sexuality through their program Reclaiming Sexual Vitality Postpartum, or RSVP.  Jaiya, a world-renowned somatic sexologist, was left with trauma and scarring from a tear following her beautiful home waterbirth.  Months later, sex was extremely painful and she was devastated that her sex life and career may be over.  A vehement researcher and self-proclaimed “anatomy geek,” Jaiya was dumbfounded that she couldn’t find more information on all of the changes she was experiencing.  Just when she had lost almost all hope, she went to see Ellen, also a certified somatic sexologist, world-renowned craiosacral therapist and specialist in scar tissue resolution.

After just one session with Ellen, Jaiya’s scar and subsequent pain began to disappear.  She felt renewed and hopeful.  Jaiya became passionate about restoring her vitality and energy in addition to releasing pain.  Through her work with Ellen and own self-care, Jaiya claims to have found the best sex of her life! What transpired from Jaiya and Ellen’s meeting and the results they discovered was a year long in depth research study on postpartum sexuality.  Their findings have led to the development of a comprehensive and wholistic program for postpartum women and couples that is a first of its kind.  RSVP addresses sexual healing, intimacy, communication, empowerment, self-care, nutrition, fitness and more.

Ellen and Jaiya are educating men and women on the basics of how anatomy affects sexuality, the importance of understanding hormonal cycles and exercises for rebuilding connection in partnerships.  One of the most incredible things that I have learned from Ellen and Jaiya is the pervasiveness of scar tissue for women who have had either vaginal or cesarean birth, how this scar tissue is causing unnecessary pain and how easy and simple it is to dissolve when you have the right tools.  Scar tissue from cesarean birth or vaginal tears and episiotomy can manifest as changes in skin and appearance, pain in the low abdomen and vagina, discomfort in sex and urinary and fecal incontinence.  Unfortunately, there have been very few solutions offered to women to deal with these issues beyond surgery (And surgery causes more scar tissue!).  So many women are walking around with unexplained pain and problems; it’s time to spread the word that they are actually answers out there!

We all deserve to feel our best, to have thriving relationships, intimacy and sexual pleasure.  While juggling the demands of modern motherhood can be a challenge, it doesn’t have to feel depleting and overwhelming.  With the right resources women can begin to better support themselves and one another through this powerfully transformative time.

Ellen and Jaiya have sparked a crucial discussion and are igniting a new community via their online course.  You can meet them here and view free informational videos as well as a downloadable quiz to see how scar tissue may be affecting you.  reclaimsex.com

Lara Catone

Lara Catone is on a quest to heal the world through sexual liberation and education.  Over the past five years she has worked as a yoga teacher, childbirth educator, doula and sexual wellness educator.  Her greatest learning of all has come through her own embodied life experience and healing.  She lives and writes from her home in Santa Monica, CA.  Check out her blog, Liberated Sex, at laracatone.com.

Ellen Heed

Ellen is the co-founder of RSVP- Reclaim Sexual Vitality Postpartum, a program helping new moms and couples with young children to end painful intercourse and establish deep intimacy and connection.  She teaches Anatomy & Physiology, Pain & Orthopedic Evaluation, and Craniosacral Therapy & Adjustments worldwide to Yoga professionals. She most enjoys teaching workshops about human energetic and sexual empowerment. She has taught Functional Anatomy for Yoga Teachers for the Forrest Yoga Foundation Level Teacher Training since the turn of the century. She also maintains a thriving professional practice with clients and students all over the world that includes sexual education & counseling,Visionary Craniosacral Work, Scar Tissue Resolution, Pelvic Floor Reclamation, as well as Emotional Release Bodywork. She is currently pursuing a PhD in Somatic Sexology.

She lives in Los Angeles with her partner, touch educator Bob Niemerow, their fabulous housemate Reeca, and their eccentric cat Schmoo.  www.ellenheed.com

Jaiya

Jaiya is the co-founder of RSVP- Reclaim Sexual Vitality Postpartum, a program helping new moms and couples with young children to end painful intercourse and establish deep intimacy and connection.  Jaiya is also a world-renowned sexologist, author of Red Hot Touch, and the founder of New World Sex Education; a company dedicated to using “real” sex education to help men and women get the sex lives they desire.  Jaiya understands that throughout life sexuality changes and strives to meet her students wherever they are on their personal path to greater pleasure.  She’s been through many sexual stages and honestly shares her personal experience from pain to pleasure.  Jaiya is passionate about helping women and men overcome sexual issues, usually stemming from a lack of education, that may hold them back from exquisite sex as their birthright.  She believes that sex isn’t just something you do, but something that is part of being human and being alive.   www.missjaiya.com

by guest blogger Oryna Schiffman

The wife and mother in me had ousted the lover and songwriter.  Prenatal weight gain and hair loss led the putsch, and by the time I gave birth to my second irresistibly squeezable son I was firmly planted in the “all-mother-all-the-time” seat of power.  I reveled in that post partum grace period when visitors dropped in with treats to ogle my bundle of wonder, while he and I got acquainted in our nursing-napping cocoon…

But a cocoon is built to be broken, just like a real estate bubble, which had covered us in its slimy film, leaving our rehab business on the brink of bankruptcy.  Off went my husband to work any job he could find, anytime.  I was mothering solo- needy newborn suckling my breast, tyrannical toddler trampling my thighs, filthy chores stalking me through the house.  Not a moment to myself, not even in my dreams.  I wished only to be left alone – like an ancient Scythian baba in the steppe.  Just me and the wind to vent the morbid thoughts.

One can’t survive in the steppe forever, my husband’s caresses reminded me.  There was love to be made.  The unspoken expectation vexed me like a faucet dripping in the middle of the night.  Finally he broke the silence, joking about the invaluable hypno-therapy sessions that enabled our natural tub births.

“You think hypno can give birth to the Big O?”

“Hmm.  Could be.  Gotta get the midwife OK.”

Oh my goddess, was I becoming one of those 1950s frigid housewife caricatures?When my midwife peppily informed me over the phone:  “Four months – you’re fine for intercourse, Oryna.”   I could but sputter: “Oryna – who?  Inter-what?”

I hadn’t much time to ponder who I had become, but I was certain that couldn’t have been me fondling in waterfalls and laboring over love songs with a mischievous guitar-strumming satyr I once knew.  And this couldn’t be him lying beside me drooling over the rattle that was branding proof of fatherhood into his cheek.  Sighs of ecstasy had been replaced by sobs of frustration, followed by anesthetized withdrawal, followed by husbandic silence.  I would wait, until after the next check up.

My midwife’s waiting room had always been spangled with blue and pink baby feet cut-outs announcing the names and birth stats of the month’s newborns.  This time, amongst the baby feet flashed red and purple hearts.  Valentine ’s Day was upon us, and for the first time since we met I had been remiss about mine.  Memories of Valentines Past surged through my synapses.  Then a warm pang in the chest cavity.  Guilt?  Yes, yes, I was actually feeling something!  The journal was retrieved from its long hiatus in my bottomless pit of a handbag, and the scribbling resumed.

I wanted to want him.  To satisfy him, like in the days of frothy waterfalls and sultry beaches.  But I had become a dual function (feed and clean) android who could barely dress herself.  But wait. I didn’t have to dress myself.  At least I could stay in my pajamas all day.  He had to trek out into the recession-ravaged job tundra and try to smile.  As I shed some self-absorption, it dawned on me that his long-standing silence was a result of exhaustion, anxiety and dutiful determination to weather my hormonal hurricanes.   His silence was his sanity mantra (we couldn’t both be screamers after all).  Like a sorceress in distress, I scribbled, trying to conjure the love he deserved, reassuring him that my powers had not left me, but were merely dormant for the season.   If only I could lease some levity… If only I could reach out… If only I had a wing…  That’s it!

The receptionist called my name unnecessarily loudly, breaking the spell, and making me drop my pen.  I threw my bag on my shoulder, and slammed the journal on my index finger.  Since I was still trying to think of a word that rhymes with cadence, I was able to mentally migrate out of body during every woman’s breath-holding bane.  After the exam my midwife confirmed her original diagnosis “Okie-dokie for intercourse!  You have yourself a fabulous Valentine’s Day!”

It wasn’t until I was trudging through the revolving door of the musty Medical Arts building, and the belt of my maternity sweater got stuck on the brass handle that I realized I had started a new song.  (And, that is was time to dump the maternity wardrobe.)   On the street, a snowy gust of February took my breath away, as if to mute any mundane verbiage.  Swirling snowflakes swept into my eyes, as if to clear any stale tears.   Instead of racing the wind to the car, as I had done since I became a mother, I just stood there, in the middle of the street, letting the squall have its way with me.

The lullaby we wrote for our oldest in utero drifted into my mind.  It had been our latest collaboration, and I had begun to fear to would be our last.  The next few days of tweaking those journal scribbles was like flooring the accelerator on a hilly country road after traffic jam hell.  Redundant lines had to be deleted (like so many of my debilitating thoughts); inappropriate words edited (like so much inappropriate spewing.)  When I was somewhat satisfied, I wrote it on a large red heart outlined in purple Xs and Os.

On Valentines Day morning I pumped twenty-four hours worth of breast milk, and worked my boys hard.  Walks, rhymes, snowball fights.  We skipped naps so they would retire earlier for the night.  By the time their father got home with my perfunctory kiss and bouquet, I was not thinking of him as father – but as chocolate connoisseur and songwriter.  I set the table with our wedding china, and, on his plate placed the heart-shaped card.  When he began to read it I shuffled back to the kitchen, like the doting ideal of domesticity I honestly wished I could become.  When I returned with his grilled salmon, asparagus couscous and raspberry vinaigrette salad he kissed me right over the plate.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself!”  he scolded, and poured the Champagne.  We toasted.  For the first time in three years we sat alone together tasting every bite of our delectable dinner, allowing all conflicts and grudges to dissolve in the wine-soaked silence.  Every now and then he would glance at my lyrics on his heart.  I got his favorite chocolate mousse ice cream cake out of the fridge and was about to serve it, when he stopped me.

“Let it melt a bit.”

Instead, he brought out his guitar – which I hadn’t seen, let alone heard, in what seemed eons.  Watching those rugged yet gentle fingers from over the candle flame reminded me of all the bonfires he’d strummed through over the years.  Strumming, candlelight, incense, Champagne and hand blown curvy glasses – all seemed to lull my senses, one by one, into a trance-like relaxation.  My jaw slowly unclenched (just as is had during hypnotherapy) and soon I was humming the melody.  Then the lyrics – which flowed seamlessly with the melody, just as they had in our pre-parental incarnation.

We worked the song until it worked us – into nectarous exhaustion.  When his fingers got tired of playing they rested in my hair.  When my lips got tired of singing they rested on his neck.  I had almost forgotten how creative exertion (unlike housekeeping exhaustion) energizes.  As we entered the bedroom, the wife and mother’s pre-somniac obsessions of childcare, chores, and biological deterioration were completely muted by fresh melody.  For the first time, instead of annoying me, the old “can’t-get-that-song-out-of-my-mind” syndrome was liberating me.   Suddenly, the songwriting lover in me was gently lifted.  Her butt (its expanding width completely immaterial) was being planted firmly onto the soft crisp cotton seat of power.  The goose bumps emerged on the nape of the neck and migrated downward.

I imagined the mousse must have melted by then…

BABY TOOK MY MOJO

by Oryna Schiffman

The wife and mother in me had ousted the lover and songwriter.  Prenatal weight gain and hair loss led the putsch, and by the time I gave birth to my second irresistibly squeezable son I was firmly planted in the “all-mother-all-the-time” seat of power.  I reveled in that post partum grace period when visitors dropped in with treats to ogle my bundle of wonder, while he and I got acquainted in our nursing-napping cocoon…

But a cocoon is built to be broken, just like a real estate bubble, which had covered us in its slimy film, leaving our rehab business on the brink of bankruptcy.  Off went my husband to work any job he could find, anytime.  I was mothering solo- needy newborn suckling my breast, tyrannical toddler trampling my thighs, filthy chores stalking me through the house.  Not a moment to myself, not even in my dreams.  I wished only to be left alone – like an ancient Scythian baba in the steppe.  Just me and the wind to vent the morbid thoughts.

One can’t survive in the steppe forever, my husband’s caresses reminded me.  There was love to be made.  The unspoken expectation vexed me like a faucet dripping in the middle of the night.  Finally he broke the silence, joking about the invaluable hypno-therapy sessions that enabled our natural tub births.

“You think hypno can give birth to the Big O?”

“Hmm.  Could be.  Gotta get the midwife OK.”

Oh my goddess, was I becoming one of those 1950s frigid housewife caricatures?!  When my midwife peppily informed me over the phone:  “Four months – you’re fine for intercourse, Oryna.”   I could but sputter: “Oryna – who?  Inter-what?”

I hadn’t much time to ponder who I had become, but I was certain that couldn’t have been me fondling in waterfalls and laboring over love songs with a mischievous guitar-strumming satyr I once knew.  And this couldn’t be him lying beside me drooling over the rattle that was branding proof of fatherhood into his cheek.  Sighs of ecstasy had been replaced by sobs of frustration, followed by anesthetized withdrawal, followed by husbandic silence.  I would wait, until after the next check up.

My midwife’s waiting room had always been spangled with blue and pink baby feet cut-outs announcing the names and birth stats of the month’s newborns.  This time, amongst the baby feet flashed red and purple hearts.  Valentine ’s Day was upon us, and for the first time since we met I had been remiss about mine.  Memories of Valentines Past surged through my synapses.  Then a warm pang in the chest cavity.  Guilt?  Yes, yes, I was actually feeling something!  The journal was retrieved from its long hiatus in my bottomless pit of a handbag, and the scribbling resumed.

I wanted to want him.  To satisfy him, like in the days of frothy waterfalls and sultry beaches.  But I had become a dual function (feed and clean) android who could barely dress herself.  But wait. I didn’t have to dress myself.  At least I could stay in my pajamas all day.  He had to trek out into the recession-ravaged job tundra and try to smile.  As I shed some self-absorption, it dawned on me that his long-standing silence was a result of exhaustion, anxiety and dutiful determination to weather my hormonal hurricanes.   His silence was his sanity mantra (we couldn’t both be screamers after all).  Like a sorceress in distress, I scribbled, trying to conjure the love he deserved, reassuring him that my powers had not left me, but were merely dormant for the season.   If only I could lease some levity… If only I could reach out… If only I had a wing…  That’s it!

The receptionist called my name unnecessarily loudly, breaking the spell, and making me drop my pen.  I threw my bag on my shoulder, and slammed the journal on my index finger.  Since I was still trying to think of a word that rhymes with cadence, I was able to mentally migrate out of body during every woman’s breath-holding bane.  After the exam my midwife confirmed her original diagnosis “Okie-dokie for intercourse!  You have yourself a fabulous Valentine’s Day!”

It wasn’t until I was trudging through the revolving door of the musty Medical Arts building, and the belt of my maternity sweater got stuck on the brass handle that I realized I had started a new song.  (And, that is was time to dump the maternity wardrobe.)   On the street, a snowy gust of February took my breath away, as if to mute any mundane verbiage.  Swirling snowflakes swept into my eyes, as if to clear any stale tears.   Instead of racing the wind to the car, as I had done since I became a mother, I just stood there, in the middle of the street, letting the squall have its way with me.

The lullaby we wrote for our oldest in utero drifted into my mind.  It had been our latest collaboration, and I had begun to fear to would be our last.  The next few days of tweaking those journal scribbles was like flooring the accelerator on a hilly country road after traffic jam hell.  Redundant lines had to be deleted (like so many of my debilitating thoughts); inappropriate words edited (like so much inappropriate spewing.)  When I was somewhat satisfied, I wrote it on a large red heart outlined in purple Xs and Os.

On Valentines Day morning I pumped twenty-four hours worth of breast milk, and worked my boys hard.  Walks, rhymes, snowball fights.  We skipped naps so they would retire earlier for the night.  By the time their father got home with my perfunctory kiss and bouquet, I was not thinking of him as father – but as chocolate connoisseur and songwriter.  I set the table with our wedding china, and, on his plate placed the heart-shaped card.  When he began to read it I shuffled back to the kitchen, like the doting ideal of domesticity I honestly wished I could become.  When I returned with his grilled salmon, asparagus couscous and raspberry vinaigrette salad he kissed me right over the plate.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself!”  he scolded, and poured the Champagne.  We toasted.  For the first time in three years we sat alone together tasting every bite of our delectable dinner, allowing all conflicts and grudges to dissolve in the wine-soaked silence.  Every now and then he would glance at my lyrics on his heart.  I got his favorite chocolate mousse ice cream cake out of the fridge and was about to serve it, when he stopped me.

“Let it melt a bit.”

Instead, he brought out his guitar – which I hadn’t seen, let alone heard, in what seemed eons.  Watching those rugged yet gentle fingers from over the candle flame reminded me of all the bonfires he’d strummed through over the years.  Strumming, candlelight, incense, Champagne and hand blown curvy glasses – all seemed to lull my senses, one by one, into a trance-like relaxation.  My jaw slowly unclenched (just as is had during hypnotherapy) and soon I was humming the melody.  Then the lyrics – which flowed seamlessly with the melody, just as they had in our pre-parental incarnation.

We worked the song until it worked us – into nectarous exhaustion.  When his fingers got tired of playing they rested in my hair.  When my lips got tired of singing they rested on his neck.  I had almost forgotten how creative exertion (unlike housekeeping exhaustion) energizes.  As we entered the bedroom, the wife and mother’s pre-somniac obsessions of childcare, chores, and biological deterioration were completely muted by fresh melody.  For the first time, instead of annoying me, the old “can’t-get-that-song-out-of-my-mind” syndrome was liberating me.   Suddenly, the songwriting lover in me was gently lifted.  Her butt (its expanding width completely immaterial) was being planted firmly onto the soft crisp cotton seat of power.  The goose bumps emerged on the nape of the neck and migrated downward.

I imagined the mousse must have melted by then…

“You’re going to be late!”  “Where’s your book bag?”  “Did you brush your teeth?”  “We don’t have time for this today!”

If an award for “Grumpiest Mom” were handed out each morning, I’m afraid I would be nominated more times than I’d like to admit.  I am often so focused on getting everyone up and dressed, hurrying dawdling eaters at the breakfast table, gathering items to pack in lunches and hurrying each family member out of the door on time that I am short-tempered and joyless. I recently decided to evaluate the cause of my grouchiness to see if I could remedy the situation. Here are some ideas I am finding helpful as I struggle against early morning insanity.

• Go to bed on time. As difficult as it is, I know that I will feel better and be in a happier frame of mind if I stick to a bedtime that allows me to get the rest that I need.
• Get up early. Being a morning person makes it easier for me to get out of bed when my alarm clock goes off – at least until those dark, cold, winter mornings hit!  However, rolling out of bed on time allows me to get a proper start to my day.
• Schedule a few minutes of quiet time for myself.  This helps me focus on my own attitude as well as mentally prepare for what the day ahead of me will hold.
• Eliminate distractions by leaving the television, computer and cell phone turned off until all necessary preparations for the morning are finished.  I have found that what starts out as “just a minute” to check e-mails soon turns into a much longer diversion.
• Do as much as possible for preparing breakfast and packing lunches ahead of time.   The night before, put all non-perishable breakfast ingredients on the kitchen counter and set the table for the morning meal.  Have lunches assembled and leave them in the same place each day so that they have less of a chance of being forgotten!
• Set a positive tone by turning on some music. Play tunes that are happy and upbeat to encourage those sleepyheads to get moving!
• Start each child’s day with a smile and a hug. Let their first image of their mother be a happy one. Who knows – your partner might enjoy this, too!
• Reward yourself in some small way when the morning rush is over.  Whether it’s a cup of coffee in the car on the way to work or a five-minute break to read your favorite magazine before tackling the pile of laundry, give yourself something to which you can look forward when things have settled down.
• Relax! Which is worse – having my daughters occasionally be tardy to school or letting their only memories of mom in the morning be those of pushing them out the door and into the car?  Some delays are inevitable and if you have to choose whether to laugh or cry – give laughter a try and see how much the mood is lightened.

By implementing these ideas in my own life, I’m finding that our days are getting off to a smoother start.  Since I’m a bit lacking in red-carpet attire, I’m hoping that one day soon, I’ll be totally out of the running for that “Grumpiest Mom” award!

Tracey Brewer lives in the coastal region of South Carolina with her husband and two daughters, ages nine and seven.  When not crafting articles for publication, she can be found reading, baking, spending time with her family, or blogging about parenting at Girls to Grow.

Stacy, #4 commenter

“One of the biggest fears I have is raising my child as I wish I was raised. My mother is gone 10 years now and I’m estranged from my father. I’ve suffered through years of addiction and I’m finally sober with a loving husband and a miracle of a daughter. I’m in therapy right now and we’re working on removing negative self-talk from my lexicon.
I want my DD to have her own experience being raised. I do not want it to be a reaction to myW feelings and how I felt I was raised. This book sounds very interesting to me.”

AKA Approved Happy Belly Bag:

Ashleigh Walter

“What a great giveaway! The teething bagels look great too. I think I’ll make a new treat for my little teether.”

Kicky Pants Valentine Giveaway:

Jill! She chose the blue coveralls, 12 months. Great minds think alike; I gave the same thing to my adorable nephew, Harry.

As an added incentive for helping a mom in need, purchasers will receive a free digital subscription to Mothering Magazine!

So to summarize: You win because you’re buying something awesome, then the mama in need wins because she gets a nursing bra tank, and then you benefit again with the completely useful and excellent treat of a free digital Mothering subscription. I completely love my digi-sub. It’s always accessible and user-friendly–I can refer to an article whenever I need to.

HERE’S THE CODE: Make sure to enter GMGIVES10 at check-out to ensure a tank donation & a free digital subscription to Mothering Magazine.

Mung beans. About 15 minutes after I eat them, I get the most amazing feeling of well-being. I boil them, then separate them into 1/2 cup portions and freeze them. For lunch, I put one in a container with broccoli and a tablespoon of nut butter, then heat it, mix it up and salt it…and it’s SO GOOD. I buy them in bulk at Whole Foods; I found that they were really pricey, prepacked at Vitamin Cottage.

Dorie Greenspan’s Around My French Table cookbook. It’s such a great read! Greenspan is so generous when it comes to sharing a vignette about each recipe. I am so excited to make her roasted apples, and try her baked chicken with Armagnac…and so much more.

Alyson, comment #62
Jamie, comment #111
Nicole, comment #248
Tana, comment #332
Jessica, comment #508

Congrats, mamas! And thanks to all of you who participated.

Charlie Banana is giving away their 2 in 1 Reusable Diapering System collection (a whopping package of 6 one-size diapers plus 12 inserts) and some Charlie Banana Wipes (chlorine, perfume and chemical-free).

I love the tutti fruity colors, don’t you?

Here’s how you enter to win:
1. Leave a comment below.
2. For a second chance to win, click here to go to Charlie Banana’s facebook page, and “like” it. Then come back here and let me know that you did.

Here are some other Charlie Banana items you might like to know about (although they’re not part of the giveaway)

Sparrow Huffman: won the Vyssan Lull Peace Please jacket

Kristy Boone: won the purple clover Vyssan Lull jacket

Congratulations!

These are so sweet, my teeth hurt. Right? And I love the name Fattycakes.

A size small “Jacob’s Cowboy Adventure”:

(100% cotton outer, organic Bamboo fleece hidden layer, organic bamboo and microfiber soakers, suedecloth staydry inner.)

Small: Rise 14″-16″/Waist 11″ to 20″/Thigh 6″ to 13″

A size medium “My Exotic Fattycakes” flower print:

100% cotton knit outer, organic bamboo fleece hidden layer, organic bamboo and microfiber soakers, suedecloth staydry inner.

Medium: Rise 14″-18.5″/Waist 12″ to 21″/Thigh 6.5″ to 13.5″

Please leave a comment below with your preference of small cowboy or medium flower. Good luck!