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…

Now on to the topic at hand…

You pack your children’s lunches lovingly each morning (I know we do) but do you give the same care and attention to your own midday meal? It has taken me years to snap to adding my lunch bag to the queue on the kitchen counter.

How empowering–to open my lunch bag and find items perfect for me–because I chose them. You might be wondering if I write myself a little love note on the napkin, but no, I’m not that far gone.

Lately, my lunch bag includes: a Dr. Praeger’s spinach pancake, a grapefruit, a Stanley stainless steel bottle of juice from my morning veggie/fruit batch*, and a red pepper with a container of Tribe hummus. I especially love their chipotle and red pepper flavors. I smear the hummus on big slabs of the fresh, crunchy red pepper…yum! Instead of eating everything at once, I tend to have small eating occasions all day long–per dietician Ashley Koff’s recommendation.

Today, my lunch stuff was thrown in a shopping bag, because I was in that much of a rush. However, wouldn’t it have been much better to avail of this beautiful Blue Avocado lunch tote? Only $20…such a nice price point.

It’s not bulky, but it keeps items hot or cold for 3 whole hours! It’s collapsible, PVC-free and made from 50% REPREVE recycled fibers. And it’s so darn cute. SOMEONE is going to win this thing and I have to say, that person is very lucky because this tote is adorable, practical and chic.

So here’s how you enter to win the contest:

Leave a comment below. Extra credit: tell me all about your favorite packed lunches.

Thanks! xox

PS: Here’s my juicer-juice recipe:

3 carrots, 1/2 small beet, 1/2 green apple, 1/2 lemon whole lemon, chunks of turmeric, ginger and burdock root, 3 stalks celery, 1/3 of a cucumber, 1/3 of a fennel bulb. It’s WONDERFUL and yummy, too.

Pesto Wraps (My son loves pesto and would definitely give these a shot. They remind me of pigs in a blanket!)

Serves 4 to 6

3 large zucchini, peeled

Pinch of sun-dried sea salt

Juice of 1/2 lemon

Presto Pesto

2 cups chopped walnuts

2 cups loosely packed fresh green and purple basil leaves

3 cloves garlic

1 heaping tablespoon red miso

2 tomatoes, cubed

Chopped green and purple basil, for garnish

Using a vegetable peeler or mandoline, cut thin, wide strips lengthwise down the zucchini. Place the zucchini strips in a bowl, cover with water, add the sea salt and lemon juice, and soak for 2 hours, or until they taste clean (not starchy). Drain, rinse, and drain again.

To prepare the pesto, place the walnuts, basil leaves, and garlic in a homogenizer juicer or food processor and homogenize, creating an oily paste. Transfer the paste to a bowl and stir in the miso.

To prepare each wrap, lay a zucchini strip flat on your work surface. Drop a teaspoon of pesto in the center of the zucchini strip. Press a small piece of tomato into the pesto. Fold or roll up the zucchini strip. Secure the wrap by piercing it with a toothpick or place it, seam side down, on a serving plate. Serve garnished with the chopped basil.

Mixed Melon Ball Salad (a.k.a., a sneak peek of summer’s glory!)

Serves 4 to 6

1 cantaloupe, halved and seeded

1 honeydew melon, halved and seeded

1 watermelon, halved

Juice of 2 limes

Scoop out the flesh of the melons with a melon baller, place in a large serving bowl, and mix gently. Splash with the lime juice and serve.

If you’re more experienced with raw food prep, check out this recipe for Falafel. It does require dehydrating and a juicer, according to the recipe, although I’m sure you could employ work-arounds.

Falafel

Makes four 8-inch crusts or eight 4-inch crusts

6 cups sprouted garbanzo beans (see page 20)

1 cup loosely packed fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves

1 cup raw tahini

1 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice

1 onion, minced

2 tablespoons ground cumin

6 tablespoons Bragg Liquid Aminos, or 2 tablespoons sun-dried sea salt

1 cup sesame seeds

Using a homogenizing juicer with the blank plate in place [or a food processor (Candace's note)], homogenize the garbanzo beans and parsley and place in a large bowl. Place the tahini, lemon juice, onion, cumin, and Braggs in a blender and blend. Stir the tahini mixture into the garbanzo paste. In a spice grinder, grind the sesame seeds into a fine powder. Mix into the garbanzo paste. Press into 1/4-inch-thick crusts, each 4 or 8 inches in diameter. Dehydrate for 12 to 14 hours, flipping at least once during the drying time.

How to Sprout

Sprouting is the easiest way to grow foods for yourself. You can grow sprouts in any climate anywhere in the world. If you can live there, so can sprouts. To sprout, first select the type of seed you wish to grow and refer to the chart on pages 22–23 to find out the optimal soaking time. You can sprout seeds in just about any container, including a cloth bag or even a wicker basket, although a large glass jar (1/2 to 1 gallon) with a screen cover is the most popular setup. As a general rule, for a yield of 1/2 gallon of sprouted seeds, use 2 to 3 tablespoons of small seeds such as alfalfa or clover; 11/2 cups of medium seeds such as wheat, oat, or garbanzo; or 2 to 3 cups of nuts and rice. After soaking them for the appropriate amount of time, drain them and then rinse the sprouts with fresh water at least twice a day until the tails are at least three times the size of the seed in length. Next, expose your sprouts, still in the jar, to sunlight for about 15 minutes to activate the abundance of chlorophyll. Now, chow down!

What are your favorite raw recipes or dishes?

1. Trader Joe’s “Joe’s Dark” coffee is only $3.50 per canister, and it totally works for me. Previously, Coffee Snob Moi was enjoying the very delicious Weaver’s organic coffees for around $13/lb., but I have just shifted into turbo thrifty mode, and therefore, we’re drinking Joe’s and TRULY LIKING IT.

2. An eBay-type website just for family stuff? Yep, it’s true. Check out www.Storkbrokers.com. Sell your old stuff, get new-to-you stuff at a discount. And how green–not to be buying new whatevers when things already exist that would love to be part of your family gear pile.

3. When I make soup (already thrifty), I freeze the leftovers in my muffin tins, then pop them out and store them in a bag in the freezer. How unappealing is a 10-lb brick of frozen soup? We’ve all thrown out our weight in those. So the muffin-sized soup portions are FABU for bringing lunch to work–you can let them thaw and then heat them up on the job, or thaw them overnight, heat them on the stove, and pour into a thermos. (I have a silicone muffin pan, which is even more convenient for popping out those soup pucks with aplomb.)

C’mon–what’s #4 and 5 and 6…and 12? Share your wisdom, dear mamas and daddy-os.

a guest blog post by Asha Baisden, of the Meta Mom blog.

A year after childbirth, my best friend pulled her dress over her head. She cupped a few inches of extra skin that hovered across her belly. It was skin stretched by the pregnancy of her second child at age 36, her son, born a year before.

Fifteen years her minor, none of my pregnancies carried to term, I stood, flat bellied, underweight from a stressful college semester, and muted by our physical differences. I felt like any comment I could make would be arbitrary, meaningless, some cliche about how the skin gave her her daughter. My friend spoke of the body she missed and berated her new appearance, wishing for plastic surgery. I changed clothes fast, hoping to hide the plateau of my midsection. From her words and gestures, it seemed like all of her body belonged to her except the residual inches. Those inches belonged to someone else, somewhere else: circulating a bin of medical waste with other pieces of nameless flesh. I wanted to tell my friend that the memory of her daughter’s uterine life resides in her spare inches.

For the ten years of our friendship, I, physically boyish and angular, had envied my friend’s feminine body: the thick of her hips, the slopes of her frame, rounding, soft and buoyant. Now I envied her thatch of ”extra” belly. Where she saw ugliness, I saw a place where magic had happened.

I wanted to listen to her and encourage, but I felt foreign to this discourse. Everything I’d heard about an “after-baby body” had something to do with “fixing” it, with exercise, with dieting. I didn’t know how to approach it because I could not be empathetic. I didn’t know how to vocalize that, to me, her flesh was lovely, an ornamental reminder of feminine strength.

I found out weeks later that I was pregnant with my daughter who was born that fall. Because I was underweight at the time of conception, I gained over sixty pounds and stretch marks bloomed across my thighs, breasts, and belly.

Six months postpartum, I have settled into a size far beyond my pre-pregnancy weight. At first I was alarmed by the sight of my deflated stomach crowded with red rivers of stretch marks and dimpled by extra skin.

One night I stood, naked with my eyes closed and ran my hands over my new body. Words like “engorged”, “saggy”, “flabby”, “pooch” appeared in my mind. The body I touched had transformed and felt foreign.

I focused on the feeling of my skin: dry spots on my elbow, a callous on the side of my foot. I tucked my fingertip into a rippled stretch mark near my left hip, and I remembered that in my tenth month of pregnancy, I watched the stretch marks bounce while my daughter rolled around my uterus. In a year, my body had metamorphosized, and so had another, smaller body: from the collide of conception to a cooing, growling person. I did not and do not claim her body, but because of her, I can claim mine.

The media promotes an impossible maternal body: one that slides down the runway right after birth, virtually unchanged from the prenatal experience. Some women’s bodies do seem to retract almost instantly into their pre-pregnancy shapes. This has happened naturally to some mothers I know, but the media’s portrayal of postpartum body provides an inaccurate representation of what we should expect from ourselves after pregnancy. Many healthy, active women are genuinely transformed by pregnancy, and they struggle to find peace with their changed shapes because society encourages them to keep these shapes hidden, calling them “mom bodies” and “post-baby bodies.” When wholesome nutrition and balanced exercise do not provide celebrity-slim results, many women feel pressured to reform their bodies in unhealthy ways including dieting and cosmetic surgery. While there are women who do need plastic surgery for medical reasons after childbirth, such as abdominal separation, there is an unnecessary pressure on those who do not need that medical intervention to align their bodies with the unrealistic expectations of society.

So how do we adjust our postpartum, physical expectations? Where can we find realistic representations of female bodies? The doula who supported me during my daughter’s birth recently shared a website with me, The Shape of a Mother, which has been running since 2007. The site is an open forum for women to discuss and share their postpartum figures with other women. As I browsed through the discussions and photographs, I became aware that my postpartum body is not weird or irregular but ordinary and natural.

My body is one of many which has supported the growth of a new person, and my new appearance outlines my strengths. The creator of The Shape of a Mother, Bonnie, writes about why she formed the site, “It occurred to me that a post-pregnancy body is one of this society’s greatest secrets; all we see of the female body is that which is airbrushed and perfect, and if we look any different, we hide it from the light of day in fear of being seen…It is my dream, then, to create this website where women of all ages, shapes, sizes and nationalities can share images of their bodies so it will no longer be secret.”

One of the advantages to an online forum is that it allows people to be anonymously public. In a situation concerning the usually private and intensely personal feelings about body image, both the visual and verbal discourse within Shape of a Mother provides a valuable first step toward opening real-world discussion about the postpartum body, helping women view each other and themselves realistically, encouraging a public acceptance of ”momified” shapes, and transforming the way we define our bodies: instead of flaws, we have the evidence of maternal sinews. Ours is the flesh of vitality. Ours is the swell of creation.

Sometimes, helping children to brush their teeth, or getting children to brush their own teeth, is like herding cats and, when children do brush their teeth, even when they are teenagers, do they do a thorough job? Is their brushing effective?

In ancient times, children very rarely had cavities. Today, however, one of the biggest health concerns affecting little ones more than any other in North America and Europe is dental decay, ECC (Early Childhood Caries).

Is it because dentists are giving out lollipops? (http://mothering.com/health/does-coke-money-corrupt-kids-dentistry) Did the ancients have advanced civilizations that cracked the code on toothpaste?  Or, is it because breastfeeding fades in and out of popularity while processed formula proliferates?

When your child closes her mouth against the toothbrush, while you cheerfully chant “If you get up in the morning… and you want to find something to do, you brush your teeth ch ch ch ch, ch ch ch ch” by Raffi, know, (that your dentist may not say so), but brushing isn’t everything.

Dr. Weston Price (President of the America Dental Association from 1888-89) studied primitive skulls and traveled the world studying the teeth of cultures that ate only their traditional foods; cultures in which a cavity would be found in one in a thousand people. Cultures that had moved away from their nutrient-dense food and were plagued by white flour and white sugar had rotted teeth.

Decay of tooth enamel is not only from food stuck in it.  Dental decay occurs in two ways: internal and external. External factors are food in the mouth, acidity, bacteria, how the teeth fit together, and exercise. External factors play a role, but they are not the initiating factors in oral decay. Teeth are alive! They can regenerate, and this is why internal factors that nourish the teeth are so important. Real foods, hormonal balance, minerals, and the fluid exchange through the teeth are key. When the teeth are healthy, they are like trees, drawing their nourishment from the roots and the blood and digestive system are the soil. Nourishing fluid moves from the pulp chamber through to the dentin.  Stress, processed food, and inadequate nutrition reverse this precious flow and the tooth starts to draw bacteria and acids from the mouth into the tooth. Teeth start forming inside the womb, and pre-natal nutrition with a healthy dose of fat soluble vitamins, minerals, and whole foods starts the process of building strong teeth. Around 2-3 years of age, the permanent teeth are forming/calcifying into the jawbone and, if there is a nutritional deficiency  of minerals and vitamin C, D3, K2 and A at this time, teeth are formed that are less resistant to decay.  This also means that breastfeeding mothers need to be abundant in whole nutrition as well.

As teeth start to come in, wipe the teeth with a cloth dipped in salt water. This will help clear plaque and neutralize acids. Teach children to swish with salt water and spit it out, which will do most of the work. Later, brushing can begin using salt, baking soda or xylitol powder (from a health store). If a carie lesion begins, this does not necessarily mean a permanent cavity is inevitable. Know that the teeth are alive and brown enamel lesions could be reversed. When there is a carie lesion the salvia starts on the area to balance the decay, and the dentin inside your tooth will shot forth odontoblasts which regenerate new cells to the area. If this happens keep the tooth clean and look into the diet.

Healthy Teeth Tips

·              Avoid bonding molars on the cavities (this traps bacteria in the tooth)

·             Offer zero processed food

·            In the beginning, stick to breastmilk and water

·             Floss when the teeth start getting close together

·              Avoid Fluoride water and treatments (http://mothering.com/health/debunking-fluoride-cavity-fighter-or-toxic-intruder)

·              Phosphorus and vitamin C help ease teething

·             Breastfeeding is not the cause of cavities http://mothering.com/health/big-bad-cavities-breastfeeding-is-not-the-cause

·             Soak all grains and beans overnight before cooking to get rid of phytic acid

·             Avoid all commercial toothpastes (toxic) – stick to the basics: salt, baking soda, and xylitol

More:

8 Steps for Successful Self-Dentistry:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r4d0BW0I-qI&feature=related

Oral Care for Children:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kulGkTY9SSI&feature=related

For serious question about oral care, and to find a holistic, biological dentist:

http://www.hugginsappliedhealing.com

And everyone else wins, too, with the following flash sale. For the next three days: February 28, March 1 and March 2, the 6-packs of diapers in S, M and L sizes will be on sale for 20% off (usually $99.99, now $80). Use code Mothering0320.

Charlie Banana is also offering free shipping on orders over $150 with the following code: 0203moth from February 28 through March 17, 2011.

You can use both codes for one order, and really rack up the savings.

Here’s some information from Charlie Banana:

“Born from the Winc Design Limited family, Charlie Banana  is the
international, luxury brand of modern cloth diapers and eco-friendly baby
products.  Established in 2010, Charlie Banana products are made with
care with 100% certified organically grown cotton. They are comfortable,
chemical-free and combine eco-friendliness, quality and design. The goal
behind the brand is to convince at least 50 percent of parents to use
reusable diapers and products for their children.

Charlie Banana products include the innovative  2 in 1 Hybrid Eco
Diapering System with reusable or disposable inserts, Single and Double
Layer Reusable Wipes, Tote Bags, Diaper Laundry Bags, Baby Training Pants,
Underwear, Swim Diapers, Baby Leg Warmers, Change Pads, Mattress Pads,
Reusable Feminine Pads.”

By the way, I am a HUGE fan of their feminine pads, and adorable organic cotton boys’ boxers.

Here’s how you enter to win the giveaway:

1) “Like” Charlie Banana’s facebook page, and leave a little note on their wall.

2) Leave a comment below with the size and style you prefer. You can review the different styles here.

Good luck! : )

“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.

As a parent, I gravitate toward agave nectar, but have wondered about the glycemic index impact. I also like stevia in my tea, but find that it’s bitter in coffee. I love the way my son’s teacher makes birthday cakes with maple syrup and yogurt. It’s so good!

Recently I’ve been experimenting with Susta. It’s a new natural sweetener that contains fructose, fiber, and even probiotics. It has a really low glycemic index, and is recommended for people with diabetes (including gestational diabetes). I also like the way it tastes in homemade baked goods. Here’s a recipe for brownies made with Susta. Yum.

Homemade Brownies

2 sticks butter (softened) or
1 cup Smart Balance
4 eggs
1 tsp vanilla
1cup flour (all purpose)
½ cup cocoa (Hersheys type)
1 tsp baking powder
1 cup SUSTABOWL
1 cup granulated sugar

(chopped nuts are optional)

Use an electric mixer or Kitchen Aid mixer: Whip butter until fluffy, add eggs, one at a time, then add vanilla and mix on high speed for 5 minutes or until smooth. In a separate bowl, mix together, flour, cocoa, baking powder, SustaBowl and sugar. Slowly add dry ingredients into mixer and mix for 2 minutes until uniform.

Spead batter into 9 x 9 inch or 9 x 13 inch pan that has been well greased and dusted with cocoa. Batter will be thick and creamy.

Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes if using the 9 x 9 inch pan and 25 minutes if using the 9 x 13 inch pan or until toothpick comes out clean.

Yield: 16-20 brownies

If you have any questions about Susta, leave them in the comments section and I’ll do my best to get them answered.