40

Everyone has their favorite number. I’ve never had one up until now. But if I had to choose, mine would be 40.

See, this number has been thrown at me twice in the last 365 days. And with the anniversary of the most important surgery in my life coming up next week, and the birth of my beautiful daughter 11 weeks ago– I figured it was only appropriate to share my connection to this number.

In July of 2017, we were on our way home from our annual family vacation to Cannon Beach. I drove home (because I get car sick, so I am ALWAYS the driver!) and I noticed about half way home, my left leg started to ache. I chalked it up as too much sitting on the beach, and just figured I needed a hot bath once I got home and I’d be ok. Fast forward to September, when I was driving home from work and my leg went completely numb. I had still been experiencing pain, but it honestly felt like I had just pulled a muscle. And I didn’t learn much from that sports medicine class I took in high school, but I did learn that muscles can sometimes take forever to heal. That was until my leg went numb. I couldn’t feel it. I was convinced I was having a stroke, and luckily was able to pull over on the side of the road and wait until I could feel it again. That next day I decided it was finally time to go to the doctor.

Now let me back track a little bit. I’ve always had back issues. I was born with scoliosis, and when I was 10, I strained my spinal cord. So physical therapy, massages and chiropractic visits were nothing I was new to. When my doctor did an X-ray on my leg and saw nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary, he recommended PT three times a week, a massage twice a month, and prescribed me a narcotic pain killer, 800mg Tylenol and muscle relaxers.

End of October hit and I had been doing PT for about 6 weeks and my pain was getting worse. It was to the point where showering hurt, sitting and standing hurt, driving hurt. The “pain relievers” weren’t working, and the muscle relaxers were just “breath mints with flare” at that point. I was basically the Dr House of Salon Escape. No one knew it. Once I realized that narcotics were no longer working, I went back to my doctor. He did another X-ray and again declared nothing was wrong, but also diagnosed me as being in chronic pain. Literally, it hurts for me to even blink. I can’t function properly. My mind isn’t clear. Moving makes me nauseous. And sometimes I would consider that my life won’t ever be more, than the pain I’m in. And I’m only using my doctors descriptive words because it really is the only way I can actually get people to understand what chronic pain is. It’s like– your body goes into a depression. And that’s exactly what mine did. I couldn’t eat, or sleep. Or laugh. I was a clouded, drugged up, suffering psychopath. And I was honestly convinced it would never get better for me.

I remember the pain being so bad, we were next door at my neighbors house one night for dinner, and I couldn’t even get comfortable. I broke down in their living room and sobbed because my whole entire body was either numb, or felt like I was being stabbed by a thousand knives. Not even needles. FUCKING KNIVES.

I tried pot after I became immune to the Vicodin. Edibles actually, I have chronic asthma and my lungs will LITERALLY close if I inhale anything that isn’t air lol. They helped for a little bit. But I couldn’t be high at work! (Really though, how was pot any different than Vicodin)

About a month after my last doctors appointment, I got a call from my doctor. Saying he just couldn’t shake the fact that something was really wrong. He then ordered me an MRI at the local hospital, however I wasn’t considered “priority” because I didn’t ACTUALLY have a diagnosed medical problem. So I waited another month to get in. I will never forget that day. It was December 20th. The day my life changed forever. I went in at 6am for my MRI, not knowing what to expect. We were literally just thrown into the rotation that there wasn’t even a doctor available to meet with us before or after. It felt like flying on standby.

I got a call that afternoon. One of the scariest calls of my entire life. I spoke with a nurse, who’s name I can’t remember, and she was absolutely shaken. The only thing she could get our was “we have a call scheduled with a neurosurgeon at 12pm tomorrow. It’s critical. He will explain everything.”

WHAT. HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE. You’re telling me I have to wait ANOTHER 24 hours to hear what’s wrong with me? It was seriously (what felt like) the longest 24 hours of my life. My husband stayed home from work the next day, and I had switched my shift so I didn’t have to go in until later (big mistake, I should have just taken the day off. Lord knows I could not focus after that call!)

My husband and I both got on the phone with the surgeon, as he’s going over my X-rays. The first thing he says to me is, “I honestly don’t know how you’ve been able to get out of bed every morning. The pain you have been in is unimaginable.” Turns out I had three slipped discs and one that was completely dislodged. The one that was completely dislodged was less than 10 millimeters away from puncturing my bladder and my bowels. It was declared an emergency, and surgery was scheduled for December 27th, 2017. I had what’s called a triple microdiscetomy. Basically, what that meant was my three discs that were slipped, were shaved down and carefully put back into place (L3-L5 for all you nerds out there!) and my S1 (bone in your tailbone) was completely removed. The MRI showed severe nerve damage in my spinal cord, specifically leading up to the neurons in my brain that detected pain throughout my body.

I had a 40 percent chance of waking up from the surgery completely pain free.

40.

Worst case, depending on the damage, a year later I would have had to come in and had a tiny hole drilled at the base of my neck, to relieve the swelling on my brain. Worst-worst case, I would have to live the with pain my entire life. Worst-worst-worst case, I could amputate part of the muscle in the back of my thigh, which would result in the nerve tissue causing the pain also being removed, but would mean I would technically have a handicap for the rest of my life. Also, there still would be no guarantee that even after all of that, the pain would subside.

Luckily for me, I am almost 365 days completely pain free.

One of the side effects of having spine surgery, not to mention all your nerves tampered with and having some body parts removed, was the possibility of me missing 1-3 menstrual cycles.

Let me back pedal a bit. Coincidentally, that same month my leg started hurting, I had gone to a completely different doctor for a completely different reason. After almost 3 years of trying to get pregnant and not being successful, I found out that I seemingly just don’t ovulate. Which can totally be fixed my a daily hormone supplement, however being only 24 at the time, I didn’t feel like my biological clock was ticking, therefore I wanted to see if I could conceive naturally before I tried supplements.

SO SUPER FUN FACT. I WAS ABOUT A WEEK PREGNANT WHEN I HAD SURGERY. But because of everything else I had in my system, I got a super rare false positive test. Come to find out, that if I wouldn’t have had the surgery, my body wouldn’t have been able to carry a baby to full term. Call it what you what. Gods timing, coincidence, fate… but yep. I missed two periods, and didn’t think anything of it because I was told that was a side effect of the surgery. But something told me as I was buying my box of wine on February 12th 2018, that I juuusssttttt needed a twin pack of First Response tests to go with it! Coincidentally, a week prior, I had gone in for a 6 week follow up MRI and my UA came back with a high hormonal reading, but it was normally around the time I was supposed to get my period, so they chalked it up to that and moved on. They didn’t even test for pregnancy! Just simply asked if I could be pregnant! (And since they said no sex for 12 weeks after surgery I was sure that it wasn’t even an option!)

Ok, fast forward to my 20 week ultrasound. The most exciting one. The one where you find out if you’ll be bringing in a sweet baby girl or a handsome baby boy into your family. My scan was Memorial Day weekend, and we were one of the last ultrasounds of the day. We found out we were having a girl! The ultrasound tech has mentioned she looked a little on the smaller side– but didn’t seem concerned. We got our pictures, called our families, and went home! Monday morning at 7am we received a call from my OB’s office saying my husband and I needed to come in whenever we could today, that he would fit us in. There was something abnormal with our scan that needed to be discussed immediately.

We found out I had a condition called Velementous Cord Insertion. Basically, the umbilical cord implants itself into the cervical membranes instead of the placenta, making it shorter and more fragile. Think of it as an old rubber bad. You know the one you try to stretch, it turns white, and then breaks? Yeah, that’s basically what my cord was. The vessels actually sit right on top of the placenta, instead of tucked inside where they are well protected. What made it even worse is the fact that there are only 1 in every 5,000 pregnancies diagnosed. Which means it’s not something well known, or treatable. Babies are born a lot smaller, often having organs that don’t fully develop by birth, even if carried full term. We were then told the worst part of it all.

My daughter had a 40 percent chance of surviving until birth.

40.

2 out of every 5 VCI babies are still borns. Cord compression is extremely common, and it’s not something that the mother can feel from the inside. This meant I had a doctors appointment every week until delivery.

40. That was the second time I was given this number as an outcome in less than a year.

40.

Thankfully, the odds were in my favor again as my daughter was born right on her due date, at 5 pounds 15 ounces. Lungs checked out perfectly, stomach checked out perfectly, and her kidneys, liver and brain were fully functional. And to that, I truly couldn’t be more grateful.

I sit back and think that this is the reason why I have never been one to have a “favorite” number. That title was being saved for this. This beautiful, not-quite-halfway, number 40.

Until next time Divas,

LQ

We ARE Intrepid

Disclaimer: If you or someone you know is struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts, please call the Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255 or text HOME to 741741. You are not alone.

 

in·trep·id

/inˈtrepəd/

adjective

Definition: fearless; adventurous

Synonyms: unafraid, bold, daring, gallant, audacious, heroic, dynamic, spirited

 

This is my all time favorite word. Everyone has a favorite word. If you don’t, I encourage you to find the closest thing you have to a dictionary, and pick one. Here’s why I love this word: it absolutely could NEVER be used in a negative connotation. Think about it. How are you going to call someone fearless in a negative way? YOU. CAN’T. This word describes me. I think my photo is actually listed under this definition in at least one of the Webster dictionaries. I constantly think of this word. I constantly want to live up to this word. And I honestly think, that’s why I have been able to avoid suffering from depression.

Full disclosure: I am well aware that there are things in this post that will ruffle some feathers. As I’ve stated in my previous posts, these thoughts are mine and mine only. That’s the beauty of me having my own blog to write is that I can say whatever the fuck I want too– and if you disagree the only thing you have to do is click that liitttllleeeee red “X” on the top right (or left if you’re a Mac user), and simply go about your day. So at this point, you’ve been clearly warned and if you don’t turn back now you have no reason to bitch.

Here’s the thing. What’s the freaking deal with using the word depression every. single. time. we are sad? Do people realize every time they use that word out of context you are offending someone with a severe chemical imbalance that they actually need to be medicated for? Oh, Susan you got a parking ticket? You’re SAD. NOT depressed. You know who has a right to say they are depressed? Every single person who has gone to a medical professional and has had the proper diagnosis. You know who has a right to say they are depressed? Those individuals who take their medication, go to their regularly scheduled shrink visits, and make changes in their lives. THOSE ARE THE ONLY PEOPLE.

You can’t be half way depressed. You can’t only get medication and do absolutely nothing else and expect to get better. Those that do that, sorry, but when I hear you complain and whine about how much your life sucks but you’re literally doing nothing positive… like, what the fuck are you expecting? Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I know people who have lost babies, or spouses– a hell of a lot worse than getting a freaking parking ticket– and they pick themselves up by their big girl panties and get shit done. Now, that’s not to say they don’t hurt. My goodness, half of the people on my Facebook timeline have gone through SOME SHIT and ALL I want to do is pick them up and squeeze them. But you know what I see them doing? They go on about their lives. Because that’s honestly all life is. One constant motion. And it’s about how we adjust to the flow of things that defines us.

Now, I myself can only speak from an outside perspective. I’ve never struggled from depression because FOR ME it’s totally a mind over matter thing. I was taught, by my mom when I was little and would get “an upset belly” (anxious), to make a list of what was bothering me. And then pick 5 things off that list and organize them from what’s bothering me the least amount to what’s bothering me the most. And I was ONLY allowed to focus on those 5 things. If it wasn’t on the list, basically I had to forget about it until my current list was dwindled down to nothing and I needed to start over. Do you know how much that helped me? I learned two things from making those lists:

  1. A LOT of my problems were/are self inflicted (i.e not paying a bill on time, or not turning in a homework assignment, gaining weight, etc)
  2. Anything that WASN’T self inflicted, was out of my control and I needed to let the universe handle it (death in the family, break up)

And this is what I mean by mind over matter. By making a list, you can LITERALLY see what’s causing your emotional roller coaster. It is THAT SIMPLE. So then this brings me to the REAL topic of this post (and this part really only pertains to moms but feel free to read it anyways!)

You really CAN avoid Postpartum Depression. Absolutely 100% avoid it.

Here’s how:

First, find your word. There are 171,476 words in the English Language and baby, ONE of those is for you. Find it, embrace it, love it. Let it define you.

Second, stop saying you don’t have enough time. I still need to work on this. We make time for what’s important to us. Stop saying “you didn’t have time to shower because of the baby” or “you didn’t have time to clean the house because of the baby”. Because that’s a bold faced lie. You CHOSE to not clean your house or shower BECAUSE you wanted to snuggle your baby instead. There is NOTHING wrong with that. It’s actually really sad that we, as moms, who are just trying to enjoy every second with our babies feel like we have to justify not doing simple everyday things over being with our babies. But own it. I currently am sitting in day old jammies with old makeup still on my face as I write this because all morning I’ve been watching movies with my little. That was more important to me than showering. And, I probably won’t be showered by the time my husband gets home either. And because he’s a fucking good ass partner, he won’t even bat an eye because he knows that I’ve prioritized my time to the best of my ability today. (Remember in my first post I said we have two jobs as a mom; to keep ourselves alive so we can keep our babies alive? Almost 3 months later I STILL live religiously by that!)

Third, don’t forget about yourself. Let your baby cry while you put on makeup. Let them sit in a poopy diaper for another 10, 15, 20 minutes while you finish blow drying your hair. I pinkie swear it will NOT kill them! Don’t hold them if you don’t feel like it! (And if you say “I don’t ever feel like not holding my baby” you’re absolutely lying and I promise I’ll find out.) You need to be YOU first. Point blank. Another amazing piece of advice I received from an old co-worker of mine who is not only a kick ass mother but also a bad ass wife, was that when a baby comes into your life, THEY adapt. THEY fit in where they belong. If you completely change your entire way of life because you feel like you “need” to have your life revolve solely around your child, I’m not going to tell you that’s wrong because we don’t mom shame here, but I will tell you that later on down the road that may lead to some emptiness/regret inside.

Fourth, stop feeling sorry for yourself. Because guess what, your child can sense that. Stop being emotionally unavailable to them. You are doing yourself, and them a complete injustice. All they want and need is to be loved. They really don’t care about anything else. So you and your partner split up after you had the baby? News flash. It probably was never going to work, the baby just made it easier for them to leave. And while I CANNOT imagine what that’s like, use that to your advantage to work on yourself. Because the relationship was probably unhealthy from the start and you just either A. love drama or B. don’t believe enough in yourself and think you don’t deserve better. In every relationship, someone is always the garden, and someone is always the gardener. It flip flops. But chances are if you were/are in an unhealthy relationship, you have been playing both roles for a long time and DAMMIT WOMAN it’s time to let yourself be the garden for once. This also goes for partners who stick around after an affair. Are you joking me? Cut that shit out right now. Khloe Kardasian doesn’t even make that shit look glamorous, WHY in God’s name do you think you can LMAO. Also, stop giving yourself a pity party because your body “didn’t bounce back”. LISTEN TO ME RIGHT NOW. You were either cut in half or pushed a watermelon through something that is the size of a captain crunch berry. Not to mention you grew, and fed, and cared for a human being that you hadn’t even met yet! (It’s true when they say it’s the only blind date where you’re guaranteed to meet the love of your life!) Bouncing back is a myth. Do you know how many BeachBody coaches I’ve had messaging me asking if I’m ready to “lose that pesky baby weight?” I literally LAUGH in their DM’s. Why is it just assumed that moms are supposed to have body issues after giving birth? I sure as hell don’t. You shouldn’t either.

Fifth, find your god damn tribe. They ARE out there. Find your support system. I promise you, having a partner who’s not afraid to stay with the baby so you can get some alone time, friends who love to babysit or parents who love to keep them over night, WILL FILL YOUR BUCKET BUTTERCUP. I hate when I see those posts on Facebook that say “you realize who your true friends are after you have a baby.” And then proceed to say that no one ever comes over or no one offers this or that. Here’s the thing. Relationships are a two way street. You ALSO need to invite people over. Before I had kids, I would have NEVER just invited myself over to someones house after having a baby. Because I would’ve assumed they needed their rest or wanted to be with their new family. Do you know that because I’ve actually communicated with people and not locked myself in a dungeon that every single person who said they wanted to come see my baby, actually has? I haven’t “lost friends” because of having a baby. Jesus Christ if anyone actually HAS then you should probably look in the mirror because I guarantee you having a baby isn’t why they aren’t sticking around.

Listen. I know it’s super easy to stay in bed all day. I’m the Captain of Lazy Town. My bed is my kingdom and my pillows are my royal subjects. I know it’s easy for me to sit here and say, as someone who has never suffered from any type of depression before, that it’s easy to snap out of it. But that’s not at all what I’m saying, and if you somehow got that out of this post the you need to brush up on your comprehension skills my friend. I’ve simply given you ways that have helped ME avoid it. Maybe they’ll work for you, maybe they won’t. What is the harm in giving them a try, if that means a happier, healthier you/baby/family? Just remember, you are not alone. Even if sometimes it may feel like it. You have a zillion people who have never even met you that have felt/are feeling the same things as you are. But you can’t let it define you. Let your word define you instead.

“You are intrepid. You carry on.”

 

Until next time, Divas

 

LQ

Sorry Not Sorry

Here’s the thing. I don’t floss. I never have. I lie to my dentist about it, but she knows I’m full of shit. Every six months the conversation goes like this:

Dentist: “So Lauren, it looks like your gums are a little inflamed, have you been flossing?”

And then of course I answer back with:

“Well, probably not as often as I should be… I’m sorry…”

And guess what? My dentist sees riiiggghhhtttt through my bullshit. Right the fuck through it. She knows I’m not sorry. And she definitely knows that I don’t do it PERIOD. And every time I leave, I always have it in my head that “this is it, this time I will start flossing!” but then I try and my gums are still sore from being poked and prodded at, so then tonight turns into tomorrow night and tomorrow night turns into next month and then next thing you know I’m at my six month check up again having the same exact conversation. It’s a vicious cycle. Flossing and I don’t get along and we probably never will.

So then, why do I do that? Why do I say something I clearly don’t mean twice a year instead of just being like, “no bitch I don’t”??? Even worse, why do I follow it with an empty apology? I hate the phrase “I’m sorry”. You wanna know why? 9 times out of 10 it’s never sincere.

Think about it, more often than not apologies lead with someone else implying you should be sorry. Oh, you overheard something you weren’t supposed to hear and the other person got mad? BOOM! YOU should be sorry for listening. Someone wasn’t clear on their expectations for XY&Z and you made an executive decision? WELL FUCK YOU BECAUSE YOU JUST EARNED YOURSELF A ONE WAY TICKET TO I’M SORRY TOWN! Or heavens forbid, you quit a job because you’ve found something that fills your bucket more than your current place of work: the conversation almost always ends with, “I’m sorry”. These situations in which we feel FORCED to apologized has completely ruined the phrase. If someone says they are sorry to me it almost makes me MORE mad because they aren’t doing it out of sincerity. They are doing it out of force of habit.

Which makes the phrase worse. Make a mistake? I’d rather you own up to your shit a thousand times more than insult me by uttering the two most overused words in the English language. But for some reason that’s borderline absurd.

And then what almost automatically follows a synthetic apology? (I coined that phrase by the way, feel free to use it any time you’d like!) ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. Just like when I tell the dentist that I’m sorry for not flossing, and then continue to go on my merry little way for the next six months. N-O-T-H-I-N-G.

So how can we change this? How can we break this cycle of fake feelings and bullshit apologies? BE HONEST. And don’t EVER say sorry if you don’t fully mean it. Stick to your guns, girl! OWN YOUR SHIT! Cheat on your husband? Own it. Forget to pay your car payment? Own it. Overload the washer? Yep, own it. Life would be so much simpler. And then I think it would help people understand that we all make choices. Yes, some are worse than others, but not all rectify an apology for God’s sake.

So I leave you with this: stand your ground at all times, even if it’s tough. Understand that mistakes 100% happen. And they won’t ever stop happening. Force yourself to adjust to your path that you’ve created and stroll on with pride. And for shits sake, throw all your fake “I’m sorry’s” in the trash can along the way.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go NOT floss.

Until next time, Divas.

LQ

I’m more important than my child…

I went back and forth about what exactly my first post should be. I have about 6 different drafts of topics that I was convinced were PERFECT for my opening post. Somehow this one just felt right.

The title might turn you off a little bit, but trust me, read all the way through until the end and you’ll understand WHY I went with that one.

Here’s a fact that I think nobody will deny: your child wouldn’t be here if you weren’t here. And this fact goes for every type of parent. Foster, adoptive, biological, step, etc. Think about it: your child relies SOLELY on you to be your absolute best at all times. Ergo, if you’re falling, so is your child.

This. This is why I didn’t breastfeed.

You guys, I get asked this question so often that if I had a dollar for every time it happened I could probably pay my mortgage for a month. No joke. And I’ve never been one to tiptoe around why I chose not too. I’ve been honest and shared what I thought was appropriate and kept to myself what I felt wasn’t. (Not because I was ashamed, but because I didn’t want it to come out as I was shaming moms who breastfed, even though that’s completely what they were doing to me).

I’m well aware that breastfeeding is a beautiful thing. It is so incredible that our bodies can not only grow a human, but also supply it with nourishment to help it grow. Really. Breastfeeding moms deserve a freaking medal. I’ve heard the horror stories. The bleeding, the chaffing, the exhaustion, the hormones, the LACK-tation (see what I did there?). I could go on and on. It’s also no mystery that breastfeeding can have negative side effects. Not only ones that can effect your baby (undernourishment/lack of production/allergy), but more importantly (yes, I know, how DARE I consider myself MORE important than my child!) it CAN (bitches, I said CAN so re-read that before you sick yourself on me kaythanksbye) also have a negative side effect on the mommas. Postpartum Depression is one side effect.

Let me back track a bit. I was grateful enough to have an OB/GYN who has been delivering babies for 37 years. (He’s no longer taking patients, so I’m not going to give his information). From my first visit with him at 12 weeks pregnant (yeah I was a little late in the game finding out I was pregnant LOL) he was insanely good at making sure I understood that I have two jobs once the baby gets here: to keep myself alive, so I can keep the baby alive. Everything else I was able to accomplish was a plus. He said however I chose to interpret that was up to me. And when I was 20 weeks along and found out my child had a 40% survival rate, he prepped me FOR EVERYTHING. Most importantly, the chances of having PPD. It’s not easy to be a mom. But it’s a hell of a lot harder to be a mom with a high risk pregnancy, especially when the condition you have only effects 1 in every 5,000 pregnancies, and currently there is no cure or understanding of how or why it happens. So I could understand why he was concerned that PPD might be something I may suffer from in the future. Which, I haven’t, and I know I won’t because FOR ME (see, there I go again sharing a personal experience instead of generalizing *insert eye roll here*), it’s a mind over matter thing. And I completely understand that for some people it is a real problem, and I HOPE my friends know that I will always be here for an ear, hug or a glass of wine with ZERO judgement. It’s just not something I choose to ever let into my life. But that’s another post, one of which I have saved in my drafts right this very minute. So anyone that has had a NICU baby (we were fortunate enough to not have one, but we were still prepped for the possibility), you know that they stress A LOT about the fact that you might not be able to breastfeed, or even give your baby pumped milk, depending on their vitals.

But I knew I didn’t want to take any chances with PPD– so that was strike one. Strike two was the information on partners relationships with breastfed babies. When my husband and I were doing our research, one of the things that we read was that children who are breastfed can sometimes have a harder time bonding with the non-feeding parent for the first year of life. Well I don’t know if you guys know my husband, but if you do, you’d know that that just wasn’t an option. My husband was MADE to be a daddy. He’s better at being a parent than I am! He is selfless, and nurturing and has the kindest heart out of anyone on this planet. He is not afraid of anything, not even to be a daddy. He has changed diapers, and gotten up in the middle of the night, and taken baths and read to and YES even FED her, since day one. He wanted to be 100% involved and for us to be able to do that, it meant bottle feeding.

“But Lauren, why didn’t you pump then???” BECAUSE IT DIDN’T FEEL SEXY TO ME TO BASICALLY BE A HUMAN COW THANKYOUNEXTTTTT.

“But aren’t you worried about not having a “special” bond with your child?” Listen, my child fucking knows I grew her. She just knows it. I can tell my the way she smiles whenever my husband and I feed her. Or how she snuggles his beard right after she’s done eating, or HAS TO be holding my finger while I burp her. Not to mention how she flails her arms and legs with excitement when she sees that bright pink bottle come towards her face. A connection is a connection. You can’t deny that.

And now that I’ve gone through all the “non-selfish” reasons for not breast feeding, I’ll give all of you that don’t have a stick up your asses my “selfish” reasons.

MY TITS. PRAISE JESUS AND MY MOMMA FOR MY TITS. I love them, I use them, I value them. And I did not want to see those babies take the back seat for anything. Here’s another personal fact, I absolutely LOVE how sexy and confident I feel at all times. It doesn’t matter if I have no makeup on and a blotchy spray tan or a full face and I’m a fucking bronzed goddess. I. KNOW. I’M. BOMB. And selfishly I just didn’t want to jeopardize that.

And then if you don’t know that I’m the queen of a good time then don’t ever read my blog again LOL. I love my alcohol. In fact, my husband and I finished two bottles of wine the second we got home from the hospital. I didn’t want pumping and dumping to cramp my style.

So anyways, all joking aside, I hope I was able to shed some light on why us non-bf moms do it. We don’t do it because we “don’t love” our children. We do it because we love them. We know that we will be able to be better moms to them, if we feel dynamite ourselves. It makes us feel good just like having your child eat from your breast makes you feel good. Isn’t that great that we can BOTH be stellar mommas and do things 100% different? So next time you see or hear a momma talking about why she’s formula feeding, remember that we want the same respect as you do when you whip your tit out in public. It’s all one in the same. We all love our babies just as much as you do.

So let’s focus on supporting our mommy friends, instead of trying to change the way that THEY feel will make them the best mommies to their babies.

Until next time Divas,

LQ

The Journey Begins

Hi Friends! Thank you so much for stopping by. I have always wanted to start a blog– whether people read it or not– because writing has always been a huge passion of mine!

A little bit about myself:

My husband Kyle and I have been married for almost 5 years, and been together almost 11! Yep, high school sweethearts! We have two dogs and a cat who we love with everything we have! We recently became parents for the first time! On Friday, October 5th 2018 I gave birth to beautiful baby girl named Alexiah Rose. And thus started my new “career” as a Stay at Home Mommy who sells Mascara on the internet to help pay the bills (no, really!)

I curse like a truck driver (I blame my father in law up in heaven for that one!), wine inspires me, spray tans fill any and every void in my life and I have re-watched The Office probably 150 times from start to finish. But that’s not why I’m here.

My whole reason for starting a blog is simple: I have A LOT to say. Seriously! If you’ve ever been around me, you know that my mouth and my brain always coincide with one another and I say what I feel! (Queue the snaps in a Z FORMATION, GIRL!) You can’t shut me up! I truly believe in my soul that I am as bad and boujee as they come! My confidence and ability to always say how I feel is something that I value very much. And throughout my young adult life, I have learned that sadly, I’m one of the few women who actually can say that is a quality they carry.

That’s really where this page comes in. If I can help one women SLAY at her life, just by reading my words, then I have done all I have set out to do in this lifetime. Because I believe that every woman is beautiful. And when I say “beautiful”, I don’t just mean physically (although lets face it, I would be more than happy to help some of you in that department, too– just saying!)  While I do believe beauty is skin deep– how you look and carry yourself TOTALLY effects how you feel inside! (And if you disagree with me then start your own blog and we can duke it out like West Side Story!) So I will be sharing everything that defines beauty FOR ME. Recipes, makeup and hair tips, marriage advice, mommyhood and more. Because let’s face it– it’s time to show up FOR YOURSELF, GIRL!

I cannot wait to hear from all of you. I cannot wait to put my two cents out there. I cannot wait to be challenged, and held accountable and truthful.

Let’s do this, Divas.

Until next time.

LQ