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The Secret Stories of the Women around me

Every once in a while, it does us good to be reminded that the unexpected, whether in our public or private lives, can be something worth embracing. Today what I'd like to share is the result of an unexpected phenomenon I've experienced since carrying my young baby with me around town: spontaneous storytelling from unknown women in the community. As these women tell me their stories or make their statements, I often see the look of discomfort in the eyes of those around me. "Why is she speaking to a stranger?"  These women are mostly age fifty or above.I get the impression as they speak that these are stories that create part of their life-engines; these are the memories that drive them, but are often not shared with others. Here's a glimpse at two of the beautiful stories I've been given the chance to hear. ***************** I sit down in the thrumming cafe, my coffee in a take-away paper cup in front of me. I tend to choose take away cups because

Breast may be Best, but collectively, we're acting like tits...

It's Breastfeeding Week and I, like many women and mothers for whom this week is targeted, find myself conflicted and thoughtful about the focus and drive of this campaign. What we see during this week is what you'd expect from a supportive movement: the positives of breastfeeding are listed, there are special offers by companies for breastfeeding mothers, stories of breastfeeding mothers are shared, and breastfeeding pictures are passed around in the hopes of normalizing the act of feeding an infant from the breast. Women who breastfeed often experience a world of anxiety and struggle when it comes to feeding their babies, especially in public spaces. Mums find themselves sexualised, accused of "whipping out" their breasts; sometimes they are asked to move or cover up (incidentally, this is illegal in the UK, but still happens enough that many places of business will indicate with an extra sticker sign that breastfeeding is welcome). Mothers who breastfeed also fac

The Rug that pulled the room together

Going through my history, my therapist stops me to say "it looks like you've been a parent for while," Well shit. That's true. It took me 23 years to be sexy. By the time I was 19, I had a post partum body, breasts and a belly that didn't belong to me, a mind that could lose dates and names like glitter, and a crowd of onlookers who thought I was selfish. (Spoiler alert: it's actually OK to be selfish. Just apparently not for people who are or are viewed as mothers. But this is bullshit so, mothers of the world, carry on. You don't have to bear everyone's burdens.) When men started to notice me instead of cry to me, I felt confused. When women did the same, I felt even more confused. I don't think there's much point in trying to be poetic about this; most histories and sexualities don't fit a metre. Now,  I'm Harry Potter. I have a very real scar from a very real birth, that time that I was left to die, and if you think scars hurt

My Birth Experience and PTSD

I tried to think of a witty title to go with this piece, but ultimately decided to go with a straight forward approach. Writing it makes me cringe a little; it's awfully personal, and really awkward, but not writing it is perhaps worse. I had a complicated pregnancy. With a background of blood clots and a heart condition, I was already at moderate risk when I began my journey with little Eric. I was quickly escalated to high risk when he started having episodes of reduced fetal movement. Eventually, this would lead to a scan that would indicate that his growth was not progressing, and that he'd have to be delivered, fast. So it was decided that I'd have an induction. Now before I go into some of the details of this story, I'd like to clarify that this is not just my perspective. This is the perspective shared by the hospital as well, who have, to their credit, admitted wrong doing in so much as they can without opening themselves up for a lawsuit. I gave birth at a