V is for Vegetarian! Photo by Renato.

Unfortunately most people, most doctors even, have an antiquated view of general nutrition (oh, government-sponsored-food-pyramid, *sigh*), let alone an understanding of veganism! This can lead to all sorts of confusion -- from the unsolicited advice of semi-strangers to the genuine, albeit unwarranted, worry of friends and family. The truth is that nutrition should be a top priority for every soon-to-be-mama, whether vegan, vegetarian, or omnivore.

When I became pregnant I never a questioned whether or not to remain vegan. I’m a scientist by training, neurotic by nature, and a fiercely fact-driven person. Self-diagnosed with Hyper Productivity Disorder™, I’d done enough research to rest assured that I was making a safe – and in fact an optimal – decision for myself and my baby.

As vegans, our diets are under additional scrutiny. It can be frustrating, but try to stay strong – and keep smiling. Challenge your detractor to provide even one single case of a well nourished veg*n mother birthing a baby who was unhealthy due to dietary deficiency. Then, gently remind them that the American Dietetic Association’s position paper on veganism states that,

“. . . appropriately planned vegetarian diets, including total vegetarian or vegan diets, are healthful, nutritionally adequate and may provide health benefits in the prevention and treatment of certain diseases. Well-planned vegetarian diets are appropriate for individuals during all stages of the life-cycle including pregnancy, lactation, infancy, childhood and adolescence and for athletes.”

If the ADA isn’t enough to quiet their concerns, then how about the United Nations? The UN certainly isn’t the type of institution to give out unsound medical advice. But in 2006, a comprehensive UN report unequivocally advocated a global shift away from animal products.

And finally, just for fun you can always point them towards this adorable and delightful profile of thriving tiny vegans!

My approach to pregnancy paralleled my outlook on life: insistent optimism. Kill them with kindness. You catch more flies with hon . . . er . . . with agave than with vinegar. I countered contrarians with a short smart response and my biggest grin.

“Oh no worries, vegan diets are totally safe (at every life stage) . . . Yes, I get plenty of protein – sometimes more than I’d like! . . . No you don’t need to eat fish, I take an omega-3 supplement that includes both EPA and DHA . . . Actually, many of the micronutrients important for pregnancy are more easily obtained through plants . . . I get my calcium from greens, just the same as the cows do!”

And so it went.

The best education is in experience and leading by example. So log a little research, know what nutrients you need, make sure your meals are balanced and all your bases are covered. Then, relax and enjoy your vegan pregnancy with confidence! When someone questions where your baby is getting its calcium, just ask them where their baby is getting its boron. Okay okay, don’t really do that – no need to be rude.

The point is, don’t let anyone guilt or scare you into doubting your vegan choice. Babies are built of more than just vitamins and minerals. Consideration and compassion and thoughtfulness are all key components in producing a little person. And veg mama, those are things that you’ve got growing, in spades!

For more information on vegan pregnancy and parenting, check out these awesome resources:

• Pregnancy and the Vegan Diet
• Physician’s Committee for Responsible Medicine: Vegetarian Diets For Pregnancy
• Becoming Vegan
• Feeding Your Vegan Infant With Confidence
• The Vegetarian Mother’s Cookbook
• Disease-Proof Your Child

Photo by db photographs, used by Creative Commons license

First, let me say this: I don't have a problem with acronyms in general. I use WTF and OMG and a million others. And of course it makes sense to use shortcuts when you can -- it's not like I'm some sort of grammar obsessive who insists that everyone type out Laughing Out Loud instead of LOL. I'm all for language evolving as usage dictates. But there's a line between using an acronym here and there and the elaborate acronym dictionaries needed to understand most parenting forums.

An Offbeat Mama reader sent me this quote from STFU Parents, a website based on a different acronym:

Basically [using acronyms] fulfills two important needs of insecure people: first, speaking a 'language' only known to a certain social group serves to exclude those not immediately in that group. Secondly, it confirms the bond to that very group and thus includes the person doing it.

I totally recognize the ways in which we all use language to establish connection and commiseration, but when it comes to parenting concepts I think acronyms ultimately result in alienation and distancing. When you don't know what EC means, how can you know if you might want to try it? When someone's sharing a story, and they mention their LO ... who are they talking about? When a mom rattles something off about "I'm stopping BCP so that we can TTC. If I get a BFP on my HPT, then I hope to have a HB and be a SAHM doing CD, CS, and AP --KWIM?" she's speaking in so much code that even women who might be having the exact same experience can't relate unless they've running in the exact same digital crowd.

As J.M. Dodd, Chief Internet Officer of Offbeat Empire said, "Acronyming saves you seconds, and costs readers minutes as they try to translate."

I guess it comes down to this: I hate parenting acronyms because my goal with Offbeat Mama isn't to create an elite squad of moms speaking the same language -- it's to expose myself and my readers to lifestyles and parenting ideas we might not already know about. I don't like acronyms because rather than make information accessible to the curious, it creates a wall of abbreviated language that shuts people out. When it comes to parenting, I'm way more interested in making "fringe" ideas accessible to the mainstream (and mainstream ideas accessible to the fringe!) than I am in creating a secret, special common readers that only my readers know.

When it comes to parenting, I think we need to focus on a common language that helps us share the universality of our experiences.

After 41 weeks of pregnancy, my water broke on May 14th in a gush of drama at our local cabaret club. I slept soundly that night after a shower and woke up that morning with no symptoms of labor. I had 72 hours following my water break to deliver our baby at home, and after that would need to transfer to the hospital because of infection risk. Our midwife encouraged me to start drinking delicious castor oil cocktails to get things going.

I had really hoped that my son’s birth story wouldn’t be kicked off with castor oil. I decided that I should walk to my favorite breakfast spot with my best friend and my husband, about a mile away, to try and encourage my inevitable labor. The morning air felt pretty ripe with expectation; it was a beautiful day.

While carb loading on buckwheat pancakes with delicious fruit toppings at the cafe, we played it normal. Honestly, I can’t remember in the least what we talked about. Every part of the conversation was overshadowed by the knowledge that I was going into labor that very day. I started to really zone out into my own birthing bubble. I felt completely connected to my husband. We were going to have our baby, finally. The news washed over me again and again.

We were home by 11:30. My best friend, Katie, and I prepped the house before she took off, thinking that she would come back later to me going through the motions of what was supposed to be a long and exhausting labor. I called Lynn to get a pep talk about castor oil. What would it do? How long would it take? Would it be terrible? How did it work?

I hated the thought of having to induce anything, but was also so done with being pregnant. I was 3 centimeters dilated, well rested, and mentally prepared. I braced myself after a pep talk and pulled out my (former) favorite flavor of coconut milk ice cream from the freezer. I combined my (former) favorite ice cream, 2 ounces of castor oil, and Perrier for a delicious milk shake. At exactly noon, I downed it before retiring with my husband, Buster, to bed for a pre-labor nap.

At 2:30, I woke with a jolt and checked my cell phone. It was late. I was supposed to drink another shake at 2 if labor hadn't yet begun. I prepared another shake with my (former) 2nd favorite flavor of ice cream.

3:10 rolled around with still no signs of even a Braxton Hicks contraction. I googled “immunity to castor oil” and came up with a good dozen stories that convinced me that castor oil had done absolutely nothing for my system. For a famously fast metabolism, I was sure getting nowhere fast. I yelled down to Buster, “I’M IMMUNE TO CASTOR OIL.”

At 3:13, I had my first contraction and pulled out my iPhone to use the Contraction Master application. I was fairly convinced that showtime was still so far in my future that using the app was just a funny game, but I was also certain that the game was ON, which was exciting enough. For an hour, Buster and I made out, slow danced, and laughed with each other. We were totally going to have a baby! And we are totally in love! Win!

All through this hour, I was having contractions every 1.5-2.5 minutes for about 45 seconds. They were definitely progressing, but were completely manageable. We texted our midwife and doula to let them know that the contractions were regular, but that we were totally in control and not ready for back up. Our doula was off supervising a birth for another couple in our birthing class. That woman was had been at 10 centimeters and pushing since lunch, so we told the doula, “No problem! We’ve got plenty of time!” and carried on with our labor.

Our midwife decided to come over and check me out to see how things were progressing. She figured that she would pop in and then leave us to laboring alone for a few more hours. I bounced on a ball and read my favorite columns in the paper to pass some time. Then, quite suddenly, I hit another level of intensity. I asked for the bag of rice that we had warmed in the oven and found that that bag was just what I needed to get me through the next several contractions. I hung out upstairs in the rocking chair, not realizing that I wouldn’t come downstairs again … for a whole week.

At that point, I still didn’t think my contractions were a big deal. I was doing a lot of deep Ujjayi breathing through them, and found that I could maintain my breath throughout my 45 second long contractions. This had been my plan for labor all along. I had hoped that I could maintain my Ujjayi practice through all of labor and delivery.

I had read a bit of hypnobirthing literature, and though I’m not fond of visualization (frankly, the rainbow visualization technique outlined in the hypnobreathing book made me feel as if I were gagging on a tie-dye moo-moo), I felt as if the 2 breath practices that hypnobirthing waxed poetic about were the same practices I used in my asana practice or to lower my blood pressure during times of stress. I practice that breath control all the time, on the mat and otherwise, and figured I had everything covered.

At 4:56, Lynn arrived for my check up! She watched me move through some contractions before checking me out on the bed. I have to stress here that we all still thought we were in this game for the long haul. We had all the time in the world at that point. We were bound and prepared for a glorious all nighter! Right...?

Lynn checked me out and said “I’m not going anywhere!” I was already a "good" 4 centimeters along and officially in active labor.

We contacted our doula and let her know that I was in active labor. The woman she was with was STILL pushing (uh oh!) and she sent for her back up to join us. Right around the time this call happened, I started to feel a little more intense and decided to get into our bath tub. It was 5:15. The water felt amazing! I couldn’t wait for my birth tub to be ready! My husband stayed with me and held my hand. With every surge, he commanded my eye contact and helped me breathe through.

At this point I realized for the millionth time what an amazing birth coach he was going to be. He was absolutely right there with me for the ride. Up to this point, he had project managed the whole labor, making sure that he executed contact with our midwife, doula, family, and friends. He refused to let anything distract me or stress me out. Now, in active labor, he committed himself to being totally with me and letting everything he had set up so perfectly ride itself out. Our connection, which has been solid since we first met, sparkled.

Around this point, we stopped timing the contractions. It no longer mattered how far apart they were. I was in active labor and time had stopped for my husband and me.

While I was in the tub, Lynn's wonderful assistant, Marion, arrived. Around this point, we stopped timing the contractions. It no longer mattered how far apart they were. I was in active labor and time had stopped for my husband and me. It became just a blur of rushes, coping, meditation and strength from where ever I could find it. Marion checked the baby’s heart rate before, during, and after contractions to make sure he was maintaining. He was doing great, like we all hoped he would.

My blood pressure, on the other hand, was not the best. I’d been trying my best to keep it down for some weeks, and now that the contractions were coming so fast and hard, it was being pesky. The midwives give me some sort of homeopathic powder to put under my tongue that seemed to do the trick. I remember feeling a superhero relief when Lynn gave me the blood pressure nod of approval.

Lynn watched me go through a contraction and declared that it seemed different than the ones before. She was right. Not many rushes later, I had to ask myself if I was being dramatic. It hadn’t been very long and, rather suddenly, I felt pushy. How was that even possible? It was a half hour or so since my 4 centimeter check up. I looked into my husband’s eyes through the next rush. When it was over I said, “I think I feel pushy?” I figured there was really no way I could be so far along. I felt embarrassed for being dramatic when really I expected that I was really only at 5 centimeters. Lynn reached into the tub to check things out. I was at 7 centimeters and in transition! It was 6:20 and it had been only 3 hours from my first real contraction.

At this point, our doula’s back up lady, Mali, arrived. I heard Lynn yell down to her that there wasn't time to set up our birth tub. I stared at my feet in the bathroom and cursed inwardly -- momentarily pissed that we were not going to have our dreamy water birth. Soon, I forgot to think anymore about control over the birth I wanted. At 7 centimeters, I became completely immersed in the birth that we were having. I let it roll over me and completely climbed inside for the ride.

It was 6:30 when I moved to the bed to labor on my side for a bit. I got lost in my transition and barely remember this time. The brain is a funny thing when recording pain.

At 6:48, Lynn checked me again and I jolted into reality when she told me I was 10 centimeters dilated, 100% effaced, and ready to push. I asked her to repeat herself. I was really, truly, completely in shock that I was complete.

At 6:48, Lynn checked me again and I jolted into reality when she told me I was 10 centimeters dilated, 100% effaced, and ready to push. I asked her to repeat herself. I was really, truly, completely in shock that I was complete. I was only 3.5 hours into labor. We pushed through a few rushes on the bed while Marion held my top leg up and Milton coached me. Pushing was painful, beyond anything I expected. My known and trusted Ujjayi breathing was long gone. I breathed however my husband told me to breathe. Pushing felt unproductive and Lynn asked if I would like to move to the birth stool.

Immediately, on the stool, pushing felt so different. The baby was moving. In between contractions, I felt almost as if I was entranced or sleeping on my husband’s shoulder. Every song that the stereo played was one that I absolutely loved, which was convenient since I made the mix myself for this very occasion. My husband was on my left hand side and Mali was on my right. I had just met this Mali, but I already needed her desperately. I reached for her hand with my right hand every time a contraction began. She became indispensable to my getting through this experience.

Between contractions, I was at the same time entranced and lucid. During contractions, I remember overhearing Mali say that I was “a monster” (in a good way). Pushing was the worst torture I’ve ever felt. I hated it so fucking much that I said as much, which I was later ashamed for. Of course it hurts. It’s labor! I told my husband at some point during the final pushing that we were never doing this again. Everyone else in the room laughed, apparently this is a common sentiment.

I can’t tell you enough how amazing the rhythm of these contractions were. Here I was, in the most horrible pain I could’ve ever imagined, and then -- I was fine. At the height of a contraction, I was uncertain of my ability to sustain and survive. In between, I was gazing into my husband’s eyes and thinking about how much I love him, thinking about how the two of us are having a baby who will shape and define the rest of our lives together. I almost forgot that I was in labor in the space between these rushes. I was almost able to forget that another contraction was coming.

When the next rush came, it would start slowly and I would think "it won’t be as bad as the last." I would grab for Mali’s hand and tell everyone, “Here it comes!” Every time it came, it was worse than the one before. I now knew what they meant when they talked about the ring of fire. I knew that it was almost over. I could feel the contour his little face low inside of me. Soon enough, I would have him in my arms. Lynn had me reach down between my legs to feel his head. It was soft and wrinkled, like the skin of a newborn kitten. Feeling him was really surprising to me and, according to Buster, I gasped, as if I didn’t expect him to be there.

In between all the rushes I called down to Katie to check on her. I wanted to make sure she was comfortable. Between one of the contractions, Buster knocked over my water. Marion went downstairs to get me some more because I can’t let go of Mali’s hand. I told Marion that I like my water with lemon, but not with rind. I hate rind! Lynn remarked to Milton that I was remarkably lucid. When downstairs, Marion tells Katie that his head is an inch out. I began another contraction, pushed, and felt madly productive. I heard Lynn yell, “Marion, get up here, I need you!”

Next thing I knew, his head was out. His body was easy after that. It slipped out as if it had no bone. I was in a daze when Lynn’s voice called through our bubble and said, “Reach down! Reach down!” Suddenly, there was this crazy looking blue and white creature in my arms! I was elated! In complete awe! I’ll never forget the first sight or sound of him.

Niko was a sunset baby. This is fitting, because a variation of his name means sunlight in Japanese. My total, runaway train, labor time clocked in at a scant 4 hours and 30 minutes.

At some point, Buster cut the cord and I delivered the placenta. Soon after, Buster took off his shirt so that he could hold his son for the first time! Immediate skin on skin contact is probably something a father and son don't get to experience very often in the hospital. I am so thankful to have witnessed this in our bedroom.

While father and son were together, I stood up to get off of the birth stool and move to the bed… and then proceeded to hemorrhage down the side of the bed and on to the floor. It splashed impressively on to feet and ankles with a sound. I looked down and thought, “They’ll fix that right up.” Buster looked down and thought the same thing. Katie confessed later that she was worried. My doula confessed later that she started to rush from the birth she was attending in another part of the city (that woman, after pushing all day, delivered 4 minutes after I did) because they were talking about having me transferred to a hospital. Lynn gave me a shot of pitocin and put something under my tongue. The bleeding stopped, thank goodness, and I recall being very diligently monitored by Lynn and Marion for some time after while I shook and trembled my way through the shock that my body was experiencing towards the light of recovery.

After this drama, I was really curious to see my placenta. Marion offered to bring it to us to give us a little Placenta 101. This was really exciting! She gave us a stunning class on the different parts of the placenta, showing us the amniotic sac, the tree of life, and the cord. I have to say that I am really very impressed with my body. I just can’t believe I grew that thing! Or that it sustained my son for 41 weeks! Around then, our doula, Cheryl, showed up and made a placenta impression on a piece of paper. I can put both this class and the impression on my long list of things I wouldn't have gotten to experience in a hospital.

Our son was weighed, measured, and checked for the proper reflexes. Niko was 9lbs, 2ozs, and 22.25 inches long.

After our support team left for the night, Buster, Niko, and I worked through our first hours together- figuring out that we were family, grappling with the knowledge that we are all in it for the long haul. Buster and I will never be the same sort of family we were before this little guy’s birth. We are now part of a better, bigger family. We are now parents, and sport a very worthy and excellent son.

We wouldn’t have it any other way, either. I can honestly say without a hint of irony that this is the best thing we have ever done with each other, for each other, and for our family. Parenthood is pretty awesome stuff, already. It is every emotion. It is every worry. It is every sort of elation. It is every sort of love. We welcome it, completely.

The End.

Or, more accurately: The Beginning.

Sammy and Laura: trying...trying...and trying some more.

There were issues from the beginning: first of all, Sammy refused to go on the breast and acted as though I was trying to kill him with my nipple any time I attempted to get him to latch. He screamed like a banshee and flailed wildly; had he any teeth, I'm sure he would have bitten me in his anger and frustration. Even without teeth, he managed to draw blood on a few occasions with his nails -- not exactly the Lifetime Movie experience I had been envisioning in which I cuddled my angelic baby close to me in peaceful bliss as he nursed contentedly while soft music played in the background.

During our time in the hospital, I worked with every lactation consultant on staff in an attempt to get him to breastfeed. Each time a new one would come in, I would tell her of the difficulties I had been facing with Sammy, and they would nod, probably thinking, yeah, I've heard that before but it's nothing I can't handle. By the end of each session, however, they were singing a different tune. One actually patted me on the shoulder and said, "You should be commended for your dedication."

Physically, there weren't any reasons keeping Sammy from breastfeeding; the only explanation that anyone could come up with was the simple fact that Sammy was a lazy feeder and he didn't want to have to work for food. Normally, the solution would be to keep at it until hunger and desperation finally got him on the boob, but that wasn't an option for me as he was severely jaundiced and had to be supplemented with formula every two hours on doctor's orders. In between finger feeding him in an effort to avoid nipple confusion in the future, I was hooked up to a pump while I willed my milk to come in. To say the experience was a little stressful would be an understatement and I felt completely betrayed by my body. How could something that was supposed to be so natural be so hard to do?

My milk finally came in two days after we left the hospital. I was still finger feeding Sammy formula and pumping around the clock, but now I was able to give him a little breast milk here and there. Eventually I was producing enough milk to cover most of his day feedings, but I was far from where I needed to be to cover his every meal. I was also attempting to get him to nurse at every opportunity, but he was still fighting me tooth and nail. My stress levels were through the roof.

At about day ten of doing this I just couldn't take it anymore -- I was trying to get Sammy to latch, pumping for twenty minutes, and then finger feeding him, which took another twenty minutes or so. Then I had to wash the pump and before I knew it, it was time to start the whole process again. So I made the executive decision to bottle feed him expressed breast milk. In my mind, it was the best of both worlds--he was getting breast milk and other people could help me feed him, so it wasn't all on me all the time.

This continued without complication until Sammy hit his six-week growth spurt. I was pumping like crazy, trying to keep up with him, and popping so much fenugreek that I reeked of maple syrup. My supply just would not increase to meet his needs. Eventually his formula feedings began to outnumber his breast-milk feedings. A few days ago, I noticed that I was producing less and less milk with each pumping; on Saturday it took me all day to produce four ounces, which equals one feeding for Sammy. On Sunday, it was even worse; I only netted three ounces for the day. It seems that the proverbial well had run dry.

And so it ends. On one hand, I'm happy with my decision to forgo pumping because I no longer have to worry if what I'm eating will effect Sammy in some way--I can have as much chocolate and caffeine as my little heart desires, not too mention the new-found free time now that I'm not tethered to a pump every two hours. On the other hand, I mourn the loss of what never was. My goal all along was to breast feed for at least six months; when that became a no go, I decided that I would try to give Sammy expressed breast milk for at least that long. Well, at least he got about two months' worth, which is more than Jim or I ever received, and we turned out okay. Besides, Sammy is happy and healthy and that's what really matters the most.

If I had to choose one word to describe Emily's work, it would be FUN!

Emily Photography offers natural-light, on-location (my favorite!) photography in and near the Northern New Jersey area. Basically, if you are in or near New Jersey, there is seriously no reason why you shouldn't be visiting Emily Photography and booking a session, like, pronto. And Emily is giving a session away to a lucky Offbeat Mama reader today, so keep reading...

While she more than rocks family and child sessions, Emily is an amazing newborn photographer. Trust me when I say this -- between unpredictable temperaments and random changings, newborn photography is no joke, and anyone who can pull it off as beautifully as Emily does deserves all kinds of accolades!

Just about everyone I know has a soft spot for a cute naked baby photo, but naked baby TWINS?! The best!

Emily loves shooting with families at their homes, where she can just hang out and capture the family interacting in their comfort zone.

She's got a knack for this line of work -- as she says, "Parents tell me over and over again how that makes all the difference in the world and how their kids warm up to me so quickly and how they 'do better' in my photo shoots than any they've ever had before."

So, New Jerseyians (and beyond!) -- get to it! Visit Emily's website or blog and book a session already.

The Giveaway

• ONE winner will receive a free session from Emily Photography. If you're not in the New Jersey area but have a friend who is, you can enter for them!

Main Entry

• Visit Emily Photography and then leave a comment here telling us what your favorite image is! Even if you don't live in the area, you can enter the giveaway and then give the prize to a friend that does (or spring for a trip!).

Additional Entries

• "Like" Emily on Facebook, and then leave an additional comment letting us know that you did so.

The nitty gritty

• Giveaway closes on September 9 at 9am (PST)
• One winner will be chosen at random from all eligible entries
• The winner will be emailed and must claim their prize within 48 hours or a new winner will be picked

Photo by Mike Rowe.

The “you’ll see” is meant to tell me that while I can be keep plastic guns and knives off our living room floor with baby and toddler boys, there is no way I can do it when they are older. The accusation is that if I do achieve this, I will have those kids who spend 24 hours a day at their friend’s house, avoiding home because their mom won’t let them have the latest recreational-stabbing-simulation game or more than one can of Coke.

I am not naïve. I know my kids will be exposed to weaponry. I know kids don’t grow up to be ax murderers because they shouted en garde in pretend swordfights. But I also know the psychology behind de-sensitivity to violence and aggressive stimuli. I know that when I am at a house without toy weapons, the kids almost never choose violence as their theme of play, and when I am at a house with toy weapons, a kid inevitably pretends to shoot my six month old in the face.

But this isn’t really about toy weapons in particular -- it is about the insinuation that implementing parenting policies supporting your values is all or nothing. It is about the difference between resigning total control in your children’s lives versus total resignation.

For example: your son is going have McDonald’s eventually, so why try avoid fast food and why bother to feed him organics in early childhood? Or, your tween daughter is going to be bombarded with sexuality and unrealistic female images, so why not get her a subscription to Cosmo?

The world is going to give my boys a million options, but my home is where I demonstrate where our family stands. The world will teach them about aggression while at home we will try to teach love and gentleness. The world will teach them about indulgence, and at home we will try to teach balance in mind and body. Even if our kids grow up to think we’re out of touch hippies, my husband and I will be satisfied knowing we did what we thought was right.

When we are at a friend’s house and the toy guns make an appearance, I ask Jonah not to point them in anyone’s face, and that‘s about it. I don’t pretend he will never play with one. Eventually when he wants to know why he doesn’t have a gun in his own house, I hope he will notice over time that the explanation -- guns can hurt people and I don’t like to see you pretending to hurt others -- is backed up by our parenting actions.

We endeavor to instill our values at home without withholding the world, and I don’t think that is anything to smirk at.

Photo by Rachel, used with Creative Commons license.

a) make sure he stayed hydrated during the summer heat
b) give him less milk (24 oz or so a day - including the bedtime bottle)
c) give him less juice

Even the watered-down, no-sugar-added, 100% pure organic fruit juice which we had been giving him was more sugar than he needed, apparently. So what to do, when he just ignored sippy cups filled with plain water? I certainly didn't want our little juice junkie to get dehydrated.

Enter sun tea. I made the first batch for myself, on a whim, and then discovered that Conan loved it. Now I brew it frequently. "Juice! Juice! Jooooooooooooouice!" he says, and points enthusiastically when he sees me set out the big gallon jar on the fence to brew.

I usally use a fruity tea, like raspberry zinger or berry blast. These are caffeine free, brew up to a bright, deep red or purple color, and taste delicious. I don't add any sugar, of course, so it helps to choose teas that are naturally sweet and taste great all on their own. It also costs virtually nothing to make, and Conan happily drinks tons of it. Win!

You probably don't need instructions, but just in case you've never made sun tea before, it's the easiest thing in the world. You don't need any special equipment, although there are some lovely tea pitchers available if you want to splurge. The basics are as follows:

1. Get a big clear jar with a lid. Wash it thoroughly.
2. Fill it with cold water.
3. Put in some tea bags. I usually use 8 bags for a gallon batch. They don't all have to be the same kind, you can mix and match to create new flavor blends. For kids, stick to caffeine-free types.
4. Put the lid on and set the jar out somewhere sunny for a few hours. You'll know it's done when the color is richly developed, or it's night time and you forgot to bring it in earlier in the afternoon. Taste it if you aren't sure.
5. Remove the tea bags, chill & serve.
6. Store it in the fridge until it's gone. I keep it in the same jar I brewed it in, but you can also pour it into a pitcher for easier serving.

You can add lemon juice, mint leaves, ice cubes, frozen or fresh berries, fruit slices, and even sugar or honey (for adults) to enhance the flavor. Drink up!

Today is single parent day on Offbeat Mama! Single ladies (and gentlemen!), pay attention, because Steve is one DILFY (and single!) dude. -Stephanie

This is my friend Steve and his daughter Ruby.

Photo courtesy of cfisherphotography

I know in the past there's been some controversy around our featuring DILFs, with some of readers finding the whole thing trashy and heteronormative, and having concerns over what the "F" stands for. Is it really appropriate to ogle someone else's partner? There was talk of "Well, maybe the F just stands for FRIEND. Dad I'd Like to FRIEND!"

Here's the thing though: when the DILF in question is a single dad, like Steve here -- ladies, the F can stand for whatever you want!

Photo courtesy of cfisherphotography

BOWCHICKABOWBOW! Did I just turn Offbeat Mama into a single parent dating site?

Photo courtesy of Seattle's cfisherphotography

Photo courtesy of cfisherphotography

Steve was a stay-at-home-dad for the first year of Ruby's life, and captured a few of his Papa Tips over here.

Photo courtesy of cfisherphotography

To see more photos from this wonderful shoot with Steve and Ruby, head on over to cfisherphotography!

Today is single parent day on Offbeat Mama! Jasmine's post covers a lot that is fabulous about single parenthood, and also some aspects that are less so. -Stephanie

Eduardo and his paleontology teacher and family friend, Aaron.

Up: You get to name your child without any interference or compromise. Win!

Down: The birth certificate has an ugly and aesthetically displeasing void where it says “father’s/mother’s details”. Fail.

Up: You get to make most of the decisions. Yay!

Down: Many of your opportunities and decisions may be influenced or compromised by financial considerations. Damn.

You get the picture. Single parenthood was something that plagued me in the beginning, for all sorts of reasons. Emotionally, I’d never thought I’d end up a single mum, so it was hard coming to terms with pregnancy on my own.

I cried my way through the handful of birthing DVDs the midwives gave me – they all starred happy couples! I cried more when I saw pregnant couples in the street, holding hands, fawning over pregnant bellies.

Then I worried about money, about returning to work, about not pursuing any of the things I’d always planned to do, how I’d explain to my son the absence of his father.

My advice, as one single parent to another? Worrying excessively won’t change a thing, and it’s an emotional drain. Stop worrying. Move ahead with an optimistic outlook. Make an extended family of your own. Sure, some ups and downs will be far more significant than others, some more poignant.

For example, my son, Eduardo, tends to be a friendly little chap, and recently while grocery shopping he tried to show his toy truck to a man standing in front of us.

“Look!” he said. “Hey, look! Truck!”

Having failed to gain the man’s attention, he then yelled out, “Hey, Daddy! Look at my truck!”

While he knows I’m his mother, and knows what a mother is – he can link other children to their respective mothers – to him, “daddy” is just something to label grown men.

It wasn’t really a huge deal – I was a single mum before Eduardo was even born, and four years later I’m used to it. But there was a poignancy about the moment. While he knows I’m his mother, and knows what a mother is – he can link other children to their respective mothers – to him, “daddy” is just something to label grown men.

It was a bit of a sad moment, but ultimately? I choose not to make a big deal of this sort of thing.

The aim, then, becomes creating a positive, balanced life for our children. One that doesn’t involve missing out on the important things (and the simply fun things), or being sheltered from the reality of a single-parent household.

For the last three years, Eduardo’s carers at kindy have asked if he can take part in making a card for Father’s Day. Of course he can! He has a grandfather! Or he can just give the card to me! I do, after all, buy myself gifts for both Mother’s and Father’s Day.

Eduardo and fellow car enthusiast, Mike.

An example? Kicking a ball. I’m a girly-girl sort of woman, and the most attention I’ve ever paid to balls (don’t be rude!) is the fancy-dress variety. When it comes to kicking balls (don’t be rude!!), I haven’t got a clue. I’ve delegated that responsibility to a male friend of mine, and my sister. She’s into that sort of thing.

Peeing standing up: delegated. Learning about dinosaurs and bones and mega fauna: delegated. Cars? You bet that’s been delegated. Baking cakes and making jam? Hello, Grandpa.

The point isn’t to delegate a heap of ‘masculine’ tasks to males or enforce a heap of gender stereotypes. It isn’t even to delegate specific tasks to specific men or women: I was being a bit facetious above, but I do have a palaeontologist friend with dibs on teaching Eduardo about dinosaurs and mega fauna, and a car enthusiast friend who fancies himself the car expert in Eduardo’s life.

It’s simply a matter of creating a supportive network of close male role models, so that one day he’ll feel comfortable turning to these 'uncles' and 'big brothers' when he needs that masculine guidance. If you’re a single father with a daughter, you might want to arrange for your daughter to have plenty of female role models. And if you’re a single mother with a daughter, you still might want to have some close male friends around (or vice versa), just to create that balance.

Ultimately being a single parent doesn’t need to be a major concern or source of worry at any point. Look around you, identify those you trust, and invite them to become a part of your extended family.