I am the first person on either side of my family to earn a college degree. Neither one of my parents graduated high school, and neither did I. But I finally got my GED when I was 24 and started the ball rolling.

At 26 I began community college full-time.

At 27 I got pregnant and had to quit school to go to work full-time so I could support my new family.

At 29 I started taking night classes again, but took another semester off while I had my second son.

At 30 I began a full-time evening/weekend program at Loyola University Chicago while I worked all day.

At 33 I had my third baby in the middle of the semester and went back to class 6 days postpartum.

At 34 I graduated. With honors. With a cumulative 3.9 GPA.

I couldn’t have done any of this without my family. I couldn’t have done it without the encouragement and support of my husband. I couldn’t have done it without my Mother-In-Law, who watched my children while I went to class and worked at the library.

My children didn’t like when I was busy. They wanted to know when I’d be done with homework so I could play with them. But I know that when they get older, they will appreciate the example I have set for them. They will respect what I have achieved — and they will be proud of me. And now that I’ve done this, I can go on to achieve even more that they will be proud of. I will be able to create more opportunities for our family.

My children will NOT be the first generation of this family to be educated, and because of that, they will never know the emotional struggle of earning a degree with no familial examples to look up to. They will not doubt that they can be educated if they want to be. They won’t assume that they aren’t the right kind of stock to attend a university. They will look at me, and they will look at their father, and they will know that an education is theirs for the taking.

But I won’t say that I did this all for my children. They certainly inspired me to keep going, because when I looked at them, I saw a rapidly approaching future and knew what I did and did not want it to look like.

In large part, I did this all for me. I did this to fill a void in my soul that couldn’t be filled any other way than to be the educated person I’ve always wanted to be. There’s a part of me that no longer feels inadequate. There’s a part of me that feels released from the shackles of my desperately poor upbringing. And this isn’t about money because we’re still as broke as ever. My education may not ever make me a dime, but I still feel richer now than I did before earning this degree.

That’s why I look forward to starting my Master’s program in the fall. That’s why I’m already thinking about a Ph.D. And I can’t help but chuckle when I think about framing my doctorate right alongside my GED. How many people have those two things on their wall?

Are you a first-generation college graduate? Can you relate to the struggle of that?

But then I got this PR pitch in my inbox yesterday and was so immediately outraged that I thought I was being Punk’d.

What made my jaw drop? THIS:

NO. NO NO NO NO NO NO NO.

WHAT THE HELL?

And here’s the description:

“A breast was the talk of the web yesterday because it made the cover of Time Magazine. The story highlights Dr. Bill Sears, a 70 year old proponent of “attachment parenting.” The cover photo, however, is of Jaime Lynn Grumet, a 26 year old mother and blogger in Los Angeles who posts photos of herself breastfeeding her 4 year old son. Attachment parenting is the theory based on the notion that the strong emotional bond forged during early childhood has lifelong benefits. This cover has hit a nerve with consumers nationwide and features how some mothers have a hard time “letting go” as their children get older. For mothers that feel this way, mimijumi is the answer. mimijumi, is the modern bottle that is breast like in appearance, so that when new mothers introduce this bottle to their infants, babies are less likely to have a problem transitioning between breast and bottle.

mimijumi Key Features

• Innovative nipple design creates a natural feeling and latching experience for the baby
• Free of BPA and phthalates, the nylon bottle is easy to clean and has a wide mouth for easy filling, a screw on one piece nipple, and a non skid base
• The design is based on the psychological dynamics of feeding and soothing items as transitional objects
• Soft silicon nipple is textured and colored to resemble skin, and includes an integrated ventilation system to aid in the baby’s digestion
• available for $13.99″

JesusH. WHERE do I even begin here?

First of all, oh NO YOU DIDN’T just try to convince me that your dumb bottle is the same as the breast. BOTTLES DO NOT MIMIC BREASTFEEDING. And claiming that nonsense is a big ‘ol violation of the WHO Code so take that nonsense somewhere else.

SECOND, If a kid is “too old” for the breast then THEY ARE TOO OLD FOR A BOTTLE. Normal Preschoolers don’t use bottles, they use CUPS. Bottles with nipples are not developmentally appropriate for the mouths of toddlers and preschoolers. My daughter has been drinking out of a sippy cup since she was 10 months old.

THIRD, and I mean, you just cannot be serious here – “For the Mama who Can’t Let Go.” WHO ARE YOU SELLING THIS BOTTLE TO???? Do you actually think there’s some mom out there who’s thinking “Well, I made the choice to continue breastfeeding my toddler, against all the odds, but if there were only a bottle that sorta looked like a breast, I could finally let go of my silly convictions and my toddler would totally be none-the-wiser!”

No. Every time I look at this PR pitch I think it must secretly be an SNL skit. On what planet does a PR company actually think that INSULTING their target market would sell them more bottles? Did they seriously believe that telling someone like Jaime Lynn Grumet that she just “can’t let go” would make her want their product?

I mean WHAT THE HELL.

No. Just NO NO NO NO NO.

Oh wait! What’s this? Jesus? Standing up to breastfeed in (what looks like) his toddler years? I guess it’s because Mary didn’t have a bottle to teach her how to “let go.”

Cleve, ca. A.D. 1520

(Thanks to @FreeChildhood for tweeting that art history gem.)

How would you react if you got this pitch in your inbox?

But then my asshole “Gender Neutral” parenting voice kicked in and I wondered how “neutral” it would be to paint my daughter’s nails. So, in Classic Gina fashion, I over-thought it until I talked myself out of buying a bottle of polish for her. Then I agonized about it on Facebook and people were all, “Dude, as long as you’d paint the boys’ nails, then it’s still neutral!” And then I was all, “Yeah, yeah, you jerks are right – why you fools gotta be making so much sense all the time? Damn!”

So I asked the boys if they wanted their nails painted and they were all “Ughgg! NO! That’s for GIRLS!” and I was all, “Okay chill, Dudes with ‘Tudes, sorry I asked.” And then I was like, “Crap, if my sons won’t let me paint THEIR nails, is still okay if I paint my daughter’s?”

And then the mental image of Jolene’s little painted piggies got the best of me and I was like, “Screw it! I’m going back to the mall to buy that nail polish!”

So the next day after school, I told the boys I wanted to head back to the mall to buy Jolene some Piggie Paint. Immediately, Jonas was all, “But I want nail polish too!” Of course he does! He wants what his sibling has. So I was like “For real? You want me to paint your nails?” and he insisted he did. Then, because Jonas had to have his nails painted, of course Julesy demanded to join in.

We didn’t make it to the mall that day, but then I suddenly remembered I’d gotten a free bottle of Hopscotch Kids nail polish at BlogHer in 2010 and it had just been sitting in drawer. I dug it out, and the boys excitedly held out their fingers and toes and patiently waited while I polished them up. Jonas decided that his nails made him look like a dinosaur, and Jules believed they turned him into a SuperHero (his latest obsession.)

Jonas showing off his manicure

I wondered what the reaction from school and family would be, but I decided I didn’t care.

When I picked Jonas up from school the next day, I asked him how his day went (as I always do.) He casually says to me,

“Oh, the kids laughed at my nails.”

And trying not to show any sign of a reaction, I say,

“Well, what did you say when they laughed at your nails?”

Cool as a cucumber he responds,

“Oh, I told them that lots of boy rock stars have painted nails.”

I smile proudly and say,

“You’re absolutely right. Lots of boys DO paint their nails.”

And he continues,

“I know, Mom. I was right. They were wrong.”

(Where DOES he get that conviction? I have no idea.)

And then without missing a beat, he says

“Can we go to the mall and get some more colors? I want purple and blue and red, too!”

Later, we picked up Jules from school, and I asked him how his friends liked HIS nails. He tells me,

“My friends said ‘Wow!’ They thought it was cool!”

(Apparently preschoolers are a little more progressive than Kindergartners.)

Then Julesy also asked to go buy more colors, and I tried to hide my excitement. I was sure if they knew how giddy this made me, they’d immediately retract their request.

Still, at roughly $10 each, multiple bottles of Piggie Paints aren’t something I can budget for. But I wanted to indulge them anyway so instead I took them to Target and let them buy three bottles each of cheapo $1.25 NYC nail polish (totally toxic, but I’m not letting them drink it or sniff it so I’m giving myself a parenting pass here.) They got yellow, red, blue, purple, black, sparkle, and silver.

That weekend, all the family came over and saw Jonas’s painted nails. Despite having four (yes, FOUR) gay uncles and a gay cousin, my family is less-than-progressive sometimes. My (gay) family has been known to make embarrassingly homophobic comments in regards to my parenting style, so I really expected nothing better when they saw the boys’ nails. To my delight, they started to make some “Why the hell are your nails painted” comments, but Jonas’s poise with the situation really seemed to shut them up. One of my uncle’s (more sensible) boyfriends told me how Jonas had very eloquently relayed the whole story about how the kids had made fun of him at school, and why he knew they were wrong. (Go Jonas!)

But as much as the school incident didn’t seem to bother him, it did bother HH and I. I don’t want to imagine him being picked on at school for expressing himself. So HH wrote to his teacher and asked if she could talk to the kids about it. She responded that she thought it was time to have another class discussion on respecting differences, which seemed like a satisfying answer.

The next time we heard about it, one of the Kindergartners was asking Jonas to come to school the next day with purple polish. I wasn’t privy to the actual conversation, but it sounded to me like the boy might actually like nail polish and is now living vicariously through Jonas’s ever-changing rainbow fingers.

I bet a lot of little boys love to have their nails painted. In fact – here’s a sampling of a couple dozen! These are all submissions from Facebook fans (use your arrow buttons to scroll through the photos):

Postscript: After all that, Jolene has STILL never had her nails painted. I’ve had so much fun with the boys’ I forgot all about hers.

I thought it would be much more helpful to actually DO something to help stop these preventable deaths. In many areas of the world, a simple sterile birth kit costing just a few dollars can mean the difference between life and death for moms and babies. For women in developing countries without access to a clean birth environment and/or careful birth attendant, infection is, and has always been, one of the most deadly causes of maternal mortality. Given that knowledge, I decided to start a fundraising campaign to get inexpensive sterile birth kits into the hands of women who need them, and as I researched this, I discovered there’s a whole group of bloggers doing exactly the same thing!

(I’ve chosen a different method/charity than the others though — one that I thought would be a bit simpler and easier to complete.)

For a minimum donation of just $10 (come on, that’s a couple of lattes) you can buy three whole birth kits for women in developing countries through Birthing Kit Foundation. These kits include:

• A plastic sheet: to provide a clean surface to birth on
• Soap: to clean birth attendant’s hands
• 2 gloves: to prevent birth attendant from transmitting germs to mom or baby
• Sterile scalpel blade: for clean cut of the umbilical cord
• 3 cords: for tying the umbilical cord
• 5 gauze squares: to wipe secretions from perineum and baby’s eyes

Your $10 could save the lives of three women and their children. Birthing Kit Foundation takes that money, builds the birth kits, transports them where they need to be, and tracks the actual use of the kits by the end users.

I’m hoping to raise at least $300 USD for this charity by Mother’s Day – Sunday, May 13th, 2012. I know that my readers can help me do this. I believe you will help spread the word and ask your friends and family to participate as well. After all, what better way to honor mothers across the world than to keep them alive?

It’s so easy! Get your credit/debit card handy and click on the image below to put life saving birth kits in the hands of those who need them.

UPDATE! As of Tuesday afternoon, we have surpassed our goal! And now HealthyBaby Network is going to give us $15 for every $100 that we go over our goal all the way up to $1000! Donate in the name of a mom you love, add a special message to your donation, and send the receipt along to show that special mom how she helped save the lives of other mothers and babies. Do this instead of a Mother’s Day card and you’ve saved both a life and a tree!

Now, share this post and ask your friends and family to help save lives too!

On my 24th Birthday:

Went to Sheffield’s with a huge group of my coworkers, family, and friends. My dad (who was 38 at the time) flew in from Pennsylvania and got me so drunk on Tequila shots that I threw up in the ladies room and got us all kicked out. My dad and my Best Guy Friend escorted my drunk-ass back to my new studio apartment at 2 am and we all crashed on the floor.

On my 34th Birthday:

Spent the entire day in a local hospital helping a mom have a baby. Got home at 2 am and felt just as drunk as the Sheffield’s night, except this time it was caused by a delicious cocktail of exhaustion, adrenaline, and post-birth hormones. My husband brings me pizza and then spoons me while I slip into a light coma.

The Day after my 24th Birthday:

Woke up so hungover I could hardly lift my head without repeating the previous night’s vomit fest. Drove my friend home and crawled back in bed for the day.

The Day after my 34th Birthday:

Wake up hungover from a long, long, long birth only to find that another client has started labor a few weeks early. (WHAT?!?!?) I anxiously drive to the hospital and help another mom meet her baby.

At 24:

I was still playing in Veruca Salt, and that’s what most people knew me for.

At 34:

I’m known for this little blog. Most people don’t even know I play guitar.

At 24:

I had no high school diploma, not even a GED, and never thought I’d find a way to get one.

At 34:

I’ve graduated Summa Cum Laude from Loyola University Chicago with a BA and have already been accepted to a fine Master of Public Health program.

At 24:

I had no kids, no desire for kids, and never thought I’d get married.

At 34:

I’m married with three kids and love my family like mad.

At 24:

I went to work for a paycheck and hated getting out of bed to go there.

At 34:

I go to work as a doula because I love every single minute of it. Even marathon births. Even sleeping upright in a hospital chair. Even when I get doused in vomit, blood, poop, puke, and/or amniotic fluid. Even when I get called to back-to-back births. I love what I do.

__________________________

If you’d told me ten years ago that I’d be where I am today, I would have thought you were nuts. I never wanted kids. I never thought I’d have my education. I never thought I’d give up my career as a musician. But here I am: I have a budding career, that I love, working in and writing about maternal child health. I have a family. I have a college degree along with a couple of certificates and a graduate degree in progress.

I like 34 way better.

These trolls seemed to have found my blog last year through that despicable “Dr.” Amy Teuter, who spends all her waking hours trying to torture every mother she can find into believing that moms who want a peaceful birth are all child abusers. Yes, she’s the author of a post about me actually titled “Feminist Breeder Doesn’t Kill Her Baby.” I will never be able to understand how someone who claims to have once practiced as a doctor can actually type the words “kill” and “baby” into a subject line and not feel one bit bad about it, but there’s no explaining that kind of venom. No reasonable person can understand why she and her twisted followers spent an entire weekend harassing poor Emily Dickey while she was birthing her baby. We don’t know why they published Emily’s home address online and encouraged people to call the police to Emily’s home just to make her birth miserable. Of course, anyone with half a brain knows to stay away from that nasty woman’s toxic vortex of evil and hate. Any intelligent person should realize she only pretends to be a doctor when she hasn’t been one for a long, long time and there’s no good reason to listen to her rants.

But it’s very easy for people to say, “Oh, ignore the haters and they’ll go away.” But that’s not how bullies work. When they want your attention, they’ll do anything and everything to get it. They find your weakness and relentlessly exploit it until you’re shaking in a corner wanting to kill yourself. In an internet setting, these hateful time-wasters create multiple fake email addresses and facebook profiles just to keep coming at you with cruel comments. They act like a bunch of people are agreeing with them, but it’s really the same few people with five fake profiles each. When you delete them, they accuse you of not allowing others to “Disagree” with you. I suppose nobody ever taught them the difference between “Disagreement” and “Being a Raging Belligerent Douchebag” but either way, I don’t allow their types of “disagreement” to take up real estate on my pages. But they’re relentless, and when you won’t give them something to work with, they’ll just make shit up.

It all reminds me of that time in high school.

Yeah, that's me in high school. Thank god I'm not THAT idiot anymore.

In February of my Junior year, I ran off to Florida to live with my bio-mom for the first (and only) time ever after my grandfather spent one night punching me in the face because I brought him home the wrong kind of popcorn. (Not entirely unusual in my house.) I only stayed with bio-mom for three months until I ended up being taken out of her custody by DCFS because she and her husband were beating on me too. Just before school let out for summer, I ended up back in IL living with my grandparents again. (The good news is that was the last time my grandpa ever hit me.)

Apparently my abrupt departure and return to Illinois caused some rumors to start flying around my high school. When I came back for Senior year, one girl found a pretty big audience by telling folks that I’d run off to Florida to have an abortion. It didn’t matter to her that I wouldn’t have needed to go to Florida for an abortion because they’re legal in Illinois. It didn’t matter to her that I wouldn’t have needed three whole months to have an abortion. The truth didn’t matter at all because she just wanted people to listen to her – even if all she had to offer were lies. And when people started writing “Baby Killer” on my locker in big black marker, it didn’t matter to her that I went home crying every day, fueled with anxiety and rage.

I ignored it for as long as I could, but that certainly didn’t help make the rumors stop. They got bigger and more elaborate, and each day I watched this girl gloat in all the attention she was receiving for being the puppet master behind the drama.

So one day, after I found another note calling me a “baby killer” in study hall, I carefully threaded some keys through my knuckles and jumped that girl in the locker room.

Yeah, I’d had enough. I snapped. And the way I was raised, fists did a lot of talking. I got suspended from school for a week, and she got nothing. Apparently sparking a large bullying campaign wasn’t worthy of punishment, but physical retaliation certainly was.

That was 17 years ago. I’ve since broken the cycle, and I don’t solve my problems with violence anymore. I’ve grown up A LOT since then. But it seems that some other women haven’t. There are still grown-ass women who are so desperate for attention that they’ll do anything they possibly can to get it, even if it means calling CHILDREN hurtful names, or hunting down women in the middle of labor to torture them with deranged cruelty.

What have I done to deserve these belligerent attacks? I’ll tell you exactly what I’ve done:

• I stand out here naked and unafraid to tell my story and the stories of others.

• I don’t let people poison MY blog or facebook page with hateful rants against me or anybody else.

• I call out total bullshit when I see it, and I stand up for myself and others.

I’m turning 34 this week. I’m an adult now, and I behave like one. I’m a passionate, yet reasonable human being with human feelings and insecurities and pride and self-doubt.

Will these assholes ever grow up and stop hanging on my every word so they can leave comments telling me what a dumb-fuck I am? No. I’m sure they won’t. Will “Doctor” (Yeah, Right) Amy ever find something positive to do in this world? Probably not. She seems to have nothing else in her life to occupy her time. And as long as I keep finding success at what I do here, they will keep trying to use my platform to act out their attention-seeking aggression. They’ll read this post and immediately start creating new fake profiles to leave me pugnacious comments. They’re staring at this right now working themselves into a frenzy trying to figure out new ways to take me down. “Doctor” (Give me a fucking break) Amy is already feverishly writing her reply to this where she calls me “a narcissist” again and again, like it’s the only big word she knows how to spell.

But people, we’re not in high school anymore. The world – your children – need you to cut your fucking shit out and grow up. And if you’re just someone who’s entertained by these toxic people, you need to grow up too. Find another form of entertainment. Stop being an accessory to these obnoxious bullies. Stop clicking on their links. Stop giving them an audience, or you’re no better than they are.

And if you want to know the truth about me, come ask me. I’ll tell you whether or not I really had an abortion or if I once did something I shouldn’t have. Nearly 400,000 people on YouTube have watched me shit in a tub while pushing out a baby – I’ve got NOTHING to hide.

____________________________

By the way, two of my good friends are moderating this post for me. I won’t see a single thing here unless they let it through, and they’re not going to tolerate any nonsense.

In her first year on this planet, she has already given me so many beautiful experiences and memories. She has taught me so much more about myself, my husband, and my boys than I ever thought possible.

On her first day, she gave me my glorious homebirth experience — and she helped me do the thing I never believed I could do.

Six days later, she came to school with me and slumbered in a sling while I took final exams.

At five weeks old, she accompanied me to my DONA doula training.

At six weeks old, she slept in my arms while I rallied at a Nurse-in.

At two months old, she posed for an Associated Press photographer for an international news story about our homebirth.

At four months old, she watched her mom and dad play a rock show.

At six months old, she flew across country with me to have her picture taken with Ricki Lake.

At eight months old, she finally, finally, finally started sleeping.

And at 12 months old, despite many early breastfeeding challenges, she is still breastfeeding and is my first baby to never, ever have had a single drop of formula. Meeting that goal is one of the proudest accomplishments of my life.

It’s been an amazing year. I’m so sad that it’s over. But I’m so excited to see even more of this gorgeous little person she’s growing into. I already know that my daughter is a feminist because she keeps proving to me that I can do anything I set my mind to. And I will gladly return the favor.

Jolene's First Day Earthside

1 Month Old

2 Months Old

3 Months Old

4 Months Old

5 Months Old

6 Months Old

7 Months Old

8 Months Old

9 Months Old

10 Months Old

11 Months Old

1 Year Old

Happy Birthday Jolene. I love you, so very much.

Why? Because I just got this letter:

“Ms. Gina Crosley-Corcoran,

Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that I inform you that following the review of your application and supplemental materials you have been recommended for admission into the School of Public Health, as an Epidemiology MPH Student in the Epidemiology and Biostatistics Division!”

OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD. Wait. WHAT? Let me read that again. What does that say? IT SAYS WHAT?

IT SAYS I GOT INTO MY MPH PROGRAM!!!!!!!!!!!!

I know what he’s referencing. Jolene makes me feel a special kind of joy. She was my hardest baby ever – with months of crying and never sleeping – but no matter how hard it’s been, I’ve never been able to do anything but smile from ear to ear when I look at her. The minute my eyes land on her face, my pitch goes up five octaves and I’m squealing things like “Who’s Mama’s little punka-chunka-wunka-honey face?? YOUUUUUUU ARE!” and then I plant kisses all over her and threaten to squeeze her until her little head pops off like a dandelion.

I love her so much it hurts. It makes my heart pump a delicious sort of aching all the way through every last inch of muscle and bone in my body.  I mean, C’mon. LOOK. AT. HER!

© thefeministbreeder.com

But HH is just forgetting that it was like this with the boys when they were babies too. I remember loving Jonas so much that I just stared at him and cried. I couldn’t understand how the universe had given me – ME, of all people – such a gorgeous little creature to hug and kiss any time I wanted. I remember thinking that I could never be mad at him. I could never make him unhappy. I was wrapped around his itty bitty finger. Because hello?!? LOOK. AT. HIM!!!

© thefeministbreeder.com

And then Julesy. It was the same with him. I loved him and squeezed him and thought, “There has most certainly never been a baby made EVER that could EVER compare to how painfully cute THIS baby is!!!” I squealed when I was with him, and ached when we were apart. Wouldn’t you??? LOOK. AT. HIM!!!

© thefeministbreeder.com

Everything I felt about the boys when they were babies is exactly how I feel about Jolene now. The truth is, I’m not more bonded to Jolene than I am to the boys. I love all my kids exactly the same.

What’s true is that my squealy-heartachy love that I have when they’re babies changes as they age. I still love them and grab them and kiss them all over (when they’ll allow it). But now the boys are more than little helpless dolls to plant kisses on. They’ve grown into people with strong personalities, who challenge me and test me and push me away when they’ve had enough of me. They don’t need me for everything, and they have no problem letting me know that. If I picked my kindergartner up from school squealing “Who’s Mama’s punka-chunka?!” he’d die of shame and run in the other direction – whereas the baby can’t get enough of my goo-goos and gaah-gas… right now.

Not only does Jolene allow me to slobber all over her, she welcomes it with the cheesiest grin you’ve ever seen. All I have to do is smile at her and she’s happy. I’m a different parent with her because she’s at a different stage. This is what she needs right now, and it’s easy to give it to her. It’s natural. And it was natural with the boys when they were little bundles of joy.

But aging has gotten to them, and it’s gotten to me, and our dynamic is different now. I do miss what we had before, but I learned that it couldn’t stay that way forever. Jolene will start pushing me away soon, and we’ll have our own quarrels and problems. Right now I’m the best thing in the world to her. But soon, she’ll start having opinions that are at odds with mine. She won’t want me to hold her down on the playground and kiss her all over. She’ll make it her job to put distance between us. And I’m okay with that. Love changes and grows.

That’s why, for now, I will squeal and hug her and smother her with love, just like I did for her brothers. I hope that all the extra snuggles I’m giving her now will program her heart and head to know that I will always love her so much it hurts. I want every one of these little kisses to stay with her even when she hates me for not letting her have her way. I want to remember how I buried my face in her neck before she was able to make conscious choices that made me angry.

And it does make me sad that one day soon I won’t have a baby that loves me only the way a baby can. Jolene – my very last baby – will turn a year old this Saturday and my window for unabashed snuggles is rapidly closing.

But that “special bond” that HH witnesses will always be there. It’s just going to transition into something that looks more like the interaction he sees between me and my boys. I’m going to be forced to find a way to express my love for her without holding on and never letting go.

 How has your bond changed with your children as they’ve grown?

But by the end of this particular email, I knew I had to share it. This email is for every woman who has ever doubted herself and her abilities. It’s for every woman who felt denied the opportunity to make choices about her birth or her mothering. It’s for women who never even knew they had choices, or never realized that they wanted choices. This powerful email comes complete with a video that will knock your socks off. I pinky swear.

“Gina,

I owe you a tremendous “thanks.” On April 10th I gave birth to my second daughter at 41 weeks gestation via water birth after the traumatic vaginal delivery of my first daughter that still haunts my dreams. My second daughter entered this world after 3 weeks of prodromal, gun-to-temple labor… after it had been decided I’d have to endure a c section at 42 weeks if she did not come (have a heart condition that does not allow medical induction, it was my cardiologist who said csection and not my midwife. My doula and midwife were very supportive of intervention-free.). She decided on tuesday at 6pm that she wasn’t fucking around anymore (you know, after countless chiropractor, acupuncture and acupressure appointments). Contractions started fast and furious after some nipple stimulation and they never looked back. 4 hours later, a near-crowning car ride to the hospital, and doing everything in my power NOT to push in order to allow the tub to fill and my midwife to make it to the hospital, my daughter Alice was born in two pushes… and I have you to thank for that.

If it weren’t for you, I’d have never learned about midwives… water births… doulas… nothing… and instead of finding myself 2 days postpartum, feeling like I could take over the world and giving my daughter and myself the best birth experience imaginable, I’d be laying in a hospital bed, crying, reliving the hell of my second traumatic birth experience. I would have never, ever done this without your experience, your knowledge, and your words. You give women such strength, such power… I hope you know this. I took control of my body and my decisions for once… trusted that it knew what it was doing… and I never looked back. because. of. you.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for giving me the information I needed to make educated decisions… to not be blinded by society and the media, for I truly was ignorant to such things. I didn’t know I had a voice… had a choice… and I certainly didn’t think my body “could handle it.” Here’s the short video of my daughter’s splashy entrance into the world that YOU gave us the opportunity to have:

You have no idea how indebted I feel to you… I can’t even begin to articulate how thankful I am to have stumbled upon your blog just a year ago…

Carolyne

PS – Yes, my placenta is in the process of being encapsulated AND made into a tincture. Another thing I love you for. Rock on, sister…rock on.”

Isn’t that an amazing story!! And that video!!! So, so wonderful.

I wrote back my many thanks for this new mom taking the time to send me this lovely letter and I asked her if I could share it with you. She said Yes and added this:

The more women who realize “holy shit, my body really CAN do what it was put here to do!” the better. You just never know how many curious women, like me, stumble on your site only to learn that they’re not the stalling, broken, or slow labor machines they’re told they are.

Thank you again (oh, and my 2 year old’s ass thanks you, too, for introducing me to cloth diapering and sparing it the raw, rashy reactions it’d been experiencing for a year B.G. – before Gina)

Carolyne

I hope you enjoyed reading that as much as I did. It’s AMAZING what information can do for a woman’s confidence. Information and support can change a woman’s life. It can change how she feels about her body. It can change the way she looks at mothering. THIS is why I do what I do day after day, even though I have hate sites dedicated to me. This is more powerful than any hate site could ever be. This is worth it to me. THIS is all I ever hoped to offer the world.

No, Carolyne – Thank YOU. From the bottom of MY heart.