in a stroller

anonymous asked:

Nate with those baby carriers you strap around where you can carry two lil' shits at once, A!Nate's on one side n' Natemare's on the other, vamp on his shoulder, puppo behind him, a shared stroller with pastel and flower boi snugglin, and ghosty and birb boi flying above his head while he's wearing a shirt thar says Professional Dad- fluff anon

*c r i*

This would be true though

If the kids even think about getting out of bed, my dog barks at them.

Apparently, we’re co-parenting with a dog and I like it.

Also, I got a new double stroller today. Not a jogger like I wanted but I think it’ll do the job and then some. Thanks, @somanyminions for the recommendation! My kid cried when I made her get out. I’m excited to take it to the park and test it out.

On the foster care front, visits suck. Foster care sucks. But, my anxiety is better-ish so that works. I wish I had more updates but really it changes from day to day so I’m over it.

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As a neonatal intensive care nurse, Lauren Bloomstein had been taking care of other people’s babies for years. Finally, at 33, she was expecting one of her own. The prospect of becoming a mother made her giddy, her husband Larry recalled recently— “the happiest and most alive I’d ever seen her.”

Other than some nausea in her first trimester, the pregnancy went smoothly. Lauren was “tired in the beginning, achy in the end,” said Jackie Ennis, her best friend since high school, who talked to her at least once a day. “She gained what she’s supposed to. She looked great, she felt good, she worked as much as she could” — at least three 12-hour shifts a week until late into her ninth month. Larry, a doctor, helped monitor her blood pressure at home, and all was normal.

On her days off she got organized, picking out strollers and car seats, stocking up on diapers and onesies. After one last pre-baby vacation to the Caribbean, she and Larry went hunting for their forever home, settling on a brick colonial with black shutters and a big yard in Moorestown, N.J., not far from his new job as an orthopedic trauma surgeon in Camden. Lauren wanted the baby’s gender to be a surprise, so when she set up the nursery she left the walls unpainted — she figured she’d have plenty of time to choose colors later. Despite all she knew about what could go wrong, she seemed untroubled by the normal expectant-mom anxieties. Her only real worry was going into labor prematurely. “You have to stay in there at least until 32 weeks,” she would tell her belly. “I see how the babies do before 32. Just don’t come out too soon.”

When she reached 39 weeks and six days — Friday, Sept. 30, 2011 — Larry and Lauren drove to Monmouth Medical Center in Long Branch, the hospital where the two of them had met in 2004 and where she’d spent virtually her entire career. If anyone would watch out for her and her baby, Lauren figured, it would be the doctors and nurses she worked with on a daily basis. She was especially fond of her obstetrician/gynecologist, who had trained as a resident at Monmouth at the same time as Larry. Lauren wasn’t having contractions, but she and the ob/gyn agreed to schedule an induction of labor — he was on call that weekend and would be sure to handle the delivery himself.

Inductions often go slowly, and Lauren’s labor stretched well into the next day. Ennis talked to her on the phone several times: “She said she was feeling okay, she was just really uncomfortable.” At one point, Lauren was overcome by a sudden, sharp pain in her back near her kidneys or liver, but the nurses bumped up her epidural and the stabbing stopped.

Inductions have been associated with higher cesarean-section rates, but Lauren progressed well enough to deliver vaginally. On Saturday, Oct. 1, at 6:49 p.m., 23 hours after she checked into the hospital, Hailey Anne Bloomstein was born, weighing 5 pounds, 12 ounces. Larry and Lauren’s family had been camped out in the waiting room; now they swarmed into the delivery area to ooh and aah, marveling at how Lauren seemed to glow.

Larry floated around on his own cloud of euphoria, phone camera in hand. In one 35-second video, Lauren holds their daughter on her chest, stroking her cheek with a practiced touch. Hailey is bundled in hospital-issued pastels and flannel, unusually alert for a newborn; she studies her mother’s face as if trying to make sense of a mystery that will never be solved. The delivery room staff bustles in the background in the low-key way of people who believe everything has gone exactly as it’s supposed to.

Then Lauren looks directly at the camera, her eyes brimming.

Twenty hours later, she was dead.

Focus On Infants During Childbirth Leaves U.S. Moms In Danger

Dear High School Lauren,

I have so many things I want to tell you, but I’m going to start with the most urgent. Because of all the ways I’ve seen athletic stories unfold over the years, this is the No. 1 destroyer of dreams.

You’re a young woman, but the sound of the word “woman” makes you cringe. Well-meaning coaches and parents and aunties and grannies and inappropriate uncles comment on the changing bodies of girls–not yours yet but those around you. It’s coming. You know it’s coming.

You notice what happens sometimes to female athletes. She hits puberty; her times get slower or plateau. She is confused; she is working harder than ever. Clueless adults who are overly invested in her “performance” will grieve, as if her worth is based solely on PRs. This makes you scared of growing up.

Seeing girls go through this is confusing because there is a story once told to you about running: “You get out what you put in.” You’ve heard there is a direct line between effort and improvement, between wanting it more and winning. This is a “truth” written by men, based on the experience of boys and men. Your male teammates are bathing in testosterone, a dramatic performance enhancer. You will not. You are about to bathe in different hormones, hormones that, more often than not, temporarily interrupt that promised straight line of improvement. What you need are knowledgeable coaches and parents who know how to support you during this time, to let you know it is normal, to celebrate you through development, who can zoom out on the big picture, because it is at this time that many girls give up.

You’ll see girls react to a changing body in three ways: give up, ride it out, or fight against it. With 100 percent confidence, I can tell you the best choice is to ride it out. The best is yet to come.


You will go on to race at a NCAA Division I university and watch several girls do whatever it takes to fight their changing bodies. But before you choose a school, you will go on visits. You will have meals with the teams and notice they do things differently. There is the school that has “salad with dressing on the side,” the school where everyone orders “no gluten and no dairy,” the school where the girls bring their own food from home to the restaurant… Go to the school where people order a variety of things: the burger, the chicken sandwich, the salad. Go to the school where you can order french fries and do it without shame.

Go to the school where the majority of girls look athletic and healthy, with hydrated muscles, and get their periods. Listen to how they talk about themselves–and one another. Listen to what they value.

Do they value effort or performance? What do they worry about openly? Fixations on their appearance? Or do they lift one another up to be good teammates and performers? Do they value themselves and one another by time and place and weight? Or by the whole package of who they are as people?

How do they treat the teammates who are struggling physically or mentally or psychologically? Do they isolate them? Talk behind their backs? Do they have empathy and compassion? Do they call one another up?

Like it or not Lauren, you are a woman. A strong one. Your body is at some point going to become what it is meant to be, based on a long line of strong women who have survived generations in a tough world. For most of the time, and in most cultures, what is happening to your body would be celebrated with ceremony. Women are powerful beyond your imagination. You cannot reach your power by making yourself small. And yet in competitive running, you will find yourself in a world in which you feel pressure to do just that.

Let me speak to the competitive dream chaser in you now.

You can be fast and a developed woman. In fact, you can only reach your ultimate potential if you let your body go through its changes. If you get to the dips and valleys and fight your body, starve your body, attempt to outsmart it, you will suffer. You will lose your period. You will get faster at first. And then you will get injured. And injured. And injured.
Depending on the methods you used to fight your body, you may end up destroying your relationship with food and sport for years to come. You won’t go this far, but you’ll see so many of your friends and teammates do this. In your age group, the mortality rate from anorexia is 12 times higher than any other cause of death. You will see some come close.

You will see this so much, fed by reckless coaches, fed by unhealthy team culture, fed by the desire for short-term success, that it will break your heart. It will break your heart so much that it will be difficult for you to watch many of the top high school and college races after you graduate. So many young athletes will reach out to you for help. You will learn how destructive and reckless so many coaches are, and you will want to find a way to change things.


I need you to know, I PROMISE you, that the ultimate star you are chasing is further ahead than any shiny thing you see now. The way you get there is to protect your health and protect your love of the sport above all, even as you reach for the shiny goals right in front of you. You simply do not know and cannot predict your personal path, but you’ll get there. It will look different and brighter and richer and more multi-faceted the closer you get.

I need you to know, you have always been more than a runner, more than your times, more than your state championships, more than your school records. But you will get confused. You will forget. Luckily you will have teammates and family and friends who remind you. You will go on to do almost every single thing you could have dreamed of, not in the way you imagined, not on the timeline you imagined.

And when you retire from being a pro runner after 12 years, you will be surprised at what ends up being most valuable to you. Your medals will be in a box somewhere, and you’ll never look at them. Your proudest accomplishment will be a race in which you finished last because in that race you were tested more than ever and you were brave.

Finishing seventh in the entire world in the 5K and having a bronze medal in cross country brings you a smile, the same smile as winning league with your team as a freshman in high school, the same smile as breaking 5:00 in the mile for the first time. The real life-changers, the memories that make the peach fuzz on your cheeks and the hairs on your forearms stand up, those will be braiding your teammates hair in the 15-passenger van on the way to a race; a random tempo run along a sidewalk past a gas station where you felt like you were flying while home on Christmas break; descending a forest trail at camp behind your best friend with your arms outstretched in flight; running at night with someone you are falling in love with; pushing your baby in a running stroller for the first time; passing under a canopy of trees temporarily blocking the rain on a cross country course you can’t remember the name of, the sound of your feet squelching in the mud while chasing your rival.

Protect the opportunity to make memories like those for a lifetime. You’re going to be OK being all of yourself. Make sure your teammates know it too.

Love,

Lauren

—  Lauren Fleshman

For mother’s day, I want to talk about being a young mom.

I willingly married at 19. At our honeymoon, my husband and I decided to leave it to God as to whether He would give us a baby. And He did! We were unemployed and dependent on family, but our pregnancy pushed us to find independence and take root on our own. He got a job that paid well after some promotions, and I became an NFP instructor.

We purposely planned our second daughter’s pregnancy last year when I was 22, and gave birth last December. After some time as an independent family, we are now living with my dad as we save up money for our own house. My husband works hard from home, and I am on the precipice of publishing my first book. Again: this baby is pushing us to do better!

We have been married for four years this June, and already have two babies before I’m even 25. And we hope to have more in the future! Our dreams of babies and raising kids unfold before our eyes every day. I can not even begin to explain the love and frustration, hardship and joy, that parenthood has given us. It is truly sacred.

But, people look at me funny as I bustle about with a 3 year old in her stroller and an infant in my ring sling.

People I meet will make comments, whether subtle or upfront, amused or unkindly. They ask sensitive, rude questions that are none of their business. Some here even accuse my intentional pregnancies of being “accidents”, because I am (apparently) too young and inexperienced to know how to avoid pregnancy (at least naturally, via NFP).

Firstly, “accident babies” happen for all sorts of reasons regardless of the mother’s age, and are blessings no matter the circumstance. We are never truly in control of our fertility, and it is foolish to think so otherwise. I can AND will accept any children God blesses me with.

Secondly: young mothers are so much more capable than society wants to admit. Why are we smart enough to take on college and STEM careers, smart enough to achieve responsible, active, and childless sex lives, yet too stupid to be mothers (much less married)? Why are we only good enough for the world if we make ourselves sterile until some magical age limit is reached? Why can’t we earn that diploma or degree with a baby on our hips, or a child on our laps? Who set down these ridiculous, non-existent rules limiting childbearing women?

More importantly: How dare they? How dare they even ATTEMPT to limit women like me?

I am 23, and a proud momma of two amazing, sensitive, and loving girls. I have a wonderful husband to help father and raise such awesome kids. God chose motherhood as my path towards sainthood and I accepted with fire in my heart. During this journey, I have become a passionate fertility awareness instructor and advocate, helping women know their options for health and relationships. If God ever leads me towards another specific career or educational path, I know my children will not hinder me in that goal: they will accentuate it.

I am a young mother. I will forever be a mother for the rest of my life, no matter how old my children grow to be. And my motherhood journey has never held me back! To anyone who thinks otherwise: watch me as I continue living life passing you by and achieving my dreams, my lovely children by my side. :)

Happy Mother’s Day from my family to yours!

Kiwi: Part Five

A mini-series based in Jamaica during the writing/recording of Harry’s new album. Enjoy. x

Kiwi: Part One // Kiwi: Part Two // Kiwi: Part Three // Kiwi: Part Four



He woke up to the sounds of the ocean kissing the sandy shore.

He couldn’t remember what time they finally fell asleep the night before. Sleep had already started to overcome him during the last little bit of the night so he hadn’t been fully conscious, but he did remember a few things: stealing soft kisses and gentle whispers, and the sound of her laugh harmonizing with the sound of the waves. 

He’d never seen her that relaxed before, and it brought her to a whole new dimension that only made him fall even deeper—it was almost like she was a new person every day. Like she was constantly shifting into new versions of herself. 

He turned over in the bed to look at her—she was laying on her stomach, one of her arms resting by her head as the other remained down at her side. Her shoulders were rising and falling calmly with every breath that she took, and it was almost soothing to see her this relaxed—she had this resilient intensity about her all of the time that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and watching her sound asleep was perhaps the only time that he saw her with her defences completely lowered.

He groaned inaudibly as he gently rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, sitting up in the bed carefully as not to wake her up. As much as he wanted to stay, he needed to get back to the studio to keep working. He slipped out of the bed and padded across the room quietly, and after some debate, he decided to leave her a note. He didn’t want her to think that he was running off, but he also didn’t want to wake her—he wrote her the note and left it on the bed beside her frame, slipping out of the little home and making his way back to the studio.

She woke up hours later, to the beeping of her alarm going off on her watch.

Keep reading

ellitree  asked:

How do you find time to parent, work and fandom? I just had a baby in Jan and I haven't had time to *read* fic, much less write it!

Okay, so IMO the first year totally sucks!  And then–spoiler alert! - the second year also totally sucks!–which I personally found shocking because I thought, oh, it will get better, and then, no, it didn’t. And then there’s all sorts of despair that sets in. And you think, my god, nobody told me there was so much fucking manual labor in this, I did not go to school for for my whole fucking life and get all these degrees just to be carrying an enormous stroller with a kid in it down three flights of stairs, ow, my spine!  And I am covered in bruises! And then maybe you start to drink, you know, just a little, to deal with the colossal, colossal boredom of watching a small person lurch around from thing to thing because it is OMG SO DULL and yet you know for a goddamned fact that should you, say, look away for TEN SECONDS or try to read a page of writing they will KILL THEMSELVES and it will be your fault. (Ask me about how my son managed to hurt himself with a salad spinner.  No, don’t ask me. I still have PTSD.) Anyway you live like Alex in Clockwork Orange with toothpicks holding your eyes open, captive to the dullest show on earth. You will go on vacation and realize, no, this is not a vacation, this is just about watching the small person even more than usual because they are in new situations that can kill them, many of them now involving water. (Ask me about–no, don’t.) Your nerves are in shreds. And you think, wow, I will never get out of this and plus this child is getting heavy and still pooping himself, and I still have to lift them up onto the goddamned changing table. 

And then just when you’re about to give up, somewhere in the next year, between 2-3, they suddenly figure out the toileting thing and begin to say things like, “hey, can I have a bagel?” and honestly, from that point on it is more or less smooth sailing in my experience, at least comparatively. Once I wasn’t having to cart around formula and weird toddler meals and food and jars and diapers and wipes and all that stuff, fencing everything in, gates everywhere; once the kid could use the bathroom and ask for a bagel, it was like, okay, I can cope from this point on.  

Then there is what me and my friends call the five year facelift, because all of a sudden people go, “Hey, wow, you look great!”–because around year five they suddenly go to school for a big chunk of the day. And suddenly you can take a real shower and get your hair done and go to the gym and wear a shirt that’s not covered in baby spit and/or that you haven’t slept in, and your skin clears up.  

Your mileage may of course vary! I am told that many people really like small children and prize the early years, blah blah, baby smell. I am not one of those people. Things are to me infinitely better now that my son is a young hedonist with a sophisticated palate who shares my love of travel, who I am teaching to play cards with me as the mark of a civilized person, and who I am waiting to be old enough to bar-tend and clip for me from the London Review of Books.

Vis a vis work, I was pretty tired and there is a 2-3 year publishing gap on my CV, where I made a person, you know?  I missed deadlines for the first and only time in my life, which made me feel horrible. Vis a vis fandom, I now and then go back and read my Sherlock stories, which were the ones written during those years, and I am surprised to find that they’re quite good, considering that in my memory I clawed them out of my eyeballs word by agonizing word while screaming. The writing came back, though, like it did after I quit smoking (the other time I thought, yeah, I’m done - but I wasn’t done then either.)

I’m sorry, what was the question?

Witnessed baby of the year on the metro today. This little guy was being held by his mom and sat next to my mom together with his older brother. He saw his brother eat puff corn and just reached into the bag. Instead of eating one himself he started feeding his brother. So helpful. Then his mom noticed he was in his socks and shocked goes like “why are you in your socks?? did you drop your shoes somewhere???”. This baby just took off his shoes randomly and was living the breezy life feeding his brother puff corns on the subway. Respect.