LuLaRoe and The Incredible Irma

Okay, so yeah, I'm over here working my tush off cleaning my kitchen floor (seriously, you don't even want to know the details), and my thoughts keep coming back to, "Dang am I comfortable!" 

Today I am in the beloved, top-selling outfit for moms everywhere, the Irma top and butter-leggings! I tried to figure out how on earth to show it to you ladies with only myself, a three-year-old and a two year-old at my disposal. So here's my Real Housekeepers Of America pin-up, so you can see the AWESOME combination of baggy tunic with flattering fitted sleeves. 

 

I have been all over the place with this top.  I thought it made me look like a bag lady the first time I tried it.  That was with the recommended two sizes down from my actual size. Bag lady. Two. Sizes. Down.  What the heck kind of top is that?  Next I was in denial and tried out an Irma in my actual size.  This time I was beyond bag lady. I'm talking sail boat proportions. It's a good thing I didn't step outside, because it was a windy day and I probably would have made it to New Mexico. Bag lady. Kite lady. Finally I tried again, but I went only one size down, to go for a legitimate tunic/dress type look.  Ladies. This is it.  Goldilocks freaking loves Irma tunics now.  

It has the perfect balance of flowy fabric, with the fitted sleeves. It doesn't hug under my arms like your average top, which means no sweat circles!! Say what?! I am a sweaty gal. I love this feature. And let's not forget the length! For some the idea of a booty in leggings is a sin, for me, I love but don't flaunt my baby apron, left over from having two kids in two years. The Irma is coverage. Rock those crazy leggings like you are still 16, but throw an Irma on top and you'll look as fab (and appropriate) as you feel.  

Coverage.

Bag-lady fashion potential.

Mom life.

But the Irma doesn't stop there. Like every piece of LuLaRoe you can up-style the life out of this top. Seriously, instead of ogling desserts you'll never bake on Pinterest, just look up the world of possibilities with Irma. Belts. Knots that look like roses. Cinching in the waist with a hair tie, for an ultra flattering look. Irma as a swim suit cover-up. All this, and no underarm sweat circles.

Go on. Get an Irma. 

 

To join my to-be boutique, have a chance at winning some LuLaGoodies, and follow along my LuLaRoe journey, join my group here: www.facebook.com/groups/LuLaRoeSerenaMcRae

To follow me in Instagram: @lularoeserenamcrae

Growth!

Six months ago my mornings were a mixture of depression and anxiety about the following day. If there was dishes in the sink I would literally cry through washing them, while my children screamed for breakfast. Some days I would forget to feed my children until lunch time, because I was too depressed to feed myself. I was malnourished. I was given doctor's orders to drink protein shakes even when I didn't think I could. I needed more than I was giving myself, but I thought more sleep, more peace and quiet was what would heal me.

I visited my sister, who is an early bird, and she had to wake me up every morning. She, as older sisters do, told me, "You don't need more sleep. That's not the answer. You need more activity. Get up early, set a schedule."  If someone else would have said this to me, I probably would have given them the, You-Don't-Know-What-You're-Talking-About-Because-You-Don't-Have-Children Speech.  But my sister is different.  As one of the strongest, most independent women I know, I was like, "... Okay."  

And I did. 

I went home and set my personal alarm to 7:00am. And the next morning I didn't snooze it. I made my kids breakfast. Nobody yelled at me. I didn't cry.  Did I take a nap with my kids that day? Heck yes I did!!! But this time, I deserved it.

This decision to change has snowballed, and it hasn't stopped.  My visit with my sister was just two months ago, and since then, I have walked three mornings a week at 8am, and my enthusiasm has gotten a friend to join me on those mornings, and is helping him battle his depression.  The other days of the week I get up and start my chores without delay. 

But that is not all.

I finally decided it was time to take charge of all of my habits. I joined Weight Watchers, and lost 8 pounds in my first month.  I am about to reach a weight I haven't seen for over two years.  I am planning meals, and buying more produce, and actually eating it before it goes bad!  And you know what?  I can take my kids out for ice cream, watch their joy and not feel sad.  I am finally balanced and happy, and claiming more healthy habits in my life!  And when I absolutely need some Super Nachos from Paco's, I budget it into my day, and I eat it, and I love it!

I decided I needed time for me, so I reached out, and found a job, photographing inventory for a LuLaRoe consultant.  One night a week, I get to chat with a lovely woman while doing work that makes my back hurt, and I get to think about exposure and white balance, while doing something that directly blesses someone else.  And then I take home my paycheck in clothes, drape them over my shrinking body, look in the mirror and love myself.

Today I got up at 7:15am, did a load of laundry, washed all the dishes and cleaned the counter tops, hung up the laundry to dry, walked two miles, sweated out an entire pound, showered and fed my kids all before 10:30am.  Six months ago I would have climbed out of bed at 10:30 in tears

And then I realized that I now have the confidence and the capability to run my own business, and to do it well. So I took the plunge and signed-up to sell LuLaRoe. I'm going to make money. I'm going to have something that is mine. I am going to help my family gain financial freedom.  And among these goals I am going to make it a top priority to help women see themselves in a new light.  I want to help women to transform their confidence and their lives the way that I have in these past months.  I want to help them love themselves, the way I have learned to love myself!

 

If you'd like to join me on my LuLaRoe journey, feel free to join my group! https://www.facebook.com/groups/1588650218132032/

Self-Love and LuLaRoe

Let me tell you a story!

I had my two babies very close together. By the time I was coming out of the babymoon of my second baby, I didn't have a single piece of clothing that fit right. Everything has been stretched to 41 weeks pregnancy size, and spit up on, and stained and I just wore these ratty old clothes and it made me feel like a martyr to the cause of motherhood. 

A year later, I had bought a couple of jean shorts and some new tee shirts, but nothing seemed to fit right after all my body had been through in the last two years. Then enter LuLaRoe! I was invited to a party on Facebook, and saw a maxi skirt that I would have rocked in highschool, but I felt like, as a martyr to motherhood, that I was destined to wear stained black and grey for the rest of my life. 

I got crazy for a minute; I bought the skirt.

 

And then I was suddenly enveloped in this incredible world of self-love.  These clothes were made for me! Who else refuses to buy yourself nice clothes because you want to reach a weight-loss goal first? That's what I was doing. Eyeing a $150 dress from mod cloth, that I could buy when I lost 60 pounds. It felt like punishment and torture.

Then I bought myself a $48 knit dress, with a full circle skirt, that was blue with red sunglasses all over it. It was BETTER than that mod cloth dress, and it was kind to my body. Suddenly, in the middle of my weight/loss journey, I had an adorable dress, that rocked my body, and felt good! I didn't have to fidget with it or be embarrassed. I posted a picture in my new dress on Facebook and found a community of women who lifted me up, and reciprocated to me that I am beautiful! 

I. Am. Beautiful.

 

A year later, now finding the most measurable success with Weight Watchers, I have signed up to become a fashion consultant to this company that has helped to lift me up. It has helped me to not plan to reward myself when I get there, but to reward myself now, while I am on the journey, doing my best! I deserve it! I deserve it for doing well, for being healthy, and for being and LOVING me!

Thank you LuLaRoe, and thank you Weight Watchers! 

And thank you to everyone who has supported me on this journey! Let's open the doors to self-love to as many women who want to come in!

Feel free to join me on my journey here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1588650218132032/

 

Why I Chose To Feed My Babies Formula

I have taken a very long time to sit down and write this.  In a recent attempt to express myself on Facebook, I got cold feet and deleted my status immediately.  About two minutes later, my phone buzzed, and I received an essay from a good friend, thanking me for speaking up, sharing her own traumatic experiences and her decisions that lead her to be swollen up with guilt, yet essentially saved her child's life. She urged me to tell my story when I felt ready, because she believed many other women needed to hear it, just as she did. 

So here it goes: 

Breast Is Not Always Best; Why I Chose To Feed My Babies Formula

From the first day I found out I was pregnant with my first child, my phone was ringing off the hook with insurance interviews, surveys, doctor surveys, parenting surveys and the like. My web browser and email flooded with options to complete a survey for free samples, and then I had ongoing interviews with each check-up with my OB, and eventually my pediatrician.  One of the main questions I was always asked was, "Formula or breast-feeding?"  Proudly, I would hold my head high and brag, "I plan to breastfeed exclusively."  It just made sense.  And it's free.  It's what my body was made for, and I believe more than many people I know that our beautiful bodies are incredible machines that can do incredible things, if we give them the chance.

I packed away all my free formula samples that flooded my mailbox.  I received baby bottles as gifts, and threw them down in a drawer and never took a second look at them.  I was creating life, and I was anxious to see what my body could accomplish next.  I spent hours on parenting and baby websites reading in-depth articles of child development, and understanding infant poop.  I did absolutely no research on breastfeeding, I just knew that my body could do anything.

When the day finally came, I was stocked up on nursing paraphernalia, and I headed off to the hospital already sporting my Motherhood nursing bra I specifically chose for labor and my first breastfeeding bonding time.  

A few hours later my baby girl was born, and I was attempting to feed her for the very first time.  Those first few hours are hazy in my memory, due to blood-loss, anemia and pain medications from a severe tear.  But I remember smiling ear to ear, and giggling as I helped nourish my dependent, precious little munchkin.  I knew we would be naturals at breastfeeding, and I would finally get to experience the breastfeeding high that so many women described.

Then enters the breastfeeding consultant.  A stout, grey-haired woman with a harsh voice, who immediately told me I was doing it wrong, and began laying her hands all over my precious peanut.  I was surprised at her abrasiveness, but was determined to do my best, so I did everything she said, and my stress level rose for the first time.  I became anxious that if I was doing it wrong, my baby would starve.  I became harsh to my husband every time the baby would cry, and he would take a second to stretch before delivering the baby to my hospital bed.  In my mind, in that second of hearing my baby cry, she was shriveling before my eyes, choking over her desperation for nutrition.  In that moment of hearing her cry I was the worst mother on the planet.

Of course all mothers have feelings of inadequacy, and are often overwhelmed with their new responsibilities.  It is a part of how our brains are wired.  The mess of hormones that runs through our bodies is determined to make our baby our number-one priority.  And I accepted this as fact, and continued to breastfeed my baby.  Within a couple of days, my husband began to worry as he would watch me become an emotional, sobbing mess every time the baby was hungry.  A few days later, I would anticipate the baby waking from her hunger, would experience let-down and would immediately crumble into a pitiful worm, begging release from my responsibilities.  

We argued about pulling the formula samples out of the bottom drawer and giving the baby a bottle.  My husband threw all my words, once spoken with pride, right back at me.  "Breast is best," he would say.  Eventually he would make the baby a bottle, settle down to feed her, and I would pretend to sleep, while my mind would race with self-defeated thoughts, "I'm a failure.  I'm a horrible mother.  I'm choosing to give my daughter a second-rate life.  She won't be as smart as her peers.  She's going to get sick more often.  All because I am not strong.  All because I am a weak failure."  And I would cry, silently, until everyone was back asleep.

Each time I gave my daughter a bottle, my determination to breastfeed would double.  Until I would experience let-down, then I would once again crumble into a wreck, twice as depressed as before.  A few weeks after my daughter's birth, I opened my weekly email to read about her development.  The opening statement was, "By this point you are probably breastfeeding your little one in your sleep!  Great job!"  I don't remember reading any further, because the frustrated tears in my eyes were once again affirming the fact that I was a horrible mother, who still couldn't get my infant to properly latch, and who couldn't feed her a drop without melting into an embarrassing display of self-pity.

Yet I continued to breastfeed.  By the end of the first month my husband was almost used to coming home to me with swollen eyes, deep, exhausted sobs, taking the baby away from me, and sending me to bed.  What he didn't know, until a short time ago, was that the majority of those tears were not due to the physical pain of breastfeeding, but to something else entirely.  We've all heard stories of people finding babies abandoned in dumpsters, and wonder, with furrowed brows, "How could anyone do that?"  Well, at a month post-partum, I found myself empathizing with the mothers in those stories.  I could actually picture myself leaving my baby, alone, in a dumpster.  I had flashes of images , leaving my precious child alone somewhere, and walking away for good.  And it terrified me.  I would clutch her as tightly as I possibly could, and I would sob until she was finished eating, my husband would whisk her away, and I could finally relax.  I loved her when she was not in my arms.  Guilt filled my soul.

At the end of her first four weeks of life, I told my husband, "I am of no use to anyone like this.  Every time I breastfeed, I just can't handle life.  How can I nurture our daughter if I can't even function?"  And he went strait out, and bought our first can of formula, and a breast pump.  I began pumping faithfully, and every single time I did, my self-esteem would plummet.  Self-depreciating thoughts filled me, but when my daughter was safely in her crib, I could put on a movie, and ignore my emotions.  I watched a lot of movies.  The more that I pumped, the less and less milk I would produce.  It could have been a reaction to my prescribed birth control, but I truly believe that I willed my milk to dry up.  As I said previously, I believe our bodies can do incredible things.  And I do believe that my body understood before I did, the mental destruction that occurs when I experience let-down and express milk.

I will never forget the first bottle that my daughter quickly devoured.  The peace that I felt while watching her get the nourishment that she needed.  My mind was clear.  Finally, I was able to feel the emotional reward that new moms always describe.  For the first time in her little life, I was able to love my daughter.  

Our relationship finally began to flourish.  Oh, how I loved that baby!  We went on walks to the park, would lay on a blanket by the pond early in the morning and I would fall in love with her more and more every time she gave me that satisfied look of true happiness and trust.

I continued to beat myself up about not being able to handle breastfeeding.  I made excuses about why I couldn't do it.  I told everyone it was my OB's fault for giving me a bad birth control pill.  It was easier to lay blame on someone else, than to admit that for some reason I can not mentally handle the act of breastfeeding.  I played the victim.  And I would never feed my baby a bottle in public, because in my eyes, every single look was a look of ridicule.  Even though I knew in my heart that I was giving my baby the best that I could give, I felt as if I was cheating her out of what she deserved.

Months later, I read a Facebook post from a breastfeeding advocacy page, about a woman who experienced extreme depression with let-down.  I read her story, and everything she said was exactly my story.  This woman had sought out doctors and professionals all around the nation in her desire to continue breastfeeding her child.  They concluded that in a rare amount of women, during the experience of let-down, there is a complete blockage of dopamine to the brain.  No dopamine = severe depression.  Finally, I was given validation.  I might be rare, but I am not just a weakling.  The woman I read about chose to be safely medicated, so that she could continue breastfeeding, but I was so far gone, I had no desire to go back.  I loved my formula, my daughter loved her bottles.

Fastforward to the birth of my second daughter.  Two years later, and I hadn't ever shared my story.  In the discussion to breastfeed, my husband and I had agreed to give breastfeeding a shot, but if it proved an emotional burden, that it was no longer do-or-die.  I breastfed my newborn for her first week, in which I would, once again, crumble to pieces every time let-down reared it's ugly head.  I decided to attempt to pump, and after a week of crying through every pumping session, I reached the point that I couldn't physically raise the flange to my breast.  

That very day my husband told me, "You are an incredible mom, you have revelation for our children, and I trust you completely."  He went strait to the store for a can of formula without a second thought.  It was that very day that I decided I am a proud formula mom.  I am grateful every single day that I live in a time where formula is readily available.  I no longer hide in the car or the nursing room to bottle-feed my baby.  I love that she can hold her own bottle while I stretch in the morning.  I love that her big sister will fetch her bottle for her when it falls from the high-chair.  And as for all those statistics which prove that formula-fed children get sick more often, or don't develop as quickly, my toddler has beat every single one of them.  She is just as bright and clever as all of her friends, no matter what or how any of them were fed.  

Both of my daughters are bright, clever, curious, active, inquisitive children, who are equal to their peers in every way.  I thought I was giving them a secondary life when I chose to formula feed them, but the truth is that I gave them the best life possible.  I chose a life for them with a healthy, happy mother.  I chose to love them more than I loved the ideals of how I planned to raise them.  I chose what was best for our family.  Breastmilk might be one of nature's greatest accomplishments, but by no means should any woman degrade herself under the premise that "breast is best."  With deep consideration, every mother has the power to truly understand what is the best for their own family.  No one should tell you different.

Repurpose.

Birth.

I could write a dissertation on the differences between the birth of my two daughters.  But today I won't.  What I will write is this: my first experience of pregnancy and birth was riddled with fear, from the posters and pamphlets on the walls of the office I visited monthly, to the horror stories and warnings given to me by my nurse practitioner.  Through my second pregnancy, the midwives taught me to trust.  They taught me to trust my body, my senses, my abilities, and my intuitions.  They taught me to believe that women are strong.  They empowered me, and I felt radiant and confident every single day.

I had the feeling, and the hope that Miss Amelia would arrive slightly earlier than her sister, who was born at 40 weeks and 5 days.  I had this feeling, because I was experiencing such regular Braxton Hicks contractions as early as three months into the pregnancy.  These contractions would come so regularly that I actually had fear in my heart that I would have a premature baby.  The midwives told me to drink some tea, and take a bath.  What simple advice!  And each time the contractions would come, some tea and a bath would take them away.  This is only one of the many ways the midwives won me over.

Fast-forward to the 36th week of my pregnancy, and you would find me having tons of Braxton Hicks again, excitedly wondering when they would graduate into the real thing.  And somehow, just like her sister, as soon as I reached 37 weeks, Amelia completely changed her mind.  Contractions completely ceased, and my uterus lead to be entirely uneventful all the way to 40 weeks!

At 40 weeks and 4 days I was 3 centimeters dilated, and very well effaced, yet still no contractions.  I decided to have my membranes swept, went to the mall with my mom, and then spent the rest of the day feeling like a 13 year old girl, cramping, crying my eyes out, and texting my mommy begging her to bring me chocolate, ice cream, cookies, and any other kind of sugary snack I could think of.  My midwife that day told me (with a knowing smile), "We are going to have this baby before you risk out on Friday, definitely."

The next morning Juliet and I awoke, and began our regular routine.  My misery continued, and I decided it would have to be a movie day.  At 11 am I was putting in a dvd for Juliet (I have no idea what movies we ended up watching), when the most powerful contractions I had yet felt began to hit me every five minutes.  I always had the idea that labor starts gradually and then grows, but at this moment I completely freaked!  They came out of nowhere, and were already five minutes apart?!  I began making plans, sent texts to our aunt, that she may have to come and watch Juliet at any moment, and then I called the midwives to see what they thought.  I stalled about texting Michael, because I didn't want to freak him out while he was at work!  The midwives advised me to continue timing them for an hour, and if they continued regularly to call back.

Then the weirdest thing happened.  I would have four or five contractions five minutes apart, and then I would experience a long break, at which time I would get majorly depressed, thinking it was just false labor again.  Then after about 10 or 15 minutes the contractions would return, five minutes apart, I'd have four or five, and then I'd have another break.  Throughout this time, I was texting Michael, 

"This is intense.  Come home now."

"Nevermind, it's gone."

"Nope, this is definitely it.  Get home fast!"

"Seriously?! False alarm."

He was so flustered at work, that he was confusing everyone.  He told me this, and I said, "I'm confused!"

Finally at one point the break between contractions went on so long, that I got angry, depressed, and was about to flip, when I decided to make a cup of red raspberry leaf tea, and chugged the whole thing.  Within two minutes I was in full on labor, grasping my husband's computer chair so hard I'm pretty sure there's dents in the frame.  I finally texted him, "Come home. Now."  He asked, "Really?" And I said, "Yes."  All texting conversation was over.  I was continuing the time the contractions, but I had no idea what the results were.

Through this time I was laboring without my husband beside me, I had the best little doula a woman could ask for!  Between contractions I would rest on my knees and lay my face on the couch and breath, and when a contraction came, I would move to the computer (folding) chair, and grasp the seat, and breathe, and squat.  The entire time Juliet stayed by my side.  She held my skirt, and said, "Help you? Help you?"  At one point I didn't make it to the computer chair in time, and suffered a contraction on the floor.  Juliet grabbed my clothes, and tried to help me up, saying, "Mama! Up! Help you!"  At this moment I realized that these were literally our last moments as the dynamic duo we've been for 21 months, and I was overwhelmed with emotion.  I explained to Juliet that I was okay, but it was time for me to have her baby sister.  I was so overwhelmed with emotion that I threw myself on the floor, grabbed my child and held her so tight, and just sobbed.  She hugged me, patted my back, then ran away, and returned with her stuffed frog, whom she knew that if I hugged him I would feel better.  Best birth coach ever.

Finally Michael arrived home at 1:30pm, and then it was time to find out where our babysitter was! She thought she had more time, and we said, "Nope.  Not really."  She arrived shortly after, to find me laying on my side on the couch, and I would hold Michael's hands and press outward against him.  When I finally sat up I got super nauseous, and told Michael, "I am going to vomit right now."  He got flustered, and asked what I needed and all I could say was, "I am going to vomit right now."  He grabbed the closest thing, our new mini-cooler.  I threw up, and then punched my fist in the air and shouted, "One centimeter! Oh yeah!"

We walked out to the car, and like a blessing from Heaven, I had another break between contractions, and got to breathe the entire drive to the birthing center (we only live five minutes away).  We made it in, and as they were asking me which room I wanted, I was grasping my husbands hands, breathing and contracting, and thinking, "Seriously?! Just put me in one!"  I chose the room I liked the most, the southwest room.  It reminded me of home, so I was cozy there.  They began filling the tub for me, and asked if I wanted a water birth.  I told them, "Water birth grosses me out.  I just want a spa day."  Those tubs look amazing.

The midwifery student then preceded to check my cervix, which she found to already be 7 cm, meaning that I had already gone through the majority of my labor on my own, while making lunch for my toddler.  As she was checking the 7cm, she said, "Oh no. Wait.  Now you're 8."  Things were moving faster than I could have imagined.  After this point, the midwife went away, and Michael and I were in this room alone together with no idea what to expect.  

I laid down during a few contractions, and then they returned and asked to check me again.  I had a hard time getting onto my back, but when I did they told me I should be ready to push.  I had a woman holding each leg, and the midwife was trying to coach me on what to do.  "Pull on your leg, don't push your leg, push your baby, pull your leg." I had no idea what she was trying to make me do.  The entire thing felt so unnatural, and there was no urge to push.  I asked, "Can I stand?"  No questions asked, they helped me get off the bed, onto my feet, and then the midwives just stood back, while my husband and I worked together.  I held his biceps, and he held my elbows.  He supported me through the contractions as I would squat and breathe, and I would rest my head on his chest in between.  It was intimate, and beautiful, while we labored together as a team.  

The contractions eventually took over completely and I did not need to wonder what to do.  I could breathe when I needed, and push when it felt right.  The midwifery student crouched on the floor and kept her eye on Amelia.  Sometimes I don't even know if my eyes were open or closed.  Every bit of my senses were turned so internally that all I remember was the sensation of my hips and pelvis, and eventually the crowning of my child.  I remember seeing my blood splatter the floor, and being so full of pure motivation that I didn't waste a moment being scared or worried.  Shortly after I saw blood, there was a pop, and my waters broke and splashed across my feet.  It was awesome!  (I'm pretty sure that was Michael's favorite part).  

Soon I felt Amelia's head coming through the birth canal.  I had wondered what it would feel like.  Pain, yet the pain was so masked by the excitement of her impending arrival, that it was not a burden to shy away from, but a motivation which I yearned to bear into.  And so I did.  She entered the canal and then receded, and that's when I thought, "We are so close, girl, you are not doing that again! It's time!"  And I bore down with everything that I had, only taking short enough breaks to renew my oxygen, and strait back to business.  

I don't know how long I pushed, but it felt like no time at all.  I remember my leg shaking with the pain, rising up on my tip toes, and reminding myself that it was time to stand strong as a mountain, and not to let my body give into the pain.  When I could feel that it was time I stepped my feet wide, and gave it all I had.  I had no reservations vocally.  I did not scream like they do in movies, but created a more guttural sound that helped me bear through the effort.  I was loud.  Everything is more fun when you choose to be loud.  I gasped for breath between pushes.  Then the midwife said, "Okay, you're going to reach down and catch your baby."  I thought, "What?! Don't you see what I'm going through?!"  I told her, "I don't think I can." And she said, "You can."  And suddenly massive pressure turned to motion moving fluidly through me, and my hands were hot, and heavy, and I hugged that purple little body to mine with no intention of letting go, ever.  I was so relieved and elated, I felt completed.  I was so engulfed in the feeling of that hot little body against mine that the midwives had to snap me out of my elation and get me to lay down.

I was still wearing the clothing I had no intention of laboring in.  It all happened so fast.  The midwife was very gingerly asking if she could help me get my shirt off, and I told her, "Take it all off!" I wanted my skin to be touching my baby's skin more than anything at that moment.  My hands still bloody, her cord uncut, she urinated on me, so many sensations of fluid and heat; it was raw, it was real, and it was beautiful.  There was nothing that could distract me from the pure joy that was my healthy child.  I remember feeling the umbilical cord still attached to the placenta inside of me.  The midwife was tugging it, and my placenta was stubborn.  I looked at my baby and could not stop speaking her praises even through the slight struggled and discomfort of delivering the placenta.

Michael was concerned about my health, and in my trust in the midwives care, I urged him to come see his child.  He sat in the bed beside me and wore the smile of a man who held his wife through the entire creation of his child.  He was my physical and emotional support from the very start.  I was suffering from shingles when this beautiful child was conceived.  It was not a romantic moment.  Even then, as I bit through the excruciating pain I experienced from the illness I thought of how badly I wanted this child.  I thought of how worth it the discomfort, the pain, every ache, every tear was, and would be, for the creation of a beautiful body, in which would harness a precious soul.  A beautiful daughter of God, wrapped in a gift created from ourselves.

That is Amelia River.

Maxi Skirts Galore! DIY

So I've been going jersey knit crazy, and have been making about a maxi skirt every week. SAS Fabrics carries cotton jersey knit for 2.99 a yard. If you're lucky enough to find something thats been previously played with, you might even get it cheaper. My favorite skirt so far only cost me $1.19, for enough fabric that i also made my daughter a matching one!

I wont say for certain how much fabric you'll need, since everyone is different hights, but i generally go for 2 1/2 yards for myself, and that gives me plenty of extra so it doesn't ever end up accidentally to short, and then theres extra to play with waist band ideas. I am 5'6" and my dress size (sin bebe) is 18. That may help you gauge how much you need.

Once u buy the fabric, the process is super simple. Fold it in half. Make sure you fold along the side of the fabric that stretches. You want to make sure to do this, as the joy of a maxi skirt is being able to sit cross-legged on the floor with your toddler, right? So theres no point if it doesnt stretch!

Once folded, and completely smooth, place your best-fitting maxi skirt on top. If you dont have one, youll have to work out your waist and hight measurements, and just eyeball a good flare towards the bottom.

I use my strait pins to mark the exact width of the skirt, pinning vertically, and across the top so i know where the waist will land once i am ready to hem.

Cut outside the line you've created with your pins.  I leave less than an inch, but you can leave more if you're nervous about making it too small!  I have done that before, but experience helps.

Leave the hem line long, you'll measure this last.

Now simply strait stitch along your pin line.  I usually lessen the tension in my machine to around 3-4, when i am working with stretchy knits.  And be sure you are using a ball-point needle! I ignored this important point the first time i ever tried this project, and my needle bunched up the fabric, and tore holes all the way down.  Ball-point needle!  Joannes has them specifically for jersey knit. 

I do a strait stitch down both sides, try on the skirt for fit, and then do a second strait stitch along the whole edge for reinforcement.

Then fold the waist hem over twice. You can do elastic, but im lazy. And use the "for stretchy fabrics" stitch on your machine.  Mine looks like a lightning bolt. Check your manual.

After you've done the hem, lay your model skirt and your new skirt on top of each other, adjusting from the top hem.  Cut along the bottom!

If you want to finish off the bottom with a proper hem, measure a couple inches extra and fold it under twice.  If not, after you cut off the bottom fabric, do a few reinforcement stitches up and down a few inches of each side.

All done!