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<h3>Now We’re All Up to Date… and Flowing Differently</h3> So now the kids are older. I’m not waking up to middle-of-the-night feedings anymore, and I’ve stopped donating to the NICU—for a while at least. Life kind of swept me away. I’ve been running around in regular-mom-mode: school drop-offs, sports practices, work, dinner, dishes, repeat. You know, the rhythm we all fall into without even realizing it.But lately… I’ve been flowing differently.In my early fifties, I’m stepping back into something that I thought might’ve been behind me—being a mommy all over again. Not in the traditional sense, but in the way my body, my heart, and my spirit have always known how to nurture.I’m working now at the hospital in the pediatrics department. I’m surrounded by babies, their soft cries, their tiny fingers wrapped around adult thumbs, and their endless potential. And every time I hear a baby cry? Something in me stirs. My body still reacts. My breasts still tingle. Sometimes, they tense. And, yes—sometimes I even drip a little.It’s like my body remembers.And so I decided—why not try again?Why not see if I can relactate and donate once more? Why not use this gift again, not just for me, but for babies who need it most?I’ll be honest—it’s not as easy as it was before. I don’t produce as much. My body’s slower, softer, and more stubborn. But my will is strong. My why is even stronger.So here I am… Back on the protocol. I’ve started the medications, the supplements, the power pumping. I’ve been researching like crazy—reading blogs, joining lactation groups, and finding others who are walking this same road. I’m following moms, adoptive parents, grandmas, and women in ABF/ANR relationships who are all choosing to induce their way.Because that’s the thing—there’s no one way to do this. There’s only your way.

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Growing Up, Slowing DownNow the babies are older—no longer babies, really—with full little lives of their own. We’ve entered a new phase: school mornings, backpacks, sports, dance classes, and gymnastics routines. Baby girl doesn’t nurse anymore, but she’s still very much a mama’s girl. Always up under me, always watching how I move and trying to do what I do. She’s my shadow. But let’s be clear—she doesn’t play about her daddy. She thinks she’s his boss and isn’t shy about letting us know it.Baby boy, on the other hand, still sneaks in his nursing sessions from time to time, mostly at night before bed. It’s his comfort. It’s our ritual. But I can feel even that beginning to fade. As the days stretch into evenings filled with homework and activities, I started pumping more again—donating what I could. Hubby and I still have our moments of closeness, but even those have changed with time. The production just isn’t what it used to be.We’re past the baby stage now, and I love where we are. But I also know it’s time to start focusing on other things. I still want to support NICU babies. I want to keep pumping and donating once baby boy is fully weaned. That’s the goal now.Lately, though, I’ve noticed my supply is slowing. There were a few days where I barely got two ounces total all day. So I’m planning to bring in the cookies and teas again—see if they help. I would love to be able to donate at least a brick every time I drop off milk.(For those who don’t know, a "brick" is a gallon-sized ziplock bag full of pre-filled breast milk storage pouches. It’s a beautiful sight to behold.)I’m a stay-at-home mom who works from home, and I truly love the feeling of being able to give other babies the healthiest start possible. Some of the moms I’ve met have even offered to buy milk from me, but I just can’t charge them. Not yet. I give when I can. Most of their babies are already used to my milk, so they use supplementers with it until their own supply comes in.I’m constantly in awe of what we as women can do with our bodies. The way we love. The way we nurture. The way we show up—over and over again.Even as things shift, this journey continues. It just looks a little different now.

This Is My Flow - Continued

<h3>This Is My Flow: Continued</h3><h3>The Full Freezer and the Breaking Point</h3><h3>This Is My Flow: Continued</h3>Now my freezer is full. I donate to the NICU every few months because I don’t want the milk to go bad. It’s wild to think that just one ounce of breastmilk can feed four babies—and I’ve got an entire freezer packed. Sometimes I’ll go drop off milk, hear one of those babies cry, and immediately start leaking. I have to rush home to feed baby boy because I don’t want to waste a single drop.I know the time is coming when they’ll be done nursing, but I try to enjoy every bit of it while it lasts. When baby girl has a rough day, she still wants to nurse. It’s her security, and she still loves it. But they push each other off of me now—it can be a lot to handle. They’re home with me all the time, and they both want to be attached to me constantly.Then it happened—I got sick with COVID. My babies had to go stay with my daughter, and they had to take bottles. I was so proud of myself for having a backup supply. But I also heartbroken. I was used to baby boy being on me constantly. I thought he was spoiled to me, and in a way, I was spoiled to him too. Not being able to feed him hit me hard. Not being able to be with any of them hurt. Not to mention, I was sooooo lonely.I wa s too sick to pump... and that’s when it started: It had been weeks of no skin-on-skin, no direct latching, and my milk began to decrease.At one point, it all became overwhelming. I was fifty, with babies in the house, juggling bottles, diapers, nap schedules, and feedings. I was nursing both of them. She had discovered solid foods and started getting fuller more often. But he—he nursed all the time. He became my little velcro baby, always wanting to be close.When we finalized his adoption, I shared everything with the judge. I explained that I had been nursing him exclusively since birth—and her for most of her life. It was an emotional moment. I wasn’t expecting what he said next. With tears in his eyes, the judge told us, "These are your God-given babies. And God gave them the best mom—one who’s gone above and beyond to ensure they have the best upbringing." I could barely hold back the tears. I was overwhelmed, grateful, and affirmed.My baby boy loves to nurse, and my husband—God bless him—started helping me relieve more often. At night, after the baby falls asleep, I pump to ease the overflow. It still hurts sometimes, but we’ve found a rhythm. Baby girl doesn’t wake at night to nurse anymore, which gives me and my husband our own kind of playtime. I treasure that intimacy with him. It's a different kind of connection, one I didn’t expect to still enjoy at this age.I’ve got two beautiful babies. No, I didn’t birth them—but that’s the upside. At 50, I’d hate to be pregnant again! I get to love and nurture without labor. And I get to have my husband’s affection without worrying about more babies.He’s gotten more playful lately too—sometimes we’ll be outside, and he’ll get that look in his eye and suddenly want to latch on. It’s crazy and spontaneous, but fun. We laugh about it, but it’s our thing.Life was finally settling into a groove. Baby girl was in daycare, I had gone back to work, and we had our routine down to a science. Then came baby boy—and somehow, he slid right into that schedule like he’d always been there. But it was still a lot: packing two babies up, dropping them off at daycare, working, coming home, doing it all again.Then COVID hit.I was terrified for them. Terrified for us. But I was also grateful. I was able to work from home, which meant I didn’t have to send them out into a world full of risk. With them being so small and vulnerable, it was a blessing in disguise. We hunkered down together. We bonded even more. We fed, we played, we cuddled. We survived.Looking back now, I see just how strong we were. My flow—of milk, of love, of life—never stopped. Even when the world did.

This is my flow - CONTINUES

<h3>Continued: Life was going greatand then!!</h3> We had just gotten used to the idea of raising a baby all over again—but somehow, it was working. She had settled into a sweet little routine, and we had found our rhythm too. Life was peaceful, predictable, and honestly...beautiful.She was in a good flow—daycare for half a day, happy to come home, nurse, and nap. She was becoming a very independent toddler, starting to love solid foods and exploring the world around her. And while she was all about mama when it came to nursing, she had wrapped her daddy around her tiny little finger. Every day she’d wake up just before he got in from work—like clockwork—ready to run into his arms. She played dollies with me, then raced cars with him. They were too cute together. He was just as smitten with her as I was. We were loving her little life.But life has a funny way of turning everything upside down just when you think you’ve got it all figured out.Her mom had been released from prison. She called a few times to check in on her daughter but never came to see her. She said she didn’t want to interrupt her life. And truthfully? We didn’t quite know how we felt about that. She wasn’t getting any help for her addiction, and we weren’t sure what her true intentions were. But I was still glad she called. I held on to the hope that she cared enough to stay in touch.And then—the twist we never saw coming.We were finally flowing through life. My supply was solid. Half a freezer full of milk. My baby was eating well, sleeping well, growing beautifully, and so deeply loved. I knew the milk wouldn’t last forever, but I was proud of what I had stored. Proud of the calm we’d built.Then one night, we got a call. DSS from another state.They were asking all kinds of questions—about her mom, our relationship with her, how we knew her. My heart started racing. I could tell something was off.And then they said it.She had another baby.She had stayed off drugs through the pregnancy—by some miracle—but after giving birth, she left the baby at the hospital and never came back. The only thing she left was our contact information... handed to the nurse on her way out.He was alone. No family had come. And if we didn’t take him, he was going into the system.It didn’t feel real. We had no idea she was even pregnant again. And now here we were, being asked to step up—again.We agreed to go get him, just to see how things would go. But let’s be real—there was no “just to see.”The moment we laid eyes on him, we knew.My husband was immediately obsessed. I barely even got to hold the baby at first—he wouldn’t put him down. “You know we have to keep him,” he said. “We can’t let her brother go into the system.”And I agreed.That first night at home, I laid him on my chest with his big sister curled up next to us. She was just as smitten. She looked at him like he was her very own doll—and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she reached up, lifted my shirt, and guided him toward me.And just like that, I had two babies latched onto me—both hungry, both searching for comfort, both mine.I couldn’t give him colostrum. That part of the journey had already passed. But what I did have was a steady flow—and plenty of fatty milk. He latched like he was born for it. He fed so well that first night, like his little body had been waiting for that moment.And in some ways...so had mine.We didn’t plan for him. But God did. And from the very first latch, we all knew—he wasn’t going anywhere.

In A Turn Of Events

This Is My FlowMy Flow, My journey, My StoryThe first time I fell in love with lactation was with my first child. I can still remember the way she’d curl into me, her tiny fingers resting on my chest, her soft suckling like a heartbeat in sync with mine. That feeling of being able to truly nurture her—of providing something no one else could—was like nothing I had ever experienced. It was empowering, emotional, and almost sacred. My flow came easily, and I became what they call an overproducer. At the time, I didn’t even know that was a term. I just knew I had milk—lots of it—and I loved that I could give so much of myself to her.Looking back now, I wish the world had been different. There were no apps, no social media groups, no real online support. I didn’t know where to look, who to ask, or even what was normal. I was doing the best I could, fumbling through this beautiful chaos. If I had had the knowledge and technology we have now, I might have continued for much longer. Maybe even for years. But like most good things in life, it eventually came to an end. Still, the love I felt for the experience never left me.Everything changed with my second child. This little boy was different from the start. He was fussy, resistant, and refused to latch. No matter what I tried—different positions, calming sounds, lactation consultants—he just wouldn’t nurse. It broke my heart. I felt rejected in a way only a mother can understand. So, I turned to pumping. At first, it worked. I was able to feed him, bond with him, and provide what he needed.But around the six-month mark, things started to shift. My supply dropped—slowly at first, then drastically. I was trying everything: teas, power pumping, oatmeal, massage. Nothing helped. And back then, there weren’t many places to turn. Social media was still in its early days. Google wasn’t yet a fountain of information. I remember crying at the kitchen table with a half-full bottle and sore breasts, wondering what I did wrong.Then one day, months after I had packed up my supplies and accepted the end, my breasts started to ache. I didn’t have a pump, so I hand expressed—just enough for relief. I thought it was a one-time thing. I had no idea it would spark something much deeper.One night, while we were being intimate, my husband noticed I was uncomfortable and offered to help relieve the pressure. I hesitated, but then said yes. That night was… different. He was gentle, loving, and surprisingly enthusiastic. I felt seen, nurtured, and deeply connected. That experience opened something in both of us.Within two weeks, I had ordered a new pump. My body responded almost immediately. I started expressing again and before long, I had enough to fill the freezer. The joy I felt returning to lactation—even without a baby needing it—was hard to explain. It was sensual, emotional, and healing.Our son, now a toddler, had moved on to juice and cow's milk. So I began donating my milk to our local NICU. I felt purpose again. My body was doing something important, something powerful. But then, like before, life happened. Schedules changed, stress increased, and eventually, the milk stopped flowing again.Years later, life threw me another curveball. I took custody of a young girl who was going through a rough time. After about a year of living with us, she came to me with news—I’ll never forget her face when she said it: she was pregnant. I was almost 50, with grandkids already. I had no plans of having a baby in my house again. But life has a way of rewriting your plans.The baby came. A beautiful little girl. Her mother, sadly, spiraled into reckless behavior. She started leaving for days at a time. Then one day, sheriffs showed up at our door for a welfare check. She had been arrested in another state. Just like that, we had custody of a seven-week-old baby.She cried constantly. For hours. I tried everything—bottles, swaddles, swings. Nothing worked for long. One night, We discovered a white noise app and after a warm bath, I lay with her skin-to-skin, hoping to calm her. She nestled against me, finally peaceful, and I fell asleep with her tucked under my arm.When I woke, I felt it warmth on my breast and a fluttering sensation in my belly. She had latched in her sleep. I froze, then melted. She was there. Suckling gently, rhythmically. I didn’t stop her. I didn’t want to. It was like finding something I didn’t know I had lost. I didn't even think to ask her mom if she was breastfeeding her whenever she left, she left us with formula and bottles. I thought maybe when they were alone, she was breastfeeding her. I never saw her make bottles at night. some things started to click/She continued to latch. Every day. Every nap. She never wanted to stop. I thought it was just for comfort. But I began to feel the familiar tug of let-down, the ache of full breasts, the tenderness that always came before flow. I tried to express, but nothing came. Still, I knew. Something was happening.Four weeks went by like that. She was still latching, still showing signs of satisfaction, still needing me in that very primal, beautiful way. Then one day, I was in the shower. I reached up to wash, rubbed gently with a washcloth, and—whoosh!—milk sprayed across the shower wall.I gasped. Then I laughed. Then I cried. It was real. I was lactating again.It felt like a miracle. Sometimes I didn't know if she was feeding and got tired, she didn't want her bottle. I could see her little belly kinda full and the diapers were wet.Now I had this beautiful baby girl, who I loved like my own, and a body that was doing what it was made to do—again. I began pumping after she fed. Three ounces per side per session. It didn’t feel like much, but it was ours.And then there was my husband. He had supported me through everything, and he adored this baby just as much as I did. He loved our connection, our bond, our special time together. But I was focused on saving every drop for her. That meant saying no more often. At first, he was understanding. He said he was fine.But I knew. I saw it in his eyes on the nights I pulled away. The longing. The ache. And some nights? I just couldn’t say no. Because this journey wasn’t just mine. It was ours. And love takes many forms—milk, touch, sacrifice, and compromise.This is my flow. My honest, raw, complicated, beautiful flow. It’s messy. It’s magical. And it’s far from over. To be continued ......

My Personal Journy

<h3>How Do You Know Your Lactation Journey Is Working? The Swelling, the Pins and Needles, and Yes—The Pain.</h3>Let’s just tell the truth: starting a lactation journey—whether you’re a new mom, an adoptive parent, or navigating an ANR/ABF connection—isn’t always the soft, cozy dream social Media makes it out to be. You know the image: a glowing woman in a robe, smiling while milk flows like a peaceful river. But for most of us? It’s more like: “What in the world is going on with my boobs?”Because when your journey starts working, you don’t always get a sweet signal. Sometimes you get swelling. Sometimes pins and needles. Sometimes tenderness. And yeah—sometimes real pain. It can feel like your chest is heavy and tight, like it's gearing up for battle. That full, uncomfortable sensation is a sign that your body is storing milk. If you notice your chest feels hard before pumping or stimulation and then softer after? That’s a green light. Something’s happening.Then there’s the tingling. The pins and needles. That weird electric sensation dancing across your chest? That’s the let-down reflex. It's your milk getting ready to move down the ducts, and it means your hormones—especially oxytocin—are waking up and working. It can be uncomfortable or even catch you off guard, but it’s also a beautiful confirmation: your body is responding.And yes, the pain is real too. The tenderness. The sore nipples. The aching. Especially if you’re inducing lactation or restarting your supply, discomfort can come with the territory. There’s a difference, though—normal soreness is one thing, but intense pain, bleeding, or cracked skin that won’t heal? That’s your cue to pause, adjust your technique, or reach out for support. Pain shouldn’t be your baseline.Then one day, you might look down and see a drop. Or maybe your shirt feels damp. Cue the celebration. That tiny leak means your milk is there. Even a few sticky drops mean progress. It might not look like a full bottle, but it's your body saying, “I’m doing it.”What a lot of people don’t talk about, though, is how lactation messes with your emotions. You might feel sleepy, euphoric, tearful—or all three at once. That’s hormones, too. Oxytocin isn’t just for milk—it affects your mind and mood. So if you find yourself crying after a session, it doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re human.But maybe the biggest sign that your journey is working? The fact that you’re still showing up. Still massaging, still pumping, still logging your progress, still trying. That consistency—that commitment—is the biggest marker of success. Whether your goal is drops or ounces, it’s not just about what you produce. It’s about the love and intention behind it.So, how do you know it’s working? Maybe it’s the swelling. Maybe it’s the tingling. Maybe it’s the tenderness or the damp shirt or the wave of sleepiness after a session. But maybe, just maybe, it’s the quiet persistence in your spirit that says: “I’m not giving up.”You’re doing amazing. Keep going. Every drop is a victory—and every moment matters.