Original Mamasaurus

10/23/2026

10/23/2026

Let’s talk about vitamin K and what it means to make an educated decision.

Lately, I’ve noticed more parents questioning vitamin K administration in newborns.

And you know what? I encourage questions.

Parents deserve to understand what’s being recommended, why, and what alternatives exist.

But there’s a difference between questioning something and making a truly informed decision.

Informed consent isn’t simply knowing you have a choice. It’s understanding the evidence behind that choice.

That means looking beyond social media, opinions, and personal experiences to understand the benefits, risks, and consequences of declining an intervention.

Newborns naturally have low levels of vitamin K, which is essential for blood clotting. Without it, babies are at risk of vitamin K deficiency bleeding (VKDB).

Although rare, VKDB can cause devastating internal bleeding, including bleeding in the brain, sometimes without warning.

Breast milk contains very little vitamin K, which is why supplementation shortly after birth is recommended.

But what about giving a newborn an injection?

I understand why that makes parents uncomfortable. You’ve just welcomed this beautiful little human, and the last thing you want is for them to experience pain.

That’s why I wanted to share this video.

Here, a midwife administers vitamin K while baby is peacefully breastfeeding.

Whenever possible, we can wait until baby is breastfeeding or enjoying skin-to-skin contact. These measures help reduce discomfort, and sometimes babies barely react.

There is also an oral alternative, but it requires multiple doses and is less effective at preventing VKDB. The Canadian Paediatric Society recommends the injection for the most reliable protection.

Ultimately, informed decision-making isn’t about blindly accepting or rejecting recommendations.

It’s about questioning, researching, understanding, and being willing to change your mind when presented with good evidence.

You can advocate for your baby, prioritize a gentle transition into the world, AND choose evidence-based newborn care.

Those things don’t have to be mutually exclusive.

10/11/2026

I love today for turkey, family, and gratitude

10/04/2026

No caption needed. ✌🏻

10/01/2026

Your water breaking isn’t always the dramatic movie scene GUSH.

And sometimes, you can be absolutely certain your water already broke, only to experience another huge release of fluid hours later in active labour and think:

“WAIT. What the hell was that?! I thought my water already broke.”

Here’s some cool birth anatomy.

The “bag of waters” surrounding your baby is actually made up of TWO fetal membranes:

The amnion is the thin inner membrane directly surrounding your baby and amniotic fluid.

The chorion is the thicker outer membrane that sits against the uterine lining and is associated with the placenta.

These layers are closely attached by the end of pregnancy and usually rupture together, so that second gush doesn’t necessarily mean you had a second separate sac of water waiting to break.

What CAN happen is a small or higher rupture in the membranes.

Instead of one giant gush, amniotic fluid may slowly trickle or leak. Your baby’s head can also act a little like a cork, limiting how much fluid escapes.

Then labour progresses.

Baby moves lower.

The cervix changes.

Pressure shifts.

And suddenly a larger pocket of fluid is released.

GUSH.

Which can feel exactly like your water has broken for a second time.

Another cool fact: your body continues producing amniotic fluid even after the membranes rupture, and baby continues contributing fluid through fetal urine. So “water breaking” does not mean every drop of amniotic fluid leaves the uterus at once.

Birth anatomy is SO much more interesting than the movies make it look.

Sometimes waters gush.
Sometimes they trickle.
Sometimes you question whether you peed yourself.
And sometimes you get a little surprise Niagara Falls halfway through labour.

The human body is wild.

09/28/2026

Five years ago, I held my last baby in my arms for the very first time.

And every year that you get a little bit bigger, my heart breaks a little bit too.

They really don’t keep.

Your face is still soft and chubby like a baby. You still suck your thumb. You still curl into me and fit perfectly in my arms. You still need me in that completely innocent, wholehearted way that only little ones do.

And I know I’m on borrowed time.

There is no baby coming after you. No more first steps or first words waiting somewhere in my future. You are the last little hand that will reach for mine simply because I am Mom. The last warm little body I’ll carry half asleep to bed. The last one who still holds that beautiful innocence of needing me in every sense of the word.

Maybe that’s why I feel every year with you so deeply.

Your birth was the home birth I had always dreamed of. I felt powerful, safe, completely in control and surrounded by so much love. And when it was over, I sat in the birth pool with you against my chest and looked into the most incredibly alert little eyes.

I remember looking at you and feeling this overwhelming sense of connection.

Like somehow, in that moment, you and I had shared something that belonged only to us. Something no one else in the room could ever fully understand.

Five years later, I still feel it.

So while a tiny part of me wishes I could freeze you exactly as you are, chubby cheeks, thumb sucking, climbing into my arms and all, I know my job is to let you grow.

And what an incredible privilege it is to get to watch you do it.

Happy fifth birthday, my beautiful baby.

My last baby.

I hope some part of you always knows that no matter how big you get, there will forever be a place in my arms where you still fit.

09/22/2026

Many moons ago, this family hired me to support them through their VBAC, a vaginal birth after Caesarean.

VBACs hold a special place in my heart. I’ve experienced one myself, so I understand how deeply personal the hope for a different birth can be after a C-section.

As her due date approached, she chose a medical induction. During a vaginal exam, however, the nurses couldn’t feel baby’s head. An ultrasound quickly showed us why: sometime at the very end of pregnancy, baby had moved transverse.

And just like that, the VBAC we had spent months preparing for was no longer an option.

I’ll admit something I think many birth workers quietly carry.

When someone hires me hoping for a redemptive birth, a small part of me feels responsible for helping them get there.

I know logically that I cannot control birth. I cannot control a baby’s position or how labour unfolds. But because VBACs are so personal to me, I would be lying if I said I don’t carry some of my clients’ hopes alongside them.

So when this birth became another C-section, part of me worried she would feel disappointed. That somehow we hadn’t gotten the redemption she had hoped for.

But afterward, and again during our postpartum visits, they told me something I needed to hear.

They were happy with their birth.

They felt supported. They felt cared for.

And they did feel like this birth was redemptive.

It reminded me that a redemptive birth doesn’t have to mean achieving the birth you originally envisioned.

Sometimes redemption is being heard.
Being informed.
Feeling safe.
Having choices.
Being surrounded by people who support you when the plan changes.

Sometimes the healing isn’t found in the outcome at all.

It’s found in how you were treated along the way.

As birth workers, sometimes we carry more responsibility for the outcome than actually belongs to us.

Our job was never to promise someone a particular birth.

It was to make sure they never had to walk through it alone.

Proud of you Julia