I’m known among my circle of friends as “The Crunchy One.”

I’m not saying I’m the crunchiest, nor do I aspire to be, but if there’s a natural alternative and it works, I’m all over it.

I’m also the first to own right up if something is not working. I was a dreadful breastfeeder and suffered through a year of it with Piers. When Wallace was born, I realized that I had gotten worse rather than better. So after five months of hell, I bought a can of formula and never looked back.

I shared that story to a few of my mama friends recently. Most could relate in one way or another and many shared similar stories.

Except for Cher. I don’t know her well, but she’s a part-time art teacher and strikingly beautiful. She glared at me with her deep-set black eyes, chestnut ringlets and flawless, milky skin.

“You only nursed Wallace for five months?! Dear god, Viv. I nursed all four of mine for two years.”

“Yes, Cher. That’s what I just said. I didn’t know it was a competition.”

Apparently I’m also quite skilled at breaking up playdates because the other women looked uncomfortable and begin rounding up their little ones.

Whatever. I have no time or patience for I’m the best Mom competitions. We all (for the most part, and yes I know there are truly unfit mothers out there) do the best we can for our children. I mean I might as well have said that I regularly parked Wallace in his bouncy seat in the middle of the road in front of our house for nap time. I’m not sure Cher’s reaction would have been much different.

The point is, I’m pretty natural-minded and even if something doesn’t ultimately work out, I’ll give it a shot. I recycle and upcycle. My stemware doesn’t have stems, and you’re likely to be drinking out of an old salsa jar at my house. I have a scoby hanging out in my pantry, and I seriously looked into beekeeping and making my own honey — maybe one day. I’m constantly trying to convince Gil to let’s sell our house and embrace the tiny home movement. I really like these cool container ship houses.  I had crazy, unmedicated births, and Wallace was delivered by midwives.  I wash my face with oil and try to stay away from toxins. My kids see a homeopathic pediatrician, and I treat minor cuts and scrapes with essential oils. Most of our clothes come from consignment or thrift shops.

In case I seem a bit sanctimonious in all of my earth-motherness, trust me, I’m also not above swinging through the McDonald’s drive thru in a pinch. And remember…my kid drank formula. Don’t even get me started on how thankful I am for modern medicine and psychiatric drugs. Those suckers were invented for my people. I do my best to strike a balance.

But y’all, I can not believe I’ve waited so long to try the Diva Cup. Life-altering I tell ya. I’ve been talking about this all week, and several friends have been shocked that I’m just now trying it.

I was telling Maeve from Fiji about it as I was helping her lug boxes into her flippin’ POD this morning (sniff, sniff) and she made me howl, “Oh my gosh, every time I see one of those your face pops into my head. I assumed you’d been shoving that cup inside of you since the release of your first egg.” See why I’m gonna die when she moves? She’s the best comic relief ever, and her timing is impeccable.

I digress.

Don’t take my word for it. After I posted yesterday, I poked around the internet and found plenty of other women singing the Diva Cup’s praises, including a few of my regular readers. Thanks, ladies!

Check out this post from Selinamusings. I did a lot of traveling in my twenties, and the Diva Cup would have certainly come in handy — I’m specifically thinking of two incidences off the beaten path in Guatemala and Mexico where I had to select my least favorite item of clothing from my backpack and wad it up in my underwear. What I would have given for a Diva Cup back in those bloody, hot days.

I promise to talk about something above the belt very soon. There are lots of other not so fun things going on at the moment, so this is the best I got. Happy Thursday, friends!