I use Formula (with a final twist)
A Visit, A Memory, A Receipt
#DiasporaStories
"I need you to come help me clean. I noticed you're a postpartum doula too... and I just had a baby."
That’s how it started.
When I arrived, I smiled and congratulated her on the baby—a beautiful little one with dark, pointy hair. The kind of baby that already looks like they’ve got something to say.
She looked tired, of course. That fresh, soul-deep tired you can’t fake. So I asked:
“Is there any other way I can support you today?”
She replied, simply:
“My sister came all the way from X to support me. Thank you.”
And I felt that—straight into my chest.
Immediately, my mind traveled through time. I thought of my own sister, Jellyka. I was there for her when she had all three of her daughters—in Puerto Rico, and later, in Florida. I remember the smell of each of those newborns. Sweet and earthy and sacred.
I cleaned for her. I cooked. I held her hand through the tears, and laughed with her until our bellies hurt. I remember those 3 a.m. wake-ups when the babies would cry for mama, and Ariadna’s puzzled face when she’d look up and see meinstead.
“Titi?” her eyes said.
What are you doing here when I’m calling mama?
I remember the time I was still a flight attendant and flew to Florida in secret to “rescue” them after Tiara was born. I brought all four of them back to Puerto Rico in my beat-up, ocean-blue ‘85 Volky van—no back seats, just a camping setup and a whole lot of love.
I’ll never forget seeing Mijeyka laughing in the rearview mirror, rolling around with joy every time I hit a curve.
All of that came flooding back while I stood in this woman’s living room.
She asked me how other women deal with breastfeeding discomfort. I gave her tips. She and her sister listened closely, nodding. I love talking about this—it’s work, yes, but it’s sacred work.
Then I went off to clean:
Two bathrooms.
Two bedrooms.
One full kitchen.
Vacuumed, mopped, and dusted everything.
And all the while, I thought of my nieces.
Mijeyka in college.
Ariadna—I hope she's out there protesting something that matters.
Tiara—God, I wish I had recorded her playing piano that one time.
I thought of my sister. Jellyka and her warm hugs. Her laughter that fills a room.
They are far, but they live right here in me.
There was no sadness in that moment.
Just love. And memory. And pride.
When I finished cleaning, she approached me.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “So, you started a little late… we agreed on paying you for 1 hour and 45 minutes, right?”
We had agreed on two hours.
Me:
“Late?”
Her:
“Yeah… you didn’t start cleaning until 2:15 p.m.”
Me:
“Oh—I arrived at 2. I probably lost track of time while we were talking about breastfeeding. I was trying to support you.”
Her:
“Oh! I appreciated that. I was just curious. But I use formula.”
I walked out in silence.
And then I remembered the formula bottle on the sink.
Click.
That was the moment the whole day snapped into place.
#DiasporaStories
#MasetaJimenez
#LatinaDoulaChronicles
#PostpartumSupport
#CareWorkIsSacred
#MujeresQueCuidan
#InvisibleLabor
#HouseworkAndHeartwork
#TitiInTheDiaspora
#PuertoRicanAbroad
#EverydayMatriarchs
#JoyAndExhaustion
#CleaningWithMemory
#BoricuaDoula
#EmotionalLaborIsLabor
#SisterhoodInMotion
#WorkingClassWisdom
#BreastfeedingSupport
#NotJustAJob
#ResistenciaDoméstica
