Lucy Nicholson / Reuters

Cori Walters, 32, right, hugs her daughter Hannah Walters, 6, at the California Institute for Women state prison in Chino, Calif., May 5. An annual Mother's Day event, Get On The Bus, brings children in California to visit their mothers in prison. Sixty percent of parents in state prison report being held over 100 miles from their children.

Reuters photographer Lucy Nicholson:

The children bounded off the bus and ran excitedly towards a tall fence topped with razor wire. In the distance, through layers of fencing overlooked by a guard tower, huddled a group of mothers in baggy blue prison-issue clothes, pointing, waving and gasping. Many had not seen their children in over a year.

Lucy Nicholson / Reuters

Mothers watch their children arrive to visit at the California Institute for Women state prison in Chino, Calif., May 5.

Frank Martinez jumped up and down, shrieking with delight. “Stay right there Mommy,” he yelled. “Don’t cry.” As the children disappeared into a building to be searched and x-rayed, a couple of the mothers began sobbing.

An annual Mother’s Day event, Get On The Bus, provides free transport for hundreds of children to visit their incarcerated moms at California Institute for Women in Chino, and other state prisons. Sixty percent of parents in state prison report being held over 100 miles from their children, and visits are impossible for many.

Lucy Nicholson / Reuters

Fulorise Gadson, right, of Riverside hugs her daughter Ken'yida Draper, 7.

California locks up more women than any other state in the U.S. — 11,250 in 2007 – and three quarters are mothers. The children left behind with family or in foster care often feel abandoned and some don’t see their moms for years.

Regular prison visits lower rates of recidivism for the parent, and make the child better emotionally adjusted and less likely to become delinquent, according to The Center for Restorative Justice Works, the non-profit organization that runs the Get on the Bus program.

Reuters reporter Mary Slosson and I choked back tears as we walked into a large room packed with mothers throwing their arms around their kids, spinning them round in tight hugs. A shriek rose above the cacophony of voices and laughter every time a new child was escorted in.

“You’ve grown!” “Your feet are as big as mine!” “I’ve missed you,” came the cries.

Outside, Norma Ortiz, 31, cooed and fed her eleven-month-old son Axel with a bottle of milk for the first time since he was taken away after she gave birth to him in the prison. Her mother Olga, 55, and her three sons surrounded her protectively. I asked Norma how it felt to see her baby. “I can’t talk about that,” she said, nodding towards her sons. “I need to be strong for them”.

Lucy Nicholson / Reuters

Levell Jones, 7, who has not seen his mother in 17 months, holds up a card for her.

Other mothers chased their children around the climbing bars, and down the slide in a small playground, as a burly prison guard paced the perimeter. Most quietly chatted, or played board games during the few hours they had together.

Children stood on tiptoes to push the coins they had brought into vending machines, which were off limits to the inmates. They carried back bags of chips and soda gifts for their moms.

Lucy Nicholson / Reuters

Camille Glinton, left, kisses her mother Luz Gonzalez.

“I know how to do side flips,” boasted seven-year-old Levell Jones to his mother Shonta Montgomery, 28, who said she was serving time for involuntary manslaughter. It was the first time he had seen her in seventeen months. Montgomery clasped his face, sat him down, and began tying his shoe lace. “When you go home, wash your laces just like we used to do,” she told him.

“No-one wants to see their relative behind bars,” said Christal Huerta, 22, who was visiting her mother Sonia Huerta, 36, with her 12-year-old sister Breeanna Huerta. Their father was deported to Mexico three years ago, and now Christal takes care of her two sisters at their grandmother’s home. “It’s kind of sad, because you expect to have both parents with you, teaching you how to become an adult and how to become responsible,” she said. “But they’ve taught me enough to teach my other sisters.”

Lucy Nicholson / Reuters

Cali Farmer, 4, cries as she hugs her mother, Netta Farmer.

“You need to have a lot of strength and patience to deal with things that come. I’m just glad my parents are still alive, and I could see them. Others aren’t so lucky. I’m just very happy for the things I do have. I always try to stay positive.”

As the afternoon slipped away, and the guards began to call for children to board buses back to different cities in California, a quiet settled over the yard. Lakisha Perry, 29, cradled her daughter Stephanie with her arms and kissed her forehead as they both stared into the distance. “I want to stay here with you,” Stephanie said.

Lucy Nicholson / Reuters

Levell Jones, 7, looks out of the bus window as he leaves his mother.

A few children cried as they touched their mothers’ hands across a line of tape on the floor, marked with “Do Not Cross,” as they were ushered out of the room by a prison guard. Most shuffled out in stunned silence.

Back on the bus, the children hugged cuddly toy animals they had been given and stared trance-like out of the window at the receding prison fence. A couple of girls curled up in the fetal position under blankets on the seats and fell into a deep sleep. The bus carried them back to Los Angeles to resume serving their own time.

See more images from Lucy Nicholson's story.

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Keith Srakocic / AP

Jill Miller drives her Milk Truck, near her Pittsburgh home, Jan. 19. The truck is a vehicle she made for spreading the message that nursing mothers have the need and the right to feed their infants in public.

AP reports:

PITTSBURGH, Pa. -- It's the Milk Truck, spreading the message that nursing mothers have the need and the right to feed their infants in public.

Jill Miller, an artist and mother, said she got the idea after the Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh asked her to do a project of her choice last year.

...

Keith Srakocic / AP

Jill Miller talks about her Milk Truck.

"I wouldn't say every woman in Pittsburgh has been asked to cover up — that would be totally overblowing it," Miller said. "But there were these stories I would hear that seemed almost like urban legends."

The stories were noteworthy because Pennsylvania has a law guaranteeing women the right to breastfeed in public without harassment, she said.

...

Miller estimates that the project cost about $16,000, most of it from Kickstarter, an online funding platform for artists, inventors, and explorers. People describe their projects and set a funding goal, and contributors get something in return, such as artwork and personal thank-you notes.

Someone once described Miller's artwork as "very funny upfront, but very serious on the backside."

"It opens up a conversation with a lightness to have a giant breast on a truck. For me, the humor is very important. I couldn't do the project without it," said Miller.

Daisy Klaber Miksch, who runs a business that offers singing and music classes to children and families, recalled the first time she saw the truck.

"It made me smile," she wrote in an email. "What it said, and says, to me is, 'Breasts are nice. Nursing is nice! Here's a friendly reminder. Take a moment to consider changing your negative reaction to a mom who's breastfeeding her kid. Lighten the mood!"

Miksch isn't a mother, but said she has sisters and friends who've been given dirty looks for breastfeeding in public.

"We all have our own hangups — about bodies, about sex, etc. ... Our culture very strongly associates breasts with sex. But the fact that it's cultural means it's changeable," she wrote.

Some people complained, especially after local newspapers and TV stations did stories on the Milk Truck last year.

One man sent an email saying that he could "donate money to your silly truck" or continue to give to the local food bank to help feed hungry children. He chose the food bank.

"What an insane cause you chose to rally behind. ... Pointless!" he wrote.

Miller found that people from all walks of life were willing to help the project, such as a local mechanic who donated his time fixing the 20-year-old truck because he thought it was so cool. He even start using her nickname for it: the boob truck.

"He just loves telling people he works on the boob truck. He has a T-shirt and a picture," Miller said.

...

The Warhol exhibit has closed, but Miller and McElfresh see new possibilities. Originally, they wanted the truck to be on call for mothers who get harassed in a public place, rushing to their aid with a comfortable, pink interior.

Keith Srakocic / AP

Jill Miller drives her Milk Truck, near her Pittsburgh home.

Over time they realized the Milk Truck was a valuable educational tool, even without a crisis. Stores for mothers and babies have invited the truck to park out front to show their support for breastfeeding, and it's appeared at public libraries.

"We have people all over the world who love the truck," Miller said. "We're now talking about having like a national tour. It would be like a rock band on a tour bus — but we are the tour bus," she said.

Related content:

Story: This truck brakes for nursing mamas 

Site: The Milk Truck

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