The Poopsie Collective

Playground Politics

Written by ERICA

I believe in something called social etiquette. I believe in manners. I truly feel that one of the more important lessons you can teach your kids (or be taught yourself) is to treat others the way you want to be treated. Be polite. Be courteous. Be kind. Blah blah blah. Now, this is not to say that I’ve never treated others badly. Please, we’ve all been through middle school. And truth be told I did get kicked out of tennis camp for pranking a 10-year-old girl and framing another kid for the crime. (It was a REALLY clever prank, which I won’t divulge here because if I do then I’m pretty sure no one will ever listen to my parenting advice or read my posts again.) 

But despite some of my less-than-sophisticated decisions in the past (I suppose throwing red, white and blue dyed tampons into a crowd of kids on July 4th is considered poor form?) and any bad behavior I exhibit from time to time, I try to always treat people (adults and their kids) with respect, and I expect the same in return.

That said, here’s a pickle. How the hell are you supposed to act respectful and mature when a bratty 7-year old sporting a ‘tude and zero parental supervision crosses you in the playground? 

A few weeks ago we were hanging around a park with my sister-in-law Val and my niece Parker, who’s slightly older than Owen. Owen had recently mastered the whole running around thing, so a fenced-in playground where he could roam free without fear of stumbling into oncoming traffic was a dream (for both of us). He was flopping around like a drunken frat boy during Greek Week and I could sit comfortably on the bench catching up with Val in peace. That is, until Bratty-pants McGee walked in. 

Owen happily chilling on some swings…not prepared for the playground drama to come. 

I’m sure you’ve all met a kid like this… struts her stuff like her sh*t don’t stink and thinks she owns the joint. You know what I mean. And yes, she was approximately 7 years old, as if that gives her a right to behave that way. Anyway, fine, she was clearly a snotty little biyatch, but that’s OK. Really her attitude is none of my business. Until it is.  

Owen and Parker were playing nicely, climbing on the jungle gym, or in Owen’s case attempting to climb and instead falling on his face into mulch. It was cute and they were bothering no one. Then, up walks Little Miss Bitchy to tell me that Owen was in her space and I quote “He’s annoying me, he’s in my way and you need to move him.” He was doing nothing but looking clueless and giggling next to the jungle gym, which apparently was “her house and he needed to move because he wasn’t invited into her house.” Ok, fine. She’s playing house. I get it. But guess what? I don’t give a crap about your game of house. F*ck off little lady. 

Which is clearly not what I said. Remember, I’m respectful. Social etiquette and all that. So I smiled and looked for her mother, who was nowhere to be found. All I saw was her nanny and a man who seemed questionably homeless, but turns out was just her grandpa. And PS, both were doing absolutely nothing to manage this kid. So then I tried to negotiate. “Ok sweetheart, you don’t have to play with him, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t get in your way if you just let him play here with me.” Seemed like a fair deal, but nope, not good enough for her. She was a tough cookie. “NO! I DON’T LIKE HIM. GET HIM AWAY.” 

This went on for a few minutes and it took every bit of strength I had not to throw her off the swings. Literally, I wanted to punch her face in. I don’t care that she’s 7. And actually, what I really wanted was to beat down her “caretakers” (I use the term loosely) for being so freakin’ neglectful. Like WAKE UP NANNY. WHAT’S UP GRANDPA? Why don’t you help or something?!

Thank goodness for my sis-in-law, who’s more experienced at this crap than I. She gave the whole “listen kid, this is a big playground. Everyone is invited to play here, this isn’t your house. This playground was here before you got here, and it will be here when you leave. So why don’t you stick to your game over there and we’ll play over here” talk. All I wanted to do was yell a WHOOP WHOOP and a TAKE THAT SLUT in the kid’s face, but I didn’t. I held it in, we moved locations slightly, and 10 minutes later it was time to leave. Fights were avoided and I managed to leave almost as mature and polite as I walked in.

And on my way home I realized, I think that was officially my first lesson in playground politics. It was a lesson I was not really prepared to learn so soon, and one I think failed. Because even though I held myself together, I’m pretty sure a deep desire to smack someone else’s child is not really a good thing.

So as innocent as a playground may look, apparently this is where a kid’s bratty side comes out and his mother’s patience is put to the test.

And Then I Cried

Written by BROOKE

I have cried over many things as a mother. I’ve cried over lack of sleep. I’ve cried over the huge responsibility placed on my shoulders. I’ve cried in pain from cracked and bleeding nipples. In other words, I’ve cried. A lot. But I had never cried over my child’s behavior in public. Until last week. 

Yep, I was reduced to tears. By the actions of my over-tired-possibly-insane four year old. And a well meaning mother who took it upon herself to comment on it. 

I think that was really the problem. Not the fact that Zach had, for some reason unknown to anyone on this earth, decided to flip out completely during gymnastics. Not the fact that he screamed bloody murder and refused to go to his own class. Not the fact that despite my best bribery/begging/threatening he acted like that gymnastics class he has been attending for over a year was akin to child abuse. Not that he then proceeded to hang on my leg during Brady’s mommy and me class (which was supposed to be happening DURING Zach’s class) and scream “STOP DOING BRADY’S CLASS!” at the top of his lungs. Or his total flip out when I told him he could NOT get a good behavior stamp at the end of class because his behavior, had really not been good at all, nor had he actually attended class. No not any of that. 

It was not the staring or looks of pity that I saw from other mothers. Not even the ones who intervened to try to coax him in to going to class. Nor the ones who moved their children to the other side of the room to put their shoes on because my child was flailing around on the ground screaming. Not even the ones who I’m sure were ready to report me to CPS because for some reason through all of this Zach kept screaming the phrase “Don’t DO this to me mommy!” (seriously? I’m sure every person in there thought I was going to take him home and beat him— which I did NOT though the thought crossed my mind). It was the mom who took it upon herself to follow me out to my car. 

Yes, you read that right. When Brady’s class ended and Zach’s tantrum had no end in sight and I had given up trying to put on our shoes since Zach was screaming and flailing and Brady was trying to run away, I threw all of our shoes in my bag and ran out to the parking lot in my socks with one kid under my arm and Zach running behind me screaming “Don’t DO this to me mommy!” I got in my car. I got the kids buckled (with a mild amount of threatening). And just as I paused to try to compose my thoughts about how on earth I was going to punish this unacceptable behavior, I heard a tap, tap, tap at my window. There was another mom. Tapping on MY minivan window. Seriously? Did it look like I wanted to talk? Was she reporting me to CPS and wanted to give me a head’s up? 

She was trying to be nice. She was! She really was trying to make me feel better. She had followed me out to my car to tell me she was sorry and not to feel bad about myself and that I was a good mother. She told me it could happen to anyone and it could be me today and her tomorrow. And she asked if she could give me a hug. Which, in theory, was really nice. But it pushed me totally over the edge. I broke down and started crying. To a total stranger. Because my kid was out of control. And I was so embarrassed. But that sort of made me mad. I know that it seems nice and kind and that’s exactly what it was, but really, I just wanted to get the heck out of there and never think about what happened again. And all she really did was remind me that every mother in there had watched what had just happened and had an opinion about it and about how I handled it. Plus now I was crying, which made me even more mad. 

And I really think, unlike the grocery cart meltdown, I’m not sure I got a lesson out of this (except to never show my face at gymnastics again). Would you say something to another mom obviously having a hard time? Would you follow her out to her car? The jury’s still out for me. 

Ok so the only pic I have of his gym class is Halloween. But I just wanted to show that NORMALLY he is happy at gym and loves it.

I Throw It On The Ground

Written by ERICA

I throw it on the ground… I’m not part of your system. I’m an adult. 

Something is happening in Nahmad land. It’s a new habit that I’m pretty sure I should be breaking immediately, but somehow I can’t stop it. Or should I say, I can’t stop Owen.

He is throwing EVERYTHING on the ground. Everything. My phone. The remote. His burp cloth. His favorite lovey. His food. ALL OF HIS FOOD. Well, not all of it, most of it ends up in his mouth cause damn he’s a good eater. But a fair amount of scraps end up on the floor, or more accurately, in my dog’s mouth. Poor Sydney has definitely put on a few pounds these past few weeks.

I’m not sure when or where he picked up this pesky habit up. I certainly didn’t show him how to do it. And I may let him watch whatever we watch on TV (like he knows what’s really happening on Revenge) but I am almost positive I never showed him this SNL skit. Yes, I watched it like a billion times when I was preggo, but a baby can’t learn bad behavior in utero, can he?

Ugh, it’s getting bad. It’s not just when we’re at home and he knows the dog will flock to his high chair like a pack of pigeons to breadcrumbs. It’s when we’re out to eat and there are actual pigeons coming after us. And I happen to be TERRIFIED of birds, particularly the flying rats that seem to follow us around, as if they can smell the food about to be tossed.

And here’s the worst part: I let it happen. Because every time Owen throws something (my spoon, my sunglasses, his sippy cup…) on the ground, he gets this smirk on his face that just makes me giggle. I say “uh uh Owen” and he starts shaking his head like frantically and cracks himself up, and then does it all over again. And I can’t help but laugh. And as I’m laughing, I 100% realize that I am doing EVERYTHING wrong. I’m not disciplining him. I’m not yelling. I’m not teaching him it’s bad. I take away the item, hide it for a little while and then give it back to him once we’ve both forgotten it was just on the dirty floor. (A kid can’t get hepatitis from sucking on a dirty spoon, can he?) And then it happens all over again.

Don’t get me wrong, Owen is a dream. I am fairly certain that I am being tricked into having more kids because he is such an easy going, happy baby.

But as good as he is, I know I should be more firm. I know that now is the time to encourage good behavior. But I don’t want to be that cranky mom who’s always saying no and spends 90% of her day frowning. Also, discipline seems totally exhausting. But I guess the other option is raising an unruly nightmare of a kid who down the road isn’t invited to parties because he’ll probably grab something/everything (a glass, a knife, the cake…) and throw it on the ground.