The Poopsie Collective

Yes, That is my Babysitter

Written by ERICA

I feel like there is some unwritten code among moms when it comes to anyone you hire to help care for your children. Ever since Jude Law diddled his average-looking-at-best nanny, moms have been VERY cautious about the women they invite into their homes. If a super slamming hottie shows up at your door to watch your kid while you go out to dinner, you would be wise to gently slam the door in her face and order in Chinese. 

Obviously moms are first and foremost looking for a nanny/babysitter who is responsible, caring, sweet, trustworthy, energetic, loving etc. etc. etc. But I know very few women who, even if she had all of those qualities, would welcome a 5’8”, skinny-mini, big-boobed, gorgeous blonde into their family with open arms.

Which is exactly what I did.

When we first moved to Miami I decided I didn’t need, or maybe more accurately, didn’t want, any full-time help taking care of Owen. At the time I wasn’t working on anything that couldn’t be done from home while Owen played/napped, and truthfully most of the activities or chores I had to take care of revolved around him. Playgroups, classes, supermarket trips…all things I could do with him by my side, so there didn’t seem to be a reason for extra help around the house.  

But from day one of parenthood AJ and I made a pact that our weekend evenings were sacred. It was an absolute necessity that we had the freedom to enjoy some adult conversations and more importantly adult beverages. So we decided to hire a regular sitter to join our clan. I reached out to a babysitting agency down here in Miami that came highly recommended to me, and they suggested Cindy*, who was described to me as a sweetie-pie 27 year old from Atlanta, Georgia; great with kids, amazingly positive to be around, funny, enthusiastic, and just a general pleasure as a babysitter.

Cindy showed up and I swear to god I almost wet my pants right there in the doorway. I’m not sure what I expected since I knew her entire life story and had seen a picture in her bio. I guess I just didn’t expect her to be so, um, HOT. I mean, the girl is BEAUTIFUL. Like, southern bell beautiful. She has long blond hair, she’s thin and athletic at the same time, and she’s so tall my head just barely grazes her boobs when we hug (which we do, a lot). Speaking of her boobs, they are everything my recently-had-a-kid-so-I-lost-an-entire-cup-size boobs are not. 

Anyway, point being, she’s adorable. I wouldn’t even blame AJ if he had an affair with her. Hell, if I were on that team I’d do it myself. (JUST KIDDING AJ!) So given that realization, any new mom in her right mind would have said thanks but no thanks. “You’re great and all, but you’re a tad too attractive to have around while I spend my days covered in spit-up and I smell like the rejected pieces of Muenster cheese Owen throws at me.”

But before that thought could even cross my mind something amazing happened. Cindy got down on the floor and Owen basically crawled right into her arms. And then I saw it: sparks were flying and my little man was in love. And as I watched them play I realized that I didn’t give a rat’s a$$ if my sitter was a total Angelina to my Jen (you like how I just made myself Jennifer Aniston in this situation? Can you say delusional?!). She is absolutely amazing with my kid, she adores him, she connects with him, and he loves her back. 

And turns out, she’s not just amazing with Owen. She is one of the absolute best things that has happened to me since we moved. She’s not just our sitter, she’s our friend. I am crazy about her. We bond, we confide in each other, we giggle over stupidity like when I told her that I shit myself 3 times during childbirth. Wait, did I even tell you guys that? No? Oh, well, uh, now you know. It happened, it’s apparently normal, and we’ll get to that in another post. 

So anypoop, I’ve stopped caring that when people meet Cindy they look at her and then say to me with crazy eyes “wait, so that’s your babysitter? Are you SURE this is a good idea?” YES. That is my babysitter. She is amazing, she is smart, she is hot as a mother f*cker and my son is a VERY lucky man. 

*Note: my sitter’s real name is not Cindy, but she looks just like Cindy Mancini from Can’t Buy Me Love, the amazing 80’s movie starring a then-dorky McDreamy. I figured it would be best to protect her privacy and not embarrass her entirely in this one post.

A Super Boob Update

written by GWEN

Look at all those teeth! All the better to bite me with…

Just in case anyone was still wondering, I am now down to one boob feed a day! We are honing in on the year mark, and about ready to wrap things up. Super boob is just about the same size as lefty again and my long lost wire bras are making their way to the top of my underwear drawer after over a year.

I keep thinking I’ll have this last beautiful feed, but it seems as though that is not to be. Izzy has gotten super bitey the last few weeks so much so that I have a tooth indentation and cut on my super boob. Yesterday morning, after his only feed of the day, he looked up at me, made an uncomfortable face, stuck out his tongue and low and behold, there was my scab. 

Anyway, I’m proud of myself for making it through the year and I hope Izzy will appreciate it some day, though I’m thinking not so much.

Tit for Tat

Written by ERICA

What my boobs looked like immediately post-baby. And what I wish I looked like all the time. She’s hot.

*** Disclaimer: if you are my dad, father-in-law, ex-boss, or anyone uncomfortable with talk of boobs, stop reading now. Because the time has come to talk about some tits, specifically mine. ***

So a little background info on me: I have (or should I say had? But we’ll get to that) great boobs. I just do. I’m not embarrassed to say it, in fact, I’m proud of them. I’m not sure where they came from. Sorry mom, but there is no way these perky C-cups were inherited from you. Or at least that’s what I thought. My mom always told me she used to have more of a chest before her kids (you are welcome) sucked them dry. And we weren’t even breastfed. Anyway, my entire life, if you asked anyone (me, my husband, my friends) what my best qualities were, I’m pretty sure my boobs would make the list. And according to my husband, so would my humility. (Smart a$$.) 

So when I got pregnant I was curious to see what would happen to my chesticles. Would they get massive? Would they disappear? Would they loose all sexiness and start to resemble cow utters?

The short answer? Yes. To everything.

During my pregnancy they basically didn’t change. They sure looked smaller, but I’m fairly certain that’s just ‘cause my burgeoning belly bump stole the show and for the first time in a very long time my tits weren’t the biggest thing on my body. 

Then I had Owen and some weird things happened. In the hospital I had zero milk and, wait for it, non-existent nipples. Yup, my nips are tiny, always have been, apparently always will be. Which is fine with me. But it wasn’t fine with Owen. He wanted NOTHING to do with them. Which shocked me. No one has EVER rejected my boobs. Ever. I would have been insulted but he was just so teeny and innocent, it was hard to stay mad. I even had a lactation expert come check out my lady lumps. In walked a she-male that looked (and sounded) like Arnold Schwarzenegger in a white lab coat and after being legit manhandled I was told, and I quote, “These just won’t do. These boobs are no good to me.” I’m pretty sure I cried. 

Next, we (me, my family, and my sad, good-for-nothing boobs) left the hospital, and on the ride home (seriously) they blew up like porn star tits. That lasted for about 2 days, just long enough for me to run into the nearest lingerie store in tears because none of my bras would fit. I soon found out they didn’t fit because I was a size 32-E. AN E! What the crap is an E cup?  I’ll tell you. It’s bigger than a double D. It’s a post-pregnancy, my milk-just-came-in, I look like I might topple over, cup size, is what it is.

So weeks go by, the breast-feeding is a no-go, the pumping is making me feel like a miserable, cranky cow, and slowly but surely, my boobs are disappearing on me. In the end, I lasted only 2 months pumping. I stopped after I had a breakdown at 3am while I was being moo-ed at by my breast pump (I swear to god it makes a moo sound) and in a half-asleep, too-tired-to-sit-up, stupor I spilled 3 ounces of breast milk all over my nice clean sheets. (And yes, I proceeded to sleep in those sheets because I was too tired to even survey the damage.)

The next day my doctor told me it’s more important to have a happy, sane mom, than a miserable mom who pumps at the crack of dawn. So I quit. I’m a titter quitter and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I was able to salvage what little boobs I had left, and walk away from the experience fairly unscathed.

One day I’m sure Owen will read this and be mortified. No kid wants to hear his mom talk about her boobs. But listen up cutie pants: it’s your fault they’re not as big and perky as they used to be. It’s because of you that I have lost all confidence in their powers. It was on your 1-day birthday that I got physically assaulted by an aggressive lactation expert with man-hands. So tit for tat Owen. Tit for tat.

5 Mom Moments/Things I’m Not Proud Of (Part III of a Poopsie Collective Series)

Written by GWEN

1) Before Izzy was mobile, I pretty much plonked him on the ground wherever I went… like, mainly nail salons.

Impressed I managed to snap this pic while my nails were drying?

2) When I was about 8 months preggo, I got a TERRIBLE sinus infection. I was prescribed antibiotics, which helped, but my nose refused to unplug. It got so bad, the Mister started sleeping in the guest room. Not being able to breath through my nose is a REAL pet peeve of mine, so despite the doctor’s warnings, I used Afrin, the wonder drug nasal spray. It was a DREAM! I, of course, then worried that I had somehow screwed Izzy up for life, but everything worked out in the end. Well, so far. 

3) I have memorized all of the songs on BabyTV and hum them at work now. And I’m pretty sure once Izzy starts talking, he’ll be doing the same.

4) Sometimes if bath time is only an hour and a half away, I decide… Meh. The poop can wait. 

5) Three weeks after Izzy was born, after feeding him one morning, I came downstairs to talk to the Mister and his mom. It was at least five minutes into the conversation that I realized my left boob was still hanging out of my shirt. 

The Pencil Test

written by Stephanie

So many captions come to mind for this one: a) Gotta get me one of those scarves?; b) Pretty sure that’s a guy far right.; c) Things could always be worse.

Why does every jackhole driving a leased luxury vehicle think they can cut their turn at a stop sign?! This is what I’m thinking for the zillionth time today as I lay on the horn and weave in and out of the back streets of Beverly Hills, trying to avoid the mind numbing, mid-day traffic on Santa Monica Blvd. My fuse is short today and, while it could be one of any number of culprits (shrieking baby in the backseat, depressing story after depressing story after depressing story on NPR, my grandmother’s failing health, the searing hot pain shooting down my neck into my left shoulder blade…), I know exactly what’s got me in a funk: I failed The Pencil Test. 

If you aren’t familiar with The Pencil Test, prepare to have your heart broken.

The Pencil Test is a torture mechanism used by teenagers to make themselves feel even more insecure about their changing bodies (as if bad skin and body hair weren’t enough). Here’s how it works: you place a pencil underneath a bra-less boob and if the pencil falls, then CONGRATULATIONS! You’ve passed! Your boobs are perky! Whoopee. But if the pencil stays put… duh-duh-duh! Welcome to Sagsville.

I’ve shared this news with close girlfriends — oh come on, this is big news!! — and I’ve gotten the same advice again and again: You’ll get ‘em fixed! But I have never been one for boob-jobs. Nose jobs, sure thing. After all, I’m Jewish. But boobs? Not so much. Again, I’m Jewish. My boobs are for me and my babies… Oh! And my husband too (I’ll throw him a bone, why not?). They are NOT for society! I am not some product to be molded to fit society’s expectations of my body! At least that is what I always argued in my Fem Studies classes at UCLA when I had a fantastic, young, gravity-defying set. Ah, the optimism that youth and good tits affords us.

But what now? Am I doomed, cursed, cast-away to live on the Isle of Sag where Hanes Her Way and Playtex 18-Hour abound? Or do I conform to LA stereotypes and dole out large amounts of $$ in exchange for freakishly rock-hard body parts? There must be something in between, something that resembles compassion and confidence, but I don’t know how to get there. Anyone have any secrets to share? Anyone?? Bueller???

Welcome Back, La Perla

written by STEPHANIE

Something momentous happened yesterday. I switched bras. Out with the matronly, sexless, nursing bras that have plagued my lingerie drawers for all these many months! Back to my sweet, flattering, evocative, demi-cups.

It started last week over breakfast. Mornings in our house are rushed – my husband is getting ready for work, while I’m on baby duty changing the nasty over night diaper, milk feeding, then shoveling purees into an eager mouth. We make a point of sitting together for breakfast, despite the morning chaos. It’s a quick touch base before the day consumes us with its obligations. I left out the part in my pre-breakfast routine when I shower and get dressed. That’s because these things don’t happen until noon. So sitting across from my well-groomed, dapper husband at 9am is a crude version of myself, looking something like a Cathy cartoon.

I was carrying on about my plans for the day when I noticed that he wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he stared down toward my chest looking disgusted. This is unusual coming from him. Not the staring at my tits bit — that is entirely normal. It was the look of appall. He can find me attractive moments after I’ve shat myself with food poisoning, or gone through a box of tissues during a bad sinus infection. The man is insatiable! He’s hardly to blame though, as I am devastatingly beautiful, charming and seductive. So, his repulsion was notable.

“What? What are you staring at?”

He nods at my boobs. I look down. My white v-neck tee is low, I’m slouched forward, and most of my bra is exposed.

“What? What’s the problem?”

“That. That’s a problem.”

“Why? What’s the big deal? I’m a mom!  It’s the morning. I haven’t had a chance to get dressed yet…” I’ve got many more excuses quickly lining up in my head, all leading us into a fight for my pride. That’s how things go since I had the baby: he makes a remark, I turn it into a critique on my (dis)abilities as a woman and mother, a short and heated nonsensical argument ensues, followed by an icy standoff. Somehow I mentally bitch slap myself back to reality before we go too far. I realize that he’s right (this time). My morning ensemble is a problem.

While I pump 3 times a day, the baby stopped nursing two weeks ago. I don’t need access to my breasts 24/7, so out of storage came my non-nursing clothes. I stood trying them all on. I felt odd… feminine… independent… exposed. Nursing bras are plain and unflattering, like sports bras and Subaru Outbacks. They are also incredibly comfortable and safe. Subconsciously, they’re proof that my body’s primary responsibility is to my child. Once back in my pre-baby bras, I felt a little silly and a lot sexy.  I wondered, am I cheating on my baby?!

Now, on Day 2, the nursing bras have been washed and stored until the next time around. Things have quieted down inside my head as the idea that I’m done nursing has really sunk in. While I’m not loving the underwires (were they always this irritating?!), I am loving the new feeling that under my clothes is a woman, not just a mother. 

Confessions of a Super Boob

written by GWEN

I have a super boob. As in, a couple months ago Izzy decided he didn’t like my left boob anymore, so the poor thing shriveled up to a barely B cup (smaller than pre-preggo) and the right one grew even bigger… into a Super Boob.

She kinda runs the show, this Super Boob of mine. I can only wear certain things that mask the fact that one boob is two sizes bigger than the other. Bras are interesting and bathing suits are, well, laughable. I purchased a one piece today for the Super Soob. It actually isn’t too bad. I took the padding out of the right and added it to the left.  As I paid, the sales girls urged me to go stick my baby on the left until I evened out. Nah. We’ve made it this far and it’s kinda cool having a super power.

Sometimes the nails on Izzy’s left hand get a little too long. See I cut them when he falls asleep while feeding, but I can really only access the right hand easily now. So when he wakes up with a scratch on his face, we all know who is to blame. Super Boob of course!

In the mornings I express from sad lefty to mix with Izzy’s rice cereal, just to keep the dream alive. It’s nice for her to feel like she’s contributing, but to be honest, sometimes I have to take a bit from Super Boob to have enough these days.

It really is amazing what we put our bodies through for our babies. The stretch marks, the sagginess, the little bit of pee that seeps out every so often (or is that just me?), the inexplicable bruises because I seem to just walk into things all the time now. Before I had Izzy I dreaded sacrificing my body for a baby. If someone had told me a year ago, I would have ridiculously uneven boobs, I would have been disgusted. But now that it’s happened, none of it seems so bad when you look at what you get. (I’m talking about the baby now. Not the severely disfigured body.) I’ll finish breast feeding in a few months, and hopefully my boobs will join forces once again. At least now I know what I would look like with a boob job. Think I’ll pass. Unless, of course, they come with super powers, but pretty sure she’s just a one off!