The Poopsie Collective

Positive Birth: from The Netherlands

guest written by Nicolien Sloot-Beekhof

Giving birth in Holland isn’t easy. I’ve been looking for positive stories but they’re hard to find. Most women don’t like to talk about their birth story, focusing instead on the positive result of it: their child. I wonder why most women in Holland are so negative about this life-changing and wonderful experience, so I have been searching for some facts and figures…

The Netherlands has one of the highest infant mortality rates in Western Europe, despite our modern health care and state of art hospitals. Some believe that our culture of ‘home-deliveries’ is one of the causes. In an emergency it takes too long to get mom and baby to the hospital. But this argument is controversial. Many Dutch women are happy to have the choice between delivering at home or in a hospital (of course with a medical emergency, delivery is always in the hospital). The Netherlands is one of the few (Western) countries where home-delivery is an option. In fact, when my Dutch friend, who lives in England, told her midwife that she considered having her baby at home, she was looked-upon like a lunatic. There are many highly respected Dutch midwives that claim that a home-delivery is better for mom and baby because having your baby in your own, private surroundings reduces stress. Plus, there is less risk of infection for the baby.

In The Netherlands an epidural was, until very recently, a rarity. Before 2008, it was nearly impossible to get one. “Pain is part of the game” was the common belief. Luckily, since 2008, it has become easier to get an epidural and now 1 in 3 women opt for one (including me!).

When I had my baby, I knew I wanted to deliver in the hospital and without PAIN. I was checked by a male nurse. He was tall, handsome and blonde, with hands the size of shovels. Not so comfortable. This Dutch McDreamy saw me at my worst: the size of a whale, no make-up, throwing up in a plastic cup… Between contractions I tried to put up my cutest smile, but after a while I couldn’t care less. After the relief of my epidural it was time to relax in our private hospital room. It had a couch and TV set to help my bored husband through the long night ahead. I got some sleep, luckily, because what I didn’t know was that there was no such thing as no pain. The last moments of labor were pretty tough, but I got my beautiful baby-girl with help from the awesome hospital staff and a lot of help from my man.

A point most Dutch women agree upon is that our system of maternity care is wonderful. You receive 16 weeks maternity leave: 4 to 6 weeks before your due date, and 10 to 12 weeks after the birth. After the birth, a professional Maternity Caretaker looks after mom, baby, other kids, and (in most cases) your household, for about 7-8 days. My Maternity Caretaker was the sweetest woman ever, and in my emotional state of mind I loved her to death! My house was never that clean, and my clothes were never that tightly-folded (and never will be). But everyday she made me a bowl of fruit and cleaned my toilet and bathroom. She made me lunch and did the laundry. She ordered me to get my rest, while she ordered my husband to do the groceries and some after-delivery errands (well, you girls all know what those things are, eh?). My husband drove all over town to get me some “nipple-hats” (things I didn’t know about before the baby but really the invention of the century, if you ask me). These little plastic nipple covers prevented my baby from biting me and made it easier for her to nurse. My “maternity-gal” showed me around in this new world of breastfeeding, burping, baths and (a lot of) diapers. During babysleeps we talked about our husbands and friendships. I really missed her when she left.

Baby Emlyn and the “maternity gal”. 

So, delivering in Holland is getting better. The infant and fetal mortality rate is decreasing every year. I think it is good that women in Holland have so many choices over how to experience the birth of their babies. You really can do it the way you want, if you don’t have a medical emercency. And when you get home (or are already home) the “maternity gal” will be there to introduce you to your most important job: being a mom.

Nicolien Sloot-Beekhof lives in Haarlem, The Netherlands, with her husband Gerben, daughter Emlyn, and two cats: Floortje and Rembrandt. She works part-time as a graphic designer. On her free days you can find her strolling around town with the little one and her husband, or sipping a cocktail with her group of long-time girlfriends. On Monday nights she works her hips with some bellydancing. Someday she hopes to be a skilled photographer and guitar player. 

Fitness: My Postnatal Yoga Experience

guest written by Jessica James of www.solpoweryoga.com

As a yoga teacher I was considered successful. I taught privates exclusively, had celebrity clients and was booked months in advance, yet I secretly felt a little like a fraud. Almost like my success as a teacher came faster than my practice could support, because I hadn’t mastered the handstand. I felt that if I were to teach and accept people’s hard earned cash then I should be able to perform the tricks as well, and worried that I couldn’t be taken seriously if I didn’t have the handstand mastered. While the rush of balancing upside down on my hands for 10 seconds led me into a deeper state of at oneness that we call “yoga bliss”, it was honestly ego driven. I was determined to be “worthy” to teach, so I sought out the best gravity defying teacher in town and my practice shifted from a moving meditation to inversion boot camp, complete with grunting, cursing and “atta girl” coaching. I was just starting to get it, or so I thought…

Jessica in handstand.

I found out I was pregnant and quickly shifted my practice by excluding most poses that twisted my mid section and ab work. I continued practicing inversions, but I had someone spotting me, and inherently lower expectations for myself and from my teachers. I was pregnant… of course pouncing like a cat from a pushup position into a handstand would be difficult. But I remained committed to my practice through my pregnancy like it was a lifeline. The support from my peers and colleagues was overwhelming. No one was judging me or measuring my abilities as a yogi and teacher. My pregnancy was, appropriately, my focus.

Jessica in Astavakrasana, or Eight-Angle Pose. Inspiring and impressive, right? 

After my delivery I was strictly instructed by my doula not to exercise for six weeks. She warned me that if I went back to soon I could undo my healing making it harder for my body to bounce back. I felt stuck.  What?  No Yoga at all? I had a whole new way of being in the world, new responsibilities, a lot of pent up energy and I was told that my practice was suddenly off limits? The one thing that kept me sane, the one thing that I ran to for comfort in times of big change was just beyond my grasp.

I heeded my doula’s advice and counted down the days until that “yoga bliss” could be all mine again! I waited…

Three days before my six weeks was up, my boyfriend’s instructor knocked on the door for his private lesson. I greeted and escorted him to the yoga space downstairs. My boyfriend and new daughter, Ava, were still sound asleep. I woke my boyfriend telling him it was time for his yoga when he surprised me: He offered to watch Ava while I took his session. I knew he just wanted to sleep longer and thought watching Ava meant sleeping next to her, but I jumped at the opportunity, and played it off accepting his generosity. I changed  and headed downstairs secretly hoping Ava would wake and my boyfriend would experience some of what I had been doing for the past six weeks. 

The instructor was my pre-pregnancy gravity defying inversion coach. He seemed genuinely happy to see me; we did the regular new-mommy small talk, then got to work. He didn’t mess around. No more than five minutes in, I started daydreaming about changing a diaper. I thought, “Holy hell, what have I gotten myself into? I am hating this!” I can’t blame my instructor, he’s a guy, and was used to my pre-baby attitude of “if I don’t get this I am no good”. He had me in a standing splits and was picking on the alignment of my hips! He wanted them square, but I practically had a new set of hips on me! I tried. I gritted my teeth through mustering up everything I had, to hating my teacher, wanting to punch him, and then eventually just collapsed to the floor in a puddle of tears.

I apologized and blamed my crazy post-baby hormones. He felt badly and backed way off. We finished the session and I ran upstairs quickly resuming my position as “mommy”.  Ava had done her part and tormented her daddy, who was equally relived that our roles had fallen back into place.

The following day my back was a mess. I tried to delicately place Ava in her car seat while pain shot up my back. I sat on my yoga ball with my new daughter and cried again in mourning of my yoga practice. My body was ready for activity but apparently not that kind. I began to quietly skip out of my boyfriend’s private classes, and started to practice by myself again. I tuned in, listened to what I needed that day and began to let the practice lead me.

While taking myself through my own sequences I was reminded of why my clients liked my brand of yoga in the first place. Yoga was the one thing that they could do for themselves, at which they didn’t have to compete or even be very good. They just had to show up on the mat and breathe.

As my yoga journey spiraled inward, I reemerged with a different sense of self. I was a mother now; I had to take care of myself so that I could care for my daughter. Instead of following my ego I began to follow my bliss. My practice is not “back”, I still haven’t mastered handstand, but no one cares. Truth is the only person who ever cared about my handstand was me.

Every single one of my clients was anxious for me to return to teaching, and when I did I came with a much deeper understanding of the practice. I discovered that the quality of my teaching and my mothering is in direct proportion to my dedication and cultivation of self-love. I got my ego out of the way and allowed my practice to finally become an expression of love and devotion. I found that center and sense of self that I thought mastering handstand would give me, but I found it within myself, not within a pose. In a way, my practice was reborn and with it, so was I.

Jessica James has been practicing yoga seriously for 8 years, and for the last 4 years she has taught movie stars, pop stars and all sorts of fancy people that pay her to keep them looking “Hollywood ready.” As a teacher, she has developed yoga sets that sculpt the body and clear the mind. Yoga has brought a whole new dimension to her life, and she loves both her practice and her clients. She is currently developing and shooting a Prenatal Vinyasa Flow program (DVD) due out this Summer. For more on Jessica, visit her website: www.solpoweryoga.com. 

Positive Birth: What Really Happens in a Water Birth

Guest Written by Jennifer Prinzing

I grew up with positive birth stories. Two, to be exact. Every year on our birthdays, my mom tells my brother and I the story of how we were born. It’s fun and exciting to hear year after year, but as a child the story was all about *me.* How *I* came into the world. I hadn’t given much thought to my mom’s perspective. As I’ve gotten older, and especially when I became pregnant, my Mom’s birth stories grew even more significant. I learned to appreciate the amazing experience my Mom—and Dad—went through. But the stories also became incredibly sacred because I realized the gift of what she shared with me: a subconscious knowledge that birth is amazing, it isn’t scary and women are powerful. To this day, it just wouldn’t be my birthday without hearing the story and I plan on always telling Mia her story too. 

My mom had drug-free births and I was certainly influenced by her. I knew from the beginning of my pregnancy that I wanted to have a natural birth. I didn’t want drugs or to be induced unless there was an emergency. But I also had to remind myself that I couldn’t control the final outcome and I had to be prepared for that too. So instead of a birth “plan,” I wrote birth “notes.” Instead of worrying about a c-section, I decided we would call it a cesarian birth if I was taken into emergency surgery. I wanted to embrace the experience and not feel like a failure if things didn’t go the way I wanted them to. But hard work and circumstance came together that day and I was able to have a natural child birth in the water.  

“A water birth?!” you might be thinking. Yeah, that’s what I thought too. I had never even heard of water births until I was pregnant. I had so many questions: Doesn’t the baby drown? What’s the point of the water? Would I have to do it at home in my tub? But through an informational class at my hospital, I learned that as long as the baby is kept underwater, the entire birth can happen there; the transition from amniotic fluid to water doesn’t signal the baby to breathe, air touching the baby’s head does. (Amazing, right?) I learned that the water is soothing and helps you move how you need to during labor. I learned that a water birth is less messy. From the few videos I saw, the water and baby didn’t seem that bloody. (And it’s true…in Mia’s case anyway.) I learned that if you poop, they just scoop it out with a skimmer like you would a fish bowl. (Ha!) Finally, I learned you can have a water birth in any type of tub, from your regular home shower/bath combo to a jacuzzi tub to a big inflatable tub. My hospital had inflatable tubs. They regulate the temperature, but other than that it’s just your standard bath water. 

At my hospital, water births happen right there in the labor/delivery room. When you’re in the water, the nurses and midwives check you occasionally, but mostly just leave you alone if you want. When it comes time to push, the midwife is right next to you, reaching in to help deliver the baby. Once the baby is delivered, you’re able to snuggle in the water for a little bit. Then they weigh the baby and check vitals while you get out and deliver the placenta. Next thing you know, your baby’s already back in your arms.

And so this brings us to the official story of Mia’s water birth: 

It started on Super Bowl Sunday. Steelers vs. Packers, blah blah blah. Technically I was in labor for about 24 hours, but the hard part was more like 6 hours. 

I woke up around 5 am with contractions that definitely felt different than Braxton Hicks. They went away and came back all day long. Until around 4 pm, I wasn’t even sure it was the real deal yet. But the tell-tale signs started appearing; I lost my mucus plug, I had to start walking around the house to get through the contractions and the Super Bowl halftime show was making me crazy (that was probably just the Black Eyed Peas, though). 

At 10 pm I had my bloody show (such a weird term) and by 11 pm, my water broke. Luckily, I was walking around through a contraction and not sitting on the couch! We had called the hospital at 10 and 11 but since it was my first baby (and you know, us first timers take like a week to go through labor), they said as long as I was comfortable at home, I could stay there for awhile. Because my water already broke, I just needed to be there by 5 am or something. But I could really feel a lot of pressure in my pelvic floor and it was taking more concentration to get through the contractions. I knew I’d feel better if I could just get the traveling-to-the-hospital part over with. So we finally left around midnight. Until then, the worst part was that I puked two or three times during the evening. At the time I completely forgot that you can sometimes vomit during the transition phase, so we didn’t realize how far along I was. 

When we arrived at the hospital 15 minutes later, they wheeled me upstairs and I checked in. Everyone assumed my focused demeanor was because I was a first-time mom and I must be nervous. But I wasn’t that nervous—just a regular amount of nerves for going into labor for the first time. I wasn’t a wreck by any means. When I got to the labor/delivery room, they had to monitor me and the baby for 20 minutes (standard stuff) and did a test to confirm my water broke. The nurses were in no hurry. Finally at about 1:30am they checked me….and I was 10 cm dilated! We were all very surprised. I was definitely feeling pain, but I was hoping to be around 8 cm (and not only 4 or something). All the nurses and midwives were shocked and immediately started hurrying about. They were worried they wouldn’t have time to fill the tub before the baby came since it takes approximately 45 minutes, but my husband insisted and I’m so glad he did.

Around 3 am when the tub was ready, I climbed in and continued breathing through contractions. The water was warm and relaxing and my husband saw an immediate change in my demeanor. I could move freely, resting between contractions while letting the water and inflated tub support me during them. The best piece of advice the midwives gave me was to breath through the tough contractions with shorter breaths and to not push. Let my body do all the work until I got to the point where no one was gonna stop me from pushing. They said I would know when I got to that point. So because I was being patient and not pushing, I didn’t have Mia until about 4:50 am. Now I’m a firm believer in letting your body do the work! I didn’t have an episiotomy or any tearing or even swelling. The breathing through helped so much in fact, that as I finally began to push at the end, her head came out and I squealed in surprise because I didn’t even realize she was that close to coming out. And then, of course, came the quick and exciting part. I remember feeling a huge rush of relief and pride that I did it. Like I couldn’t actually believe the labor was over. Throughout the entire birth, I was calm and inwardly-focused. I wasn’t scared, I was just in the zone. I thought, “This is it. And I’m ready. I can do this.” 

I feel very fortunate that I was able to have a natural birth, and a water birth at that. And while I’ll never know how much of it was genetics, preparation or circumstance, I do know there are certain things that helped me accomplish my goal:

• Reading Birthing From Within— Though I never did any of the art exercises in the book (weird, since I’m a graphic designer), the words and coping techniques were immensely helpful and shaped my birthing experience. 

• Watching The Business of Being Born — I think every pregnant woman should see this. It was very eye-opening for me. With knowledge comes power, and that’s never more appropriate than in child birth.

• Choosing a water birth — I started out thinking it was such a weird thing, but this is why I feel education and sharing our stories is so important. Now I can’t imagine NOT doing it and I plan on doing one for the next kiddo.  

• Seeing midwives — I started with an OB/Gyn at the beginning of my pregnancy, but had to switch because I wanted a water birth. While my doctor was very nice, she always seemed to be in a hurry. The midwives were more personal, warm and relaxed. I had wonderful conversations with them, plus, they do everything they can to avoid medical interventions.

• Exercising and being in-tune with my body — I never took Lamaze or any other pain-coping class, but I think my exercise class—barre3, a combination of ballet barre, yoga and pilates—helped me be strong in mind and body, be aware of my breath and harness the power of mental focus. I’m sure any exercise could do this; yoga, running, swimming. 

• Visualization — I really do think SO much of it is mental…accepting that it will be painful (and it ended up being way less painful than I was expecting) but knowing that this is nature’s way and that women have done this for thousands of years. A favorite line from Birthing From Within is “Labor is hard work. It hurts. And you can do it. All the rest you learn about is icing on the cake.” I really bought into the idea that labor/birth is a natural process (not a medical event) and that the pain is there to guide you. Pain is information. It helps you move in ways that get you more comfortable and helps the labor progress. I also made a couple vision boards to look at during labor with visualization words and reminders of coping techniques. I did look at them during some tough moments and it really helped, but even more than that, the act of making the boards helped me to create my own personal birth philosophy. 

My vision boards full of personal inspiration and pain coping technique reminders (mostly from Birthing From Within).

One final birth story detail I can’t wait to tell Mia every year: she was born on her due date. 

The “Burdens” of Motherhood

guest written by Katelyn Hunt

“Children are a burden to a mother, but not the way a heavy box is to a mule. Our children weigh hard on my heart, and thinking about them growing up honest and healthy, or just living to grow up at all, makes a load in my chest that is bigger than the safe at the bank, and more valuable to me than all the gold inside it.”

-These is My Words Author: Nancy E. Turner

Awhile ago, a dear friend of mine (whom I have long adored, and still do) wrote something on Facebook that irked me. She challenged all mothers to blog or post on Facebook about something other than their children, asking if we thought we could do it. My feathers were ruffled. My immediate thoughts went something like: “I blog about my life! My life happens to largely revolve around my children.” I never told my friend I was irked (shocking I know, I am normally REALLY good at communicating my feelings) but I knew that I would get over it. She later explained herself and her explanation got me a thinkin’. She was wondering if you lost a great deal of yourself and your interests in what was once meaningful to you when you became a mother. Hmmm… I’ve been mulling this over.

The answer (for me anyway) simply put is no. But as those of us that are mothers know, nothing about motherhood is simple. I have found that those things most meaningful to me have changed. My priorities, my outlooks, my interests have evolved as my duties, responsibilities and life have evolved. Some things I once deemed extraordinarily meaningful perhaps no longer are, while others, such as running, my fascination of all things Middle East, my relationship with both my religion and my husband still are. Some of my interests have morphed slightly from big leather bags to big front porches, or from which is the best method for a six pack to which is the best method for removing chocolate milk stains from the couch. But I remain devotedly interested in good denim, good cupcakes, good books and the Star Tracks section of People Magazine. So, it would appear you don’t lose it all.

Motherhood is hard. So hard. There are days when I look around and think, “This is my life? Really? I did not used to live like this.” My house was clean. My time was mine. My Sunday afternoons consisted of a 3 hour nap. I didn’t eat cheese quesadillas for lunch three times a week. I used to have one job, now I have like 20. I’ll list them for you: referee, teacher, psychologist, coach, cook, housekeeper, terrorist negotiator, personal shopper, interior designer, hair stylist, toy/stroller/highchair expert, cheerleader, driver, coach, tutor, laundress, entertainer, I could go on. And that one job I used to have? I got paid for that. This one, or rather these 20, which is clearly worth $300,000 a year all added up? Zilch. Zero. Except…EXCEPT at the risk of sounding painfully cliche, in reward. Us mothers are paid in meaningful reward.

The first summer we were here in OC I worked the anniversary sale at Nordstrom. I worked with a woman that in 3 short weeks I came to adore. I’ll call her ‘Susan’. Susan was probably 25 years older than me, had two sons, one serving in special forces, one at a prestigious university. We got to talking one day and discovered we had similar interests and educational backgrounds. She too had studied International Politics back east, loved it and had worked at the State Department for a year before deciding, much like I had, that it was not the life for her. She married, quit working and became a full time mother. A few years ago Susan ran into a classmate from college who had taken a different path. Her classmate had opted for the route we had not. She was at the CIA where she enjoyed Agent status and, while surely unable to reveal, had probably had loads of grand and dangerous adventures. She asked Susan what she was doing, what she had done for the last 25 years. When Susan told her she had left the State Department shortly after she had arrived and had been a mother for the past 25 years, her classmate looked at her totally bewildered asked, “What?! What happened to you?” I’ll give you a moment to digest that. ….. Did you just want to punch this lady? Well, Susan (here’s the part where I came to adore her) responds: “What I have been doing? I’ll tell you what I have been doing. I have been engaged in the most meaningful and responsible work I know. I have been teaching and guiding and raising two incredible human beings. One who is actively and courageously paving the way for you to get into countries you weren’t able to negotiate in two years ago and one who is immersing himself in a valuable education that will allow him to better contribute to his community and mankind. I’m ok with what I’ve been doing for the past 25 years. In fact, I feel great about what I’ve been doing the past 25 years.”

Brilliant, right? I’m hoping someone asks me such an incredulous question in 20 years so I can respond the exact same way. While it sounds dreadfully unoriginal, I genuinely believe that the frustration, guilt and discouragement that accompanies motherhood is generously surpassed by the reward on the backside. Watching my son Bode discover a tropical fish for the first time, hearing my daughter Tessa proclaim from the next room, “Mom! I did it!” proud, as proud can be when she does all her buttons by herself or when she jumps in the air and open and closes her legs before she lands again. Or when Bode gives me an open mouth sloppy smooch, or when Tessa tells me, “Mom, that shirt looks really, really, really beautiful.” These are the moments that nearly make the tantrums disappear, that make the big leather bags and six packs trivial. Or the moment that a new born baby is placed in your arms for the first time, and you can still smell heaven on them. They quickly become all I care to write about, or live about, or not nap about.

It is a lovely gift to be a mother. It is not a challenge to give up those things in my former life, that frankly I can’t even remember. The challenge lies in the perseverance that is required to raise and guide, to teach and love human beings who will one day make the world a better place than they found it. And that challenge my friends is one (well today anyway) that I am willing to take.

Katelyn Hunt lives in Sunny So Cal where she devotes 95% of her time rearing Tessa (3 1/2) and Bode (1 1/2). It doesn’t pay particularly well and she wonders at times if she’s any good at it but she has a good time trying! When she’s not with the little’s she enjoys a couple of miles on the road with the voices in her head or jumping out of helicopters and skiing down freshly fallen snow. Her husband Wade (who is ever charming and debonair) likes to accompany her on such adventures and they look forward to the day they can drag the kiddos along.

Recipe: No-Knead Bread

guest written by JENNIFER GIROUX

I recently left my high-stress / long-work-hours job in advertising and am taking a few months off to, well, figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I’m lucky enough to be able to do this because I was able to save while I was working like a crazy person, but going from a good income to zero income with out completely blowing my savings is an adjustment. Thankfully, I love to cook and bake so I’m channeling my foodie-interest from trying hot new restaurants into making most of what I eat in my own kitchen.

This is the infamous No-Knead Bread from the NY Times. My previous experiences making bread have been from Rose Levy Barenbaum’s The Bread Bible, and while they are delicious, you’re talking starters, tiny & precise measurements, and multiple rises at varieties of temperatures. They are not everyday bread recipes.This, on the other hand, should really be called “No-Work Bread” because really - it is barely any work and gives you a delicious crusty loaf of bread with a pretty airy crumb (translation: lots of nooks and crannies). The one caveat is that it does take 18-20 hours, so you do have to start it the day before you want the bread.

What you need:

1 large bowl

3 cups all-purpose or bread flour, more for dusting

1/4 teaspoon instant yeast

1 1/4 teaspoons salt

1 5/8 cups water

A warm spot on the counter

Patience


Cornmeal or wheat bran, as needed

2 100% cotton dish towels (NOT terry or blended cotton)

a 6- to 8-quart heavy covered pot (cast iron, enamel, Pyrex or ceramic)

In the large bowl, mix together the flour, yeast and salt. Add the water - the recipe does not specify temperature of the water so I use room temp / barely warm because I think hot water can kill the yeast and cold water doesn’t make it active enough, but I might be making that up - and stir until blended. You can use a wooden spoon or your hands - likely you’ll need your hands to get the last bits of flour etc, from the bottom of the bowl. This dough will be shaggy (you’ll know when you see it) and very sticky - do not be alarmed. Cover the bowl tightly with plastic wrap and let it sit for at least 15, preferably 18 hours in a warm spot.

After you’ve been oh-so-patient you will know the dough is ready when the surface is dotted with little bubbles - this will definitely happen if you let it sit the requisite 18 hours.

Lightly flour a spot on your counter or work space and use a lightly oiled spatula to place the dough on it. Sprinkle a little flour and put some on your hands while you’re at it to minimize sticking and fold the dough over on itself once or twice. Cover it lightly with plastic wrap and let it rest for 15 minutes.

Now, coat your 100% cotton dish towel generously with flour, wheat bran or cornmeal (if it’s not 100% cotton and/or you skimp on the flour you will have sticking problems later, trust me!) and place it on a counter that you won’t need for 2 hours. Putting a little more flour on your hands, attempt to shape the dough into a ball and place it seam side down on the floured towel. The dough will be slightly unwieldy and sticky and not really stay in ball shape. Do not worry about this, just get the seam side down. Sprinkle with more flour and cover with the second towel. Let it rise for 2 hours - it will double in size and not spring back easily when you poke at it.

1.5 hours into the rise, put your heavy covered pot into the oven and preheat the over (yes, with the pot in it) to 450 degrees. The hot pot will make that nice crust that you want. My ex-boyfriend brought this ridiculous pot home one day, at which I exclaimed “What the F are we ever going to use that country-kitchen thing for!?” Well, I discovered that it is the perfect bread baking pot.

Remember that every surface is HOT and carefully take your pot out of the oven and put it on the top of your stove. Slide your hand under the towel, and carefully turn the dough over into the pot, seam-side up, helping with your other hand if you have stickage. It might look like a mess and your seam may not be anywhere to be seen but none of this is a problem. If the dough is not laying evenly, shake the pan once or twice to get it distributed and it will straighten out as it bakes. Put the over on and bake for 30 minutes, then remove the cover and bake 15 - 30 minutes more until the loaf is crusty and brown on top.

Cool on rack.

You’ll see my bread has a tumor on the left side - that’s because I had some stickage from my non-cotton towel that time and I stuck the lump of dough right there. It was just as delicious as the rest though.

Eat now or later and enjoy!

Wildcard Wednesday: I’m a Weird Mom

Guest Written by Jennifer Prinzing

Hi, my name is Jenn, I’m a reader of The Poopsie Collective, and I have a confession: I’m a weird mom. 

Sure, on the outside I certainly seem like a normal mama of 1-year old Mia, but up in my brain I register about an 87 on the oddball scale. I’ve recently started thinking that the things that run through my head on a daily basis are uncommon to say the least. Or are they? Intrigued? Well, take a peek…(and here’s hoping that my weirdo realizations and passing thoughts as a mom aren’t quite as bizarre as I think. I mean, it can’t just be me, right?)

- No one could have prepared me (or is it that no one did prepare me) for how many of Mia’s boogers I would wipe on my own pants. 

- I hate when I have to poop during Mia’s naps. It feels like such a waste of my free time.

- Mia loves this crappy board book filled with babies doing mundane things (touching their shoulders, smelling a flower). It is so boring to read and the photos are ultra cheesy. But then I realized: this is basically her version of US Weekly.

- Has my baby completely wrecked my brain, or is Kathie Lee Gifford starting to make sense? 

- A plane ride is like Spring Break for babies. Mia gets unlimited access to all her vices (boobs, pacifiers, puffs), she gets to try adventurous new snacks and, most exciting of all, she gets typically forbidden things—like my iPod touch and cartoons. Like a sorority girl boozing with Malibu, she is drunk with power. Babies Gone Wild, indeed.

- Whenever I hold Mia up to a mirror, I feel like my face is super weird. Next to her, my head is giant and oddly long, my skintone is uneven, red & shiny, my pores and teeth are huge. And there’s no getting away—baby toys almost always have mirrors.

Like mother like daughter? We shall see…

- Getting my period back post-preggo was stupid. I mean, how much practice do we really need moving that egg down?!  Certainly not every month for years and years.

- Could I be the only person whose farts have started to smell like her baby’s poop?

- This Christmas, I got to thinking: adults need their own version of Elf on a Shelf. It’s called Midge in a Fridge and he gets rid of any old food or stuff that you don’t want anymore but feel too guilty to throw away. He would even rinse and recycle out-dated condiment jars. 

- I’m not looking forward to the phase where Mia berates me with her words. You probably think I’m talking about when she’s a teenager, but I’m not. I know from other moms that toddlers can be pretty harsh. When Mia hits this stage, it’ll be like I’m back in junior high, worrying about my hair and makeup and what I’m wearing everyday (shudder). These are actual quotes from friends’ toddlers:                   

   “Ew, your breath stinks; brush your teeth.”

   “Hair too wacky-doody,” while handing her a comb. 

   ”Your legs are scratchy! You need to shave.” 

The Most Beautiful Mother I Have Ever Known

Guest Written by JESSICA ERICKSON

Sharlie and Harrison. Some people come into your life and you know, somehow or another, because of them you will never be the same.

Meet Sharlie. She is my earth angel. She is the most beautiful mother I know.

When I met Sharlie over 25 years ago, I had no idea how she would change my life and my heart. I had no idea how much she would teach me about love, courage, joy and compassion. And in those 25 years, we’ve laughed till we cried, we’ve fought like 13 year old girls, we’ve experienced first loves, real loves, and now motherhood together.

Sharlie’s influence has been a vital part in my “kind-of-mother-I-want-to-be” file that I keep tucked away in my heart. 

She radiates love.

She loves to laugh.

She is joyful and selfless.

She is courageous.

Being a mother is a miracle for Sharlie. And on those days, when I need to remember that my children are a miracle (and not a curse), I think of her.

Born with Cystic Fibrosis, a chronic, degenerative, terminal disease, at the age of 26 doctors advised Sharlie not to continue with her pregnancy. However, she was born with a mother’s heart, not just CF—and she fought every day of that pregnancy to bring her sweet Harrison into the world. Now, almost 5 years later—she lives to be a wife and mother. 

Sharlie survives on 17% function of one lung. She struggles for every breath. She now wears oxygen day and night. And right now, she is waiting for a new chance at life—a double lung and heart transplant.

When your best friend has a life threatening/degenerative/terminal illness such as Cystic Fibrosis, you spend days, weeks, months, YEARS feeling helpless, like there is nothing you can do to make it all better. And really, all this time, all I could do was pray and be there when she needed me. But this is different. She is a wife. She is a mother. She is a fighter. But she is sick. And finally, there is something I can do. We have been told the transplant, rehabilitation and related expenses could exceed insurance coverage by several hundred thousand dollars. This, I can do.

How can I not?

Want to help? Here’s how:

1. Visit Sharlie’s Give Forward page and make a donation. There you will find more information about Sharlie and her family. Even the smallest donation helps!

2. Visit the shop that my sister and I set up: Shop for Sharlie. You can buy patterns, tutorials, printables all for $5 that will be sent to your email address within 24 hours. Every last penny goes to Shar.

3. If you will be in the San Diego area on November 5th, join us for Air Supply: Filling Lungs with Love—a benefit for Sharlie. There will be food, live and silent auctions, music, and fun for the whole family. Come to participate in all the fun, but if you would also like to volunteer, just let me know!

4. Leave Sharlie a message of support on her blog (and prepare to be inspired by her courageous words!)

5. Of course, keep Sharlie and her family in your prayers. She has told me several times how much lighter her burden feels and that she knows all the prayers offered on her behalf play a huge part in that.

Watching the community, friends, family members, and total strangers rally around Sharlie at this delicate time in her life has helped me to realize how lucky I am to call her my friend, and what a blessing it is to watch her mother in patience, joy, and love.

Bumptastic

guest written by JOSHUA HERTZ

Henry a week before the wedding…

Like approximately 100% of all new parents, my wife and I briefly entertained the fantasy that our beautiful baby was going to have a successful modeling career. You know, help defray his future college costs and sure, maybe pay for a new digital camera for his dad.

These days, such thoughts don’t even cross my mind. Not because Henry isn’t an incredibly handsome little guy. He is. But unfortunately, he’s an extremely accident-prone one. His good looks are invariably accompanied by at least one highly visible bump, bruise or scrape, usually in the facial region. No sooner does one injury start to heal than some deep-seated primal urge leads Henry to replace it with a fresh one. As a result of this, it is hard to get a photo of Henry where he isn’t sporting some sort of battle scar.

(After a particularly bad bump on his forehead, a neighbor told us that we really should cover it up before going out, so people didn’t think we were abusing our child. “Of course, I know you’re not,” he helpfully added.)

This summer, my wife’s youngest sister was getting married and asked Henry to be a pageboy: basically a ring-bearer without any actual ring-related responsibilities. Henry’s job was just to dress up in some fancy duds and look adorable while walking down the aisle. Ok, so persuading him to don said duds was possibly going to be an issue. And getting him to walk – not run – down the aisle in front of a big crowd of strangers might also be tricky. But looking adorable? No problem. IF we could keep his head injury-free for the big day.

So for the month leading up to the wedding, we were extra vigilant. And by vigilant, I mean that we uttered the phrases “Henry, slow down!”, “Henry, be careful!” and “Henry, watch where you’re going!” even more than usual. There were some close calls, but we were doing well. We even made it through a transatlantic flight and the ensuing jet-lag… and still no head injuries.

And then, with two days to go… we let down our guard. We had literally just finished saying how great it was for Henry to have a big soft lawn to run around on… when he tripped and SLAMMED his forehead against the only solid object in sight – a most unyielding metal bench. Now I’d like to say that my immediate reaction was purely one of concern for my son’s well-being… but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that part of my brain that was thinking, “Oh crap. There go the wedding photos.”

Henry on the day of the wedding.

I Love Preggos!

guest written by The Firefighter (read the following with a heavy Long Island accent)

So the long weekend was ending. We’d just gotten off the ferry from this awesome little island in Denmark where we’d had nights of extreme drinking and dancing ‘til the wee hours of the mornings. It came time to say goodbye to all the peeps we’d been bonding with over the weekend. There was this solo girl that I hadn’t made a move on the night before, and I was sick about it. I’d already said ‘bye’ to her, but something was driving me crazy. 

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but if I’d made a move on you last night would you have gone for it?” I asked.

Her response, “What? Are you crazy?”

Now in my sick head I’m thinking, “Did she mean, Are you crazy? Of course I would have gone for it! or Are you crazy? Of course NOT!”? So I had to go back and ask again.

“So when you said, ‘What? Are you crazy?’ was that like a yes or a no?” This brought out one of the most disturbed looks and answers I’ve ever gotten.

“NO! I have a boyfriend and I’m six months pregnant!”

And this is why The Poopsie Collective asked me to write ‘bout why I LOVE Preggos.

To say I like women would be a complete understatement. I like all types of women. If you do it for me, then I like you. With the exception of a girl in a romper. To me those things are absolutely hideous and I wouldn’t give you a second look. If I had to choose though, I’m most into a tall, thin body, tiny ass with perky B boobs. I’d even be cool with perk A’s. So basically the runway look. And now with saying that though, the Preggo just does it for me in a HUGE way, which doesn’t make any sense.

What is it about those Preggos? People always say the glow that comes off a pregnant woman makes them so attractive to me, but I’m calling bullsh*t on that. I think it’s the fact that their tits get a little plumper, their asses a little fatter and the little bit of the mid-drift that starts to show is sexy as f*ck. This goes completely against the look that I love though! Sometimes I think to myself that they basically have the same characteristics of fat chicks, and I’m not into that. But, in the words of my buddy Schwartz last weekend “They are like fat chicks in all the right places.”

Maybe that’s what it is! I’m starting to think that I do like bigger tits than B’s, and do like a fatter ass too. But usually fatter asses and bigger tits accompany a bigger type of woman, which I’m not really into. And this is where the preggo becomes the perfect hybrid of female. They can still have those tiny traits, but the baby feeders start to swell and the fart makers start to fatten, and the belly, well the belly is just awesome.

So if you’re ever walking the streets of NYC all Preggo’d out and you see a guy staring at you, undressing you with his eyes, that just might be me. Or maybe it’s just one of the millions of other guys out there that are into Preggos too and are embarrassed to admit it. If you are the man who made this baby, I hope you hit on your lady day and night like I would. Otherwise, the next time she’s at a little party without you, feeling gross and fat cause you pay her no attention, and me (the Scavenger) has one too many shots of tequila, I might actually muster up the balls to make a move this time. And who knows what she’ll say this time? Unless, of course, she’s wearing a romper. Then she’s all yours.

Want more from The Firefighter? Email your questions for him about love, sex, fashion and life to poopsiecollective@gmail.com.

Confessions of a (Not So) Supermom

guest written by The Other Sarah

Photo of Supermom Sarah and her Little Dude, by Jess Hekman Photography  http://jesshekmanphotography.com/

At the end of my real life episode as a work-at-home mom, I seriously feel and look more like Miranda Hobbes than Charlotte York. I am tired, slightly overworked, struggling with what we all struggle with—balance, imperfectly dressed, ready to collapse on the couch and enjoy Thai takeout, happy to be home, and struck by the daily realization that I didn’t get anything done. Maybe I was naïve to think that I’d emerge from the new parent sleep-deprived daze capable and ready to do it all, but I never thought in a million years that it would be so challenging to muster the energy to balance mommyhood with all the “other stuff,” especially when I was no longer beholden to a 9-to-5 job. 

As a type-A personality, I initially had some difficulty coming to terms with this—the baby toys littering the living room floor, the dishes left undone, the pile of laundry reaching Everest-sized proportions, my inability to make real meals unless you count Luna Bars, and the new me.  But I’m gonna let you in on a strange and surprising secret—it is positively freeing not to be burdened with multitasking and the self-imposed pressure to be “productive.” I swear, too, that it actually feels good to openly share that we are happier individuals/women/mothers/wives/friends/you name it when everything isn’t perfect. So, I’ll out myself and confess to you why I’m a (not so) Supermom:

▪  I hate that my son wakes up at 5:45 AM because I am not ready to play before the sun rises, so I bring him to bed with me in an attempt to lure him back to sleep for a just a little while longer. I pretend to keep sleeping even when he crawls on my head.

▪  I wash my hair every other day, never blow dry it, and always wear it in a French twist, ponytail, or braid. Personal grooming takes too much energy.

▪  I look like the living corpse of Sarah because I never have time to put on concealer or any other makeup for that matter. Again, see bullet point above.

▪  I pretend to look pulled together by accessorizing my outfits with a brightly patterned scarf and flashy stud earrings. Hopefully, no one will notice that I’ve worn the same pair of jeans three or more days in a row.

▪  I feed my son frozen waffles, instant oatmeal, and vegetable puffs on an almost daily basis because they’re quick and easy. Hey, at least they’re organic.

▪  I gave up cleaning the kitchen floor after every meal and ignore the food crumbs and sticky tile until it becomes too unsightly. Mothers must’ve coined the phrase, “don’t cry over spilled milk.”

▪  I have stopped apologizing for the water-stained quartz countertops, dishes in the sink, mail on the dining table, and shoes collecting by our door.  Because I’m not a candidate for the television shows about hoarders, I’ve stopped worrying about my mess.

▪  I buy cookies and cupcakes at the bakery, and I rely on Trader Joe’s to get me through a dinner party.  Yes, it’s true, I used the store’s delicious flash frozen mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. Martha would not approve.

▪  Twenty-one months later and I have not lost all the baby weight. Instead, I wear a lot of black or use Spanx.

▪  Once my son goes to bed, I watch Glee and fantasize about being a pop star instead of attending to my “to do” list. A girl’s gotta dream, right?

The list definitely goes on…

Adapted from a post first published at Salt & Nectar.

Notes on Fatherhood: or How Having a Daughter (Almost) Ruined the Vagina for Me.

guest written by ALAN STUART

 
“Front to back,” Steph scolds me, incessantly. I’m standing over my fairly newborn daughter—with one hand holding both her legs in the air, and with the other hand wiping (apparently, incorrectly) green, yellow, sticky diarrhea from her vagina. At least I think it’s her vagina. I’m really just aiming for the center of what looks like 5 vaginae.

*    *    *

 Like any healthy 30-year-old boy, I’ve spent most of my life trying to get a glimpse of, understand, hunt, get rid of, win back, and apologize to this cavern of female mystery. And here it is, staring me in the face, almost clean and attached to a giggly little alien that dropped out of my wife’s nether region—like the first of our Russian doll series. The male brain is just not wired to handle this kind of complexity.

You know when women say we have a one-track mind? That’s not an insult, that’s a fact. And we’re wired like that for a reason. Let’s say you’re taking a stroll one day looking for honey. “Honey, honey, honey, honey, sweet.” And you come across a woolly mammoth. “Danger, danger, danger, danger, kill.”

The last thing you want on your mind is what Angela was thinking when she said, “Of course you can come to dinner,” even though you know she told Barb that she didn’t invite you. No. That kind of multi-track mind will get you impaled. A man needs a one-track mind if he’s going to survive a woolly mammoth ambush. The same goes for being successful… getting the girl… making babies…

But then I had a daughter. Now I’m dealing with a different category of Vagina. Here’s one that I’m supposed to keep people (and poop) out of. So, for all these years my one-track mind has been saying “In, in, in,” and then comes adorable little Marlowe and the brain has to switch to “Out, out, out.” It’s very confusing, and it’s certain to get worse.

At some point, this tiny giggle & drool monster will turn into a raging pre-pubescent bitch. She will hate her mom and be super embarrassed of me, except when giving her money. And if I want my family line to continue, her now poop-free va-jay-jay will have to be seen by another ‘one-tracker’ on a mission to do what he was programmed to do. It’s gross, yes, but in the end I’m sure there will be another instinct to override the one I’m feeling right now, which is to crush his skull with two shovels. There must be, right? Or is my father-in-law smiling and nodding right now as he brushes up on his shovel-handling skills?

*    *    *

“You don’t know the intimate workings of a vagina,” my beautiful wife continues her lecture on the complexity that is her c-word. She is more right than she knows, but I’m learning: Always wipe front to back.