The Poopsie Collective

Guilty Or Not Guilty: The Sentence of a Working Mom

Written by GWEN

When I was first starting out in PR, I worked for an amazing fashion house and had an AMAZING boss! She was gorgeous, successful and had a beautiful family with two daughters. But I remember my colleagues sometimes telling me how guilty my boss said she felt for working so much and being away from her kids. At the time, I didn’t really understand. I thought it was simple. She had a great job and a loving family—what’s to feel guilty about?

About ten years later, I finally get it. I love my job and feel incredibly lucky that my company has allowed me to come back three days a week. Most of the time, it feels like the perfect balance. I get to go to work and have adult conversations (plus some silly ones obvi), feel like I’m achieving something, and still have the rest of the week to spend with Izzy and make sure he gets some mommy attention. Other times I feel like I want to be at work more. I want to be able to control everything that goes on in my department, and I want to get EVEN more done—things that I just can’t do in only three days. BUT, I feel terrible for leaving Izzy and could never give up those days with him. I would feel too guilty leaving him 5 days a week, even though I know millions of women do it all the time. 

Of course there isn’t a right or wrong answer and I know it’s up to me to do what I’m most comfortable with and what I think is best for Izzy. All I know is, I feel guilty for leaving him and guilty for not being at work more. Which, then leads to other questions and concerns. I worry that leaving him with a nanny will mold his personality to hers, not mine. OR that he should be in daycare rather than with his nanny.

Obviously, for now, I am choosing to stick with what I’m doing. Too many questions…it’s giving me a headache. So far, no major injuries or emotional scarring to report. Best not to rock the boat!

Izzy Loves London

Written by GWEN

The other day, Izzy took his worst fall yet. He split his lip open and cried his eyes out as his mouth filled with blood. He had actually bitten his tongue once before and I had seen the blood, so I wasn’t as concerned about that, as I was about his actual cry. It was one we had never heard before and it was clear that he was in shock. He couldn’t catch his breath or focus and nothing seemed to soothe him, not even LEROY. All I could do was hold my poor little boo and take deep, long breaths. Kinda for me, but I thought it might help calm Izzy down too. And eventually it did. After a few minutes there was a glimmer of a smile, and the tears (and blood) had stopped. Phew. My visions of spending the morning in the emergency room slowly disappeared.

THEN, (since it was 8:30 in the morning) London arrived. (London is my nanny for any newcomers.) As soon as Izzy saw her, he reached out, no longer interested in Mommy. It was a first. I mean, I know Izzy loves London and, of course, he likes her to pick him up, but when he gets hurt, I have always been the first port of call. I tried not to show it at the time, but I was devastated.

I flagged it to the Mister later that evening, but all he said was, “Now you know how I feel.” I mean duh. Of course, a baby is going to want his mom over his dad when he’s upset. But the nanny over the mommy? That’s just hurtful.

Now, all week I’ve been afraid that Izzy loves London more than me, and I really thought I was past all this. I find myself acting desperate and insecure around my own son. “Izzy, Izzy. Give me a kiss. Izzy? Give mommy a kiss. A hug? How ‘bout a little hug?” Nothing. He’s much more interested in the vacuum these days. 

I know I know. He loves me. As soon as I stop asking for them, he’ll plant one on me. 

And, of course, I want Izzy to love London. I just want him to be aware there’s a hierarchy. Never too soon to learn that lesson. Right?

Give us a kiss!

The Baby Nurse Chronicles

Written by ERICA

These days it seems as if everyone I know is pregnant. In reality it’s only about a small handful of friends, but it’s enough that I feel like I’ve been talking about childbirth, strollers, breastfeeding and, of course, poop fairly often. And I love doing it, because I remember at month 5 of my pregnancy (when I was having my nervous breakdown over baby gear), just how helpful it is to have friends who have been there and who are willing to share the dirty/embarrassing/honest details of their experiences. 

Which brings me to my most recent conversation… the age-old debate of whether or not you should get a baby nurse.

Let me start by explaining exactly what a baby nurse is, because apparently, to my dismay, baby nurses are not a very common practice outside of New York City Jews. A baby nurse is a woman, who you hire to live with you and care for you and your baby in the days/weeks/sometimes months following childbirth. The nurse typically sleeps in the baby’s nursery, handles nighttime feedings (if you’re not breastfeeding), does the baby’s laundry, cleans up after the baby, helps teach the new parents how to care for their child, and just generally acts as a support figure for the new (insanely exhausted and overwhelmed) mom.

Pre-baby I knew that I wanted a nurse… mostly because while I can (but don’t choose to) function on little to no sleep, I knew AJ would be a mess if he didn’t get his 8 hours, and quite frankly I didn’t want either of us to be miserable in the first few precious weeks of Owen’s life. I felt that a baby nurse was a luxury and if we could afford to make it happen, then we’d be forever grateful. What I didn’t know was how ridiculous the baby nurse hiring process would be. Finding a good nurse in Manhattan is more competitive than signing your fetus up for private school. We got a ton of recommendations from friends, but everyone was booked. Apparently most nurses book up like 9 months before you give birth which means we were about 2 months behind schedule. So we kept searching and in the end we had a list of like 30 potential nurses. We spoke to a lot of lovely women and we hired a nurse named Josephine (who we called, per her request, Baby Mama Jo). She seemed amazing on the phone and was really sweet during our first interview. When we popped Owen out a month early, we called her from the hospital and she packed her bags. It wasn’t until the four of us (me, AJ, Owen, and Baby Mama Jo) cozied up back at home that I realized we were going to have our hands and our apartment full.

Let me preface this next bit by saying that I know everyone is different, and our experience with a baby nurse is by no means indicative of how your experience might be. Most people I know adored their nurse and would gladly have her move-in for life. Our situation was a bit different…

Mama Jo was SUPER high maintenance. The girl was ballsy. She always seemed cranky and to have a huge puss on her face. She sat playing Farmville on her computer all the time and she literally watched Lifetime Movie Network 24 hours a day. And, you know what, it’s fine if that’s how she chose to spend her time while Owen slept, that’s not my problem. But what was my problem was that she often made me feel bad about my mothering. Like, how dare I ask her to change Owen’s diaper when I was paying her $230 a day? (Did I mention that these nurses make bank?) Any time I had friends over she would give dirty looks when we all shuffled into the baby’s room (also her room) to gawk at him. 

She also asked us to order her take-out 3 meals a day, every damn day. Truthfully, I offered, so maybe it was my fault. But I’d also offer to get any groceries she wanted and all she asked for was Oreos and Ritz Crackers. And then every day, she’d demand that we order her food for each meal. Which is not the end of the world, but she refused to look up menus and order for herself. By the end of her stay I felt like I was taking care of two babies, not one.

So clearly Mama Jo and I did’t really mesh. And based on these stories you might think that having a baby nurse is a terrible decision, a waste of money, an unnecessary source of stress and anxiety. 

But here’s the thing: as difficult as she was, Mama Jo taught me everything I needed to know. I was clueless when we got home with Owen. I’ll never forget when AJ and I looked at each other as we left the hospital and thought, “Wait, so, like, that’s it? We take this kid home now? No one is going to give us a test or come home with us?” We felt like we were stealing someone else’s baby and were in no way fit to be parents.

Ready to go home from the hospital… and with absolutely NO IDEA what we are supposed to do.

Mama Jo eased those concerns. She taught me how to handle diaper changes, bath time, feedings, she helped me pump, taught me to swaddle etc. It’s not rocket science, and somehow as a new mom you just know what to do. But it’s also scary because you’re super tired and overwhelmed. In a lot of ways I was really grateful to have Mama Jo around. The best part was at nighttime. At 10pm, we’d give Owen to her, and we’d watch TV, or go out, or do ANYTHING WE WANTED. And then we could sleep through the night until about 8am when I’d go in to get Owen for his morning feeding. We went out to dinner A LOT that month.  

Owen’s first bath with Baby Mama Jo. And yes, I blurred out his penis. Let the boy have a little privacy!

So in short (or not short at all)… I had our nurse for 5 weeks, I couldn’t stand her most of the time, but she was super helpful in teaching me what to do and allowing me to sleep. Having a nurse was a massive luxury in many ways, a burden in others, and when I get knocked up and have baby # 2, I will probably not get one. Although, ask me again when I’m actually about to be a mother of two and I might be singing a different tune.

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.

Save the Drama for Your Mama

Written by GWEN

I’m not one to rise above gossip. I love a little drama. Good or bad. Usually doesn’t matter.  What I didn’t realize was, there would be a whole new category of drama once I had a baby. The Mama Drama.

First, there are the various circles of mom friends. Some get along, some don’t, some used to, but don’t anymore after an altercation at aqua babies. There are the loose cannon moms who seem to attract drama wherever they go. One mom yells at a kid for clawing her baby and the other mom is disgusted at anyone who would reprimand her child. Never underestimate an angry mother. It is always tricky to know what to do in such situations. You know the other kid didn’t mean it, but on the other hand, you want your baby to grow up with two eyes. Are you allowed to discipline someone else’s offspring? 

And then there was the lady who accused my nanny of drinking on the job. Uh WHAT? This was obviously not true, and as far as I can tell just completely made up because for some reason she didn’t like my nanny. But drinking while watching a child is a serious accusation and goes well beyond spreading a fun little rumour.  

This has led me to the conclusion, that I will take a good old fashioned “who cheated on who”, and “who’s about to get engaged” any day. I don’t have time for psycho moms and power tripping child minders. Plus instead of being fun and exciting, mama drama is just a little bit sad.

Fine, might be a bit of a stretch, but who doesn’t love gazing at a good shot of Ed Westwick in Gossip Girl anyway. GOSSIP GIRL. Get it?

The Other Woman

written by Gwen

Since Izzy was born, the Mister and I have been his primary caregivers. (It’s an industry term.) We never had a night nurse or a nanny, or family in the country for that matter, to help out.  There have been, however, a slew of babysitters.

The first woman’s musky perfume left my son smelling like he’d been out with his mistress all evening. Never saw her again. 

Then there are the ladies of the crèche at my gym. Yup, like where they kept baby Jesus. Really it’s just a nondenominational daycare where I can drop the nugget while I get my Zumba on. Izzy likes the girls there and, with the exception of the one that reduces him to tears every time he sees her, I do too. Though I do find it amusing at the end of every session, without fail, when they tell me he’s teething.  I mean, won’t he be teething for the next like 5 years?  Got anything else in your repertoire? Missed his mommy? Has a cold? Gas?

And then I found London. To be fair, she’s more than a babysitter. As I’m slowly going back to work a couple afternoons a week, I really have to call her the nanny. I love her. Izzy loves her. She loves Izzy. He giggles for her and gazes at her with such affection, I wonder if he missed me at all. You see where this is going? While the others were never quite good enough, I now worry that London is too good.  That Izzy loves her more than me, and worst of all that maybe he’s better off with London the Super Nanny. He’s always in the perfect mood when I come home and supposedly has been that way the entire afternoon. I mean, he doesn’t even poop for her. Is my baby playing mind games with me?

The Mister dismisses these feelings as crazy and overemotional. Of course I want my son to be in the care of someone he loves, but it’s all just a bit overwhelming.  Everything I do, I wonder how it’s going to affect Izzy. If I spend too much time with him, will he become clingy? If I leave him with the nanny, will he stop loving me? Unfortunately, I have no tidy little conclusion for this one. All I can say is if my worst worry is too many people loving my little nugget, then I’m one lucky mommy.

My first full day away from Izzy I received this pic via text from a mom friend who ran into London at a local play center. Made me feel so good to know Izzy was out with all his friends!