The Poopsie Collective

The Popular Girls

Written by GWEN 

I don’t know about you, but when I was in high school I couldn’t wait to graduate and move on from all the cliques and popularity contests! I mean, not that I was a loser… but I wasn’t a cheerleader either. A LOT OF MY FRIENDS WERE CHEERLEADERS. I SWEAR! Moving on. Unfortunately, when I got to college, I realized it was exactly the same. There were fraternities and sororities, cliques, cool kids, clubs, cliques within clubs etc. AND then, once I entered the ‘real world’, it was no different. Groups of friends in the office, cool departments (i.e. PR, duh!), cliques in your gym classes (how do those form by the way? I can never seem to break in!), who got into the good bars or clubs, blah blah blah.

Now that I’m a mother, I realize mom cliques are actually THE WORST of them all. In London, in particular, there are swarms of mom groups running around, and if you’re on the outside, many of them give you the cold shoulder or a catty comment. WHICH, I don’t really get, since we’re all going through the same thing, aren’t we?? I try not to compare the US to the UK too much (okay, I kinda do), but I have to say, Americans are so much more open and inviting. They want to chat and exchange stories—to commiserate when necessary.

Yesterday, I took Izzy to the park. Ordinarily I travel with my own crew, but for one reason or another we were solo.  Izzy, per usual, ran over to various mom groups, trampling on their blankets, drinking from their kid’s bottles, stealing toys, the usual mischief. It was adorable. And more to the point, totally normal toddler behavior. My fellow park-goers, however, seemed less thrilled. One woman saw Izzy coming, and literally covered her baby’s head with her hand while she mouthed to her friend, “OH god! I really don’t want him over here.” HIM??  Another mom, at one point, told me, “Sorry. I would let him play with this, but it’s her favourite.” I mean… I get it lady. Perhaps you’ve heard of a little lion round these parts named LEROY! Just don’t give me your fake smile and bullsh*t.

 Later in the afternoon, I found myself in a bakery surrounded by three ‘yummy mummies’ all in their heels and silk scarves, babbling about Verbier and whether they would bring their nannies or not. It was slightly nauseating, although I had just spent the last thirty minutes on the bus listening to my friend complain about her cleaning lady.

My point… I hate the cliques. I like to be all welcoming. BUT, you are friends with your friends for a reason. And yesterday’s outing certainly called for backup. Next time, Izzy and I will not be leaving the hood without our own mommy posse!

One of my fellow posse members and Izzy with his bestie Jakey.

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.

Bye-Bye Baby!

written by STEPHANIE

At my grandmother’s funeral Marlowe got squirmy. My cousin leaned into me and asked, “Does Marlolwe want a lolli?” Her voice got really quiet as she said lolli, as if every child in a 1 mile radius was going to come running to her in hysterics. Marlowe had never partaken in a lollipop before. She’d never had candy, period. But I was a bit desperate and my cousin confessed that it’s a sure fire way to buy herself some squirm-free time from her own little ones. I decided to give it a go. What ensued was something like feeding a Gremlin after midnight… Marlowe became a sticky, dirty, sugar-high, little demon. I didn’t want her to touch ANYTHING and I didn’t want ANYONE to touch her. She was gross. And when I’d decided she’d had enough, the little Gremlin screamed bloody murder. Fantastic at a funeral. Was all that mess really worth it?

Yep, we took a photo at the funeral. Classy.

Yesterday we met friends at the playground — Marlowe’s first real venture into sand. That stuff gets EVERYWHERE! Shoes, socks, diaper, ears, hair and obviously, mouth. I hope she at least trusts me now when I say, “NO! Yucky.”  So late last night, before falling into bed, I crazily vacuumed the house, trying to get up all the sand we brought home, and realized that playgrounds are going to be in our lives for a long, long time to come. Am I going to be vacuuming every night?!!

In a moment of panic I realized that the days of my Marlowe’s sweet, delicious, baby skin, edible hands and feet and cheeks are GONE. She’s entering the land of toddlerhood, followed by childhood, followed by (throw-up in my mouth a little) teenager. She is going to be a sticky, dirty, snotty mess from now until she’s too old, and then I will be a weird-o if I’m still gobbling her up with kisses.

Oh, the heartbreak! 

The Rattle Dilemma

Written by GWEN

I mean, could that face ever be wrong?

I don’t like other parents’ kids. Yup, I said it. Friends’ children? Fine. Nieces and nephews? They can stay. My own? Obviously. But other people’s snotty grabby grubby kids, I could kinda do without. 

I recently took Izzy to a community play area, and as we arrived I foolishly fished out one of his favorite rattles. Clearly there were tons of toys there, but I thought that to make him comfortable, we’d start with something familiar. No more than two seconds later a twelve-foot toddler bounded over and swiped the rattle right from under our noses (a gift from Grandma mind you, brought back from Mexico). Of course, Izzy didn’t seem to mind at all.  He was much more interested in all the new toys surrounding him. I, however, went through all the stages of grief, settling mainly on anger. I didn’t want to make a scene and was fine with the little thief playing with it for a while, but I did get this overwhelming sense of panic and protection. Poor helpless Izzy didn’t even know he’d been swindled.

I took a deep breath and kept my cool as we continued to play. For the next hour I listened as I heard the rattle make its way all around the room. Finally, the little tinkle stopped. I poked my head around the corner and found it lying on a play-bench—no pacifier-plugged kid in sight. I grabbed the rattle and packed it safely away in our diaper bag. No harm done. 

I know what you’re thinking. Yes, Izzy does the exact same thing. He steals toys and grabs hair. He clambers over other babies like he doesn’t even see them. I bring him out when he has a runny nose, to infest every child in a five-mile radius. But I mean look at him. He means well and, more to the point, I mean well. If he steals a child’s rattle, I return it, giving Izzy something else to play with along with a little life lesson on sharing.

“Izzy that isn’t ours. We share our toys and play nicely. I love you.”

So where was this kid’s mother? Where were her gentle words and firm hand?

Hmmm. I think I would like to rephrase my original statement. Other parents’ kids are fine. I don’t like other parents. Yup, I said it.

The Genetics of a Biatch

written by Stephanie

Is this little angel headed for ruin?

I might be a bad person. I’m not saying this so you think, “No, no! You’re wonderful!”. I’m not fishing for a compliment. I’m saying that I might really, truly be a bad person. Why’s that? Gather closer, my friend. I will tell you a tale… 

I recently spent the day with my best friend, her 2 year old son, and her new baby at the playground. I chased the 2 year old up, down and all around trying my best to tire him out. She sat in the shade nursing the baby. We reconvened about 30-mintues later and (this is why I love my best friend so much) the first thing out of her mouth was, “Did you see that bitchy little girl over there?” She motioned with her head across the playground. Said little girl was screeching, “I’m going to tell your nanny on you!”

Had I seen her? Ummmm… she was burned into my memory. First she flashed her panties to every little boy on the playground, then she jumped in the middle of the younger kids’ game proclaiming, “You ruined MY game, now I’m going to ruin YOURS.” Then she encouraged her meek friend’s baby brother, probably no more than 7 months old, to eat a handful of sand and giggled riotously. Then she asked her meek friend over and over and over again, “What’s your name again?” Ugh! I’m getting worked up just thinking about her.

She was awful. She was terrible. She was disgusting. And she was no more than 8 years old. I know exactly where she’s heading in life — either to a neuropsychiatric facility for burning her college roommate alive because she suspected her roommate’s boyfriend was in love with her first, or to the White House on the arm of the Distinguished Gentleman from an influential political family. Either way, this biatch is trouble.

Where do people like this come from? What did her parents do, or NOT do for that matter, to make this girl pure evil? What can I learn about my own parenting to help my daughter avoid the pitfalls of bitchdom? Or is this just what we get when we play the Russian Roulette of procreation: sometimes a golden egg, sometimes a sociopathic sh*thead?

But the real kicker in all this is my original statement: I might be a bad person. I might be a bad person because after a good 10 minutes of full-fledged smack talking about this CHILD (granted, a demon child), I realized, I am talking serious sh*t about a little girl. What the heck is wrong with me?  I recently confided to my BF that while I was thrilled my group of friends in LA didn’t talk smack about one another, I was also a little sad. “Maybe they don’t feel close enough to me to gossip.” We laughed so hard that we cried, then she suggested I get help.