The Poopsie Collective

Maternity Wardrobe on a Budget

Written by BROOKE

Pregnancy. Round four. Yep, four pregnancies in less than 6 years. And they all had different requirements when it came to clothes. 

Pregnancies 1 and 2 (first, our twins who passed away, second Zach)—I was working full time. This meant slacks, blouses, dresses and skirts. I couldn’t be that teacher who wore the same outfit every three days. I felt my only option was to hit up the maternity store and buy lots of boring and frumpy looking clothes. Ugly.

Pregnancy 3 (Brady)—I wasn’t working outside the home then. Thought I would survive on sweats but realized that gets depressing quickly. I got great hand-me-downs from a friend and bought a few decent pairs of jeans. I also tried shopping outside the maternity department and layering—two things that saved me. Layering helps with the fact that my hips get as big as my belly. Shopping outside the maternity department gave me so many more options and more clothes for that dreaded 4th trimester when none of my normal clothes will fit yet, but when wearing maternity clothes invites that awful question, “when is your baby due?” And sadly, the answer is, “he was born 3 weeks ago.” 

Pregnancy 4 (now)—I thought that I had enough clothes from Brady’s pregnancy to get by. But we’re in completely different seasons and truthfully, I was shocked at how out of style those clothes are three years later. I’m no fashionista either so for me to say they’re out of style means they are bad. I was actually embarrassed to wear my old maternity jeans to the mall to buy new ones! 

I thought I just might splurge a little this pregnancy. I went to the high-end maternity store and bought a $200 pair of jeans. “I want to feel GOOD,” I reasoned. “I need to look CUTE,” I justified. Then I got home and calculated how many hours of tutoring it would take to pay for those jeans. And how often I would wear them being pregnant mostly over the summer. And how at 16 weeks I wasn’t even half as big as I was going to get and the chance of those super tight, skinny jeans fitting me in another 15-20 weeks was slim to none. (And if you have any comments about me wearing maternity clothes at 16 weeks you can call me back after you’ve been pregnant four times.)

My accountant husband has worn off on me and I returned the expensive jeans. I decided there was no reason I couldn’t put together a cute, cheap, updated wardrobe on a budget. In fact, I was pretty sure I could take back those $200 jeans and get myself most of the items I needed for the same amount of money. 

Here’s what is floating my boat this round…

Maxi Skirts

Does it get any more comfortable? Nope. I bought one that was maternity with a roll over top but the rest have been cheapies from the non-maternity section. Paired with a tee and contrasting colored cardigan it looks super cute and I know these are one thing I’ll actually wear after the baby is born. I think I might even have to jump back on the jean jacket bandwagon because this skirt would look so cute with one.

Jeans

My maternity jeans were in desperate need of updating. I haven’t ordered these mint ones yet because I’m nervous about how big they’ll make my thighs look but I’m kind of drooling over them. ASOS is new to me but they have a lot of trendy cute options and the prices are really reasonable. 

I was also really happy when I returned my designer maternity jeans and bought these ones from Old Navy. Although I haven’t loved their jeans in the past, these are actually cute, comfortable and super cheap! If I have to size up at the end I won’t even feel bad buying another pair. They have that stretchy panel which I love and I find to be the only kind that doesn’t have to be yanked up all day long. 

For the Gym

It is sort of sad and shocking how few options there are for working out during pregnancy. But I have found some good options with non-maternity clothes. I wanted workout leggings that were fitted all the way down instead of flared out since I spin and the flares always get caught in the bike. These GAP body fit the bill and with the roll over waist I know they’ll last the whole time. I got them on sale for $20 and at that price, I picked up a pair in my size and a size up for later on. 

I also got some blousy workout tanks from Old Navy but they don’t have them on the website right now. I have to say that ON is doing a great job at knocking off the higher-end workout clothes lately. Their stuff is adorable, comfortable and so cheap. 

Tops

So far, my non-maternity tops are all still fitting. Thanks to this year’s long lengths and blousy styles I’m hoping they’ll last for a while. This Old Navy top is especially flattering on my not-too-huge-yet belly. I saw it in the store they had several more colors than online.

I also have a poncho style top I love, like this one from Loft.

And all my open and flowy cardigans look great over a tighter top. 

So, there you have it! I took back those $200 jeans and haven’t looked back. I think I’ll save the expensive jeans for a losing all the baby weight celebration. 

Chick-Fil-A: A Pregnancy Love Affair

written by BROOKE

Ok seriously? Am I writing a post about this? I have already confessed my love for my minivan, my Diet Coke, and Rubio’s so let me add one more embarrassing one to the list, lest you start to think I have only a few vices.

When I’m pregnant, especially in the first trimester, cooking is hard. I find that once I’ve cooked something myself I usually can’t eat it. Especially meat. So we end up eating out a little more than normal. OK, maybe a lot. And I can’t eat Rubio’s every day. Well, I could but it gets embarrassing.

Enter Chick-Fil-A. I am seriously having a pregnancy/tax-season-widow love affair with this place! It has to be the most mom-friendly fast food stop ever. Do you know they have a mom-valet? Yes, you can drive through the drive through, place your order, pay for it and then when you get your kids out of the car and inside they have your food already set-up at a table. What!? This is amazing. Avoiding the line and a fight with my kids is awesome. Plus they have a playground (so… Brady may or may not have contracted pink eye in the play land). Then comes their staff. They answer every thank you or request with “my pleasure” it makes me feel like I am a few steps up from Mickey-D’s or BK, for sure. And they come around to refill my diet coke FOR me! Awesome.

Oh, and the food? Not really so bad. They actually offer grilled chicken nuggets, which is really just a chicken breast broken into pieces but tell your kids they are nuggets and everyone’s happy. Milk instead of soda? Apple sauce instead of fries? And for mom? Grilled chicken sandwich and side salad runs you like 400 cals. And the salads are actually really good. But I’m not going to lie, the fries are good too and, well, every now and then.

The other night my girlfriend and I met up at Chick-Fil-A. We were the only ones there in the evening and we let our kids play in the playland while we chatted for almost an hour. Those nice little teenage workers refilled our drinks about five times and said “my pleasure” every time. We chatted and the kids were happy and I decided, this is a little piece of heaven.

This Stubborn Mom Seeks Help

Written by ERICA 

There are some (ok, fine, MANY) aspects of pregnancy and motherhood that are absolutely terrifying. The obvious: childbirth, your/the baby’s health, the potential pain, the exhaustion, and the unknown. And the less obvious: picking a name, figuring out how to remove poop stains from clothes, keeping your kids entertained at all times and selecting baby gear. The bad news is that some things you simply can’t plan for. Sh*t happens, literally. The good news is, when it comes to prepping your home/life for your nugget, you absolutely CAN and should be informed. And it’s not nearly as painful as you’d think, as long as you seek some help. 

Let me start by admitting something that I rarely do, let alone put in print. I am stubborn. (I immediately regret that confession and I’m pretty sure I’ll never win another argument without an accusation of being inflexible.) Anyway, I’m really only stubborn when I truly think I know what’s best. So I guess the problem isn’t my being rigid when it comes to decision-making, it’s the fact that I’ve convinced myself I know more than I do on several topics.

One of those topics just happens to be motherhood. 

It stated when I was pregnant and I convinced myself that I knew everything I needed to know about baby gear. And it’s not that I knew anything about strollers or cribs or diaper genies. I didn’t. I was familiar with about 2 stroller brands that I had seen other West Village moms sporting and that’s it. But what I was certain of was that I didn’t need to attend any informational events or seminars. They would be nothing but a waste of my time—time I didn’t have since I was working a lot on top of my baby prep. I decided I’d figure it all out in my own way; after all, that’s what friends and online reviews are for. And I did figure it all out, eventually; but it was overwhelming, and exhausting, and on numerous occasions I nearly burst into tears while debating the logic behind purchasing 4 different strollers for one baby.

Turns out, there was absolutely no reason for me to brave the baby world on my own. And it wasn’t until recently when working at the Big City Moms The Biggest Baby Shower Ever in Miami that I realized just how stubborn and wrong I had been.

I was working at the event on behalf of Munchkin Fun, an amazing online kids calendar and parenting directory in Miami. I’m a little ashamed to admit that this was the first mommy/pre-natal event I had ever been to, ever. And I’m not even pregnant. For those of you who don’t know about Big City Moms, and if you’re a mom or mom-to-be, you should, it is a social event group and parenting resource in New York City (hopefully expanding to other markets). Big City Moms hosts everything from meet-and-greets for pregnant women to informative seminars on potty training. All the types of events that I decided to stay away from when I was pregnant but that I wish I had embraced instead.

And after working at The Biggest Baby Shower Ever, I can vouch that their events are AMAZING. Not sure what kind of stroller to buy? Yeah, neither was I. No problem, check out every new model from all the major brands on their stroller test track. Wish you knew more about cord blood banking? (I still have no freakin’ clue what it is or why I spent thousands of dollars on it.) Or car seats? Or stretch mark cream? It’s ALL THERE. Everything you might ever need to wrap your head around as a new mom is in one room. Yes, that room is also filled with an insane amount of estrogen and pregnancy cravings, which might be a turn-off to an outsider; but where else could you enjoy free candy and treats while also booking babysitters for a much-needed mom’s night out? 

Working at the BCM Biggest Baby Shower Ever…Surrounded by pregnant women and candy. 

Here’s what I learned: there is a difference between being so prepared that you don’t need help and being ignorant. I thought I was the first, but I’m starting to think I was the latter. 

And here’s something else I learned that a lot of new moms don’t realize (or choose to ignore): being overwhelmed and totally clueless doesn’t end when you pop that kid out. It’s not unique to stroller shopping or pre-natal skin care. It actually gets WORSE when you have a child. All of a sudden you’re not stressed about find the right stroller, you’re stressed about finding the right place to take that stroller after hours of nothing but tummy time and pooping. 

It was when we first moved to Miami that I realized I had NO IDEA what to do with my son. The days of him finding me, and just me, entertaining were gone. And I was in a new city, desperate to meet new people and even more desperate for activities to keep us both busy and not missing our NYC life. Luckily for me (and for you) I soon discovered the coolest resource for families in Miami. 

Munchkin Fun is the answer to the “I’ve had a kid, I’ve figured out how to change a diaper and I’ve mastered feeding time, now what?” dilemma. It is the answer to the “ugh it’s raining out and our playdate cancelled and I literally cannot be stuck inside with my kid for one more minute before I implode” problem. 

This online kids calendar/e-newsletter was created for one simple reason–-to help you discover things to do with your family. The founder, Valerie Schimel, knew there were fun things to do with her kids, she just didn’t have the time or patience, like so many moms (guilty!), to sort through 30 websites and make 15 calls to find out where and when to hang out with her kids. And since there wasn’t a go-to resource with everything a Miami mom might need to know, she created one. And thank god she did, because I literally cannot plan my week without it. 

Moral of the story? There are resources out there. Check them out and let them help you; don’t be stubborn like a certain Poopsie writer who learned this the hard way. Because trust me, with the right advice, ideas, inspirations and help your day as a mom can go from awesomely stressful to, well, just plain awesome.

CLICK HERE for more information on Big City Moms and their upcoming Biggest Baby Shower events (next up, NYC on May 9th).

And if you’re in the Miami, Broward or Palm Beach areas, CLICK HERE to learn more and sign up for the Munchkin Fun newsletter! You won’t be sorry!

Positive Birth: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way Through the Birth Canal

Written by ERICA 

When people describe the birth of their children a lot of different adjectives come to mind… some say it was scary, some say amazing, others claim it was empowering; some say it was emotional, or terrifying, or intense… and I can totally relate to some of those words. It was emotional. And it really was amazing.  But it was also totally, and completely hysterical. That’s right, it was FUNNY. I mean, a human being came wiggling out of my vag-hole. Someone please tell me what’s not funny about that?

It all began about 4 weeks days before D-day (my due date). I went for a routine checkup with my OBGYN and she confirmed that I was not going into labor anytime soon…my hoo-ha was nowhere near ready to let that nugget out. Keep in mind, that early deliveries run in my family so I had this sneaking suspicion that baby boy Nahmad was gonna make a surprise appearance sooner rather than on time. But my doc said no, so I went about my business… work, gym, walk the dog, watch vampire TV shows, salivate over AJ’s wine, dream about the sushi I couldn’t have, sleep and repeat. It was just any other week. 

I left work on Friday and promised by boss I’d see him on Monday. I (unintentionally) lied. We went to dinner with friends that night, and Saturday morning had brunch with one of AJ’s professors from business school. We had a lovely meal where I opted for the healthy egg-white omelet even though I wanted the French toast. We headed home, where we met my parents who came to help set up some baby furniture. AJ claims I was in crazy-lady nesting mode that week, but I beg to differ. So sue me for wanting to be a little prepared for our impending houseguest. We finished the crib, my parents left, and AJ decided to hang the blinds in the nursery. And by AJ decided, I clearly mean I bugged him every day until he agreed to hang them. Anyway, AJ had a drill in one hand and was covered in sawdust, and he asked me to hand him the wrench. And yes, I know what a wrench is. I stood up, grabbed the tool, and decided to throw in a nice dose of amniotic fluid for good measure.

Yup, my water broke. But it didn’t happen like in the movies when a massive gush of fluid drenches your new fancy shoes. It felt like a tiny pop, followed by me pissing myself a bit. Which, let’s be honest, was standard practice at that point in my pregnancy. I burst out laughing and went to the bathroom to check my situation. Verdict: it was most definitely not urine. It was pink, and it was coming out of me in a steady stream no matter how hard I clenched. And I had been doing my kegel exercises!

So I called my doctor who also assumed I was mistaken, since last time she had a one-on-one with my cervix it was not ready to pop out a child. But she instructed us to go to the hospital to get checked out, you know, to confirm I wasn’t really in labor yet. So we threw on some sweats (me a new pair, not soaked in fluid), grabbed our wallets, and out we went. It wasn’t until we were in the cab that I started to think, “holy crap, I am DEFINITELY in labor.” At this point fluid was gushing out of me every time I giggled (which was often), and every time the driver hit the breaks, which was even more often because cab drivers are jackasses behind the wheel.

As we walked in the hospital the security guard almost asked us where we were going, then he saw me cupping my belly and the puddle between my legs and he stepped aside. I had to fight off laughter for fear the baby would fall out in the next gush of fluid. We made our way to triage, where I got checked out (aka internal exam) and then got checked in (because yup, I was in labor). 3.5 weeks early, maybe the first and only time I’ve been early to an event in my life.

Once we were settled in our delivery room there were 4 things on our immediate to-do list: 1) Call our families. 2) Call our friends. 3) Get my epidural. I had spoken to Gwen the week before when she went through Izzy’s birth (remember when our sons are 5 days apart, by DESIGN!?), so I knew enough to get the drugs immediately. None of that waiting until it’s too late crap. Drugs, in my spine, NOW. 4) FOOD. Oh wait, I couldn’t eat. AJ devoured a sandwich while I got to slurp jello. I kept thinking “I wish I had ordered that freakin’ French toast.”

It was right about at this point that I started to think back to the birthing class we had taken a few weeks back. It’s basically a prep-class where a labor and delivery nurse (the woman who is in the delivery room with you and your OGBYN) gives you all the dirty details on what happens during childbirth. Topped off with a lovely documentary film from the 80s that follows 4 (unattractive) pregnant women as they moan their way through delivery. All I remember from that movie are the traumatizing sounds of agony and a nasty crotch shot of one woman as her baby peeked out. ICK. It was at this point that I turned to AJ and said “YOU LISTEN TO ME. YOU WILL BE STAYING ABOVE THE BELT THE ENTIRE BIRTH. Once you see that you can never go back, so you stay north of the border, pal.” He nodded as he fought off gags and tears. I remember the nurse warning us that childbirth is like war. We must be prepared for a battle. 

Also, I remember her telling us that 99% of women sh*t themselves during childbirth. That number just seemed absurd, but she claimed that while most people will tell you they didn’t poop on the delivery table, that’s because most people may have no idea that they ever did. “Nurses are really good at quick clean up,” she explained. I let her words sink in and thanked god I wasn’t a nurse.

Anyway, so there we were, 3.5 weeks before my due date, December 4^th, 2010, in labor, and thinking that nurse from our birthing class was full of crap. This wasn’t like war. I felt great. It wasn’t scary, I was totally relaxed. Plus, I had taken a huge dump earlier in the day, so I would most certainly not be a part of that one percent who craps themselves.

The rest of the night was a blur. I was in the most delightful drugged haze. I felt absolutely no pain. Once that epidural took over, I swear I might as well have been wasted in a bar doing tequila shots. Our friends came over, we watched SNL (which was either absolutely hysterical or I was just buzzed), and we hung out with our families. It was sort of like any other night. Oh, except I was about to have a human head come out of my lady-parts. And the fact that there was a woman down the hall screaming bloody murder. We actually asked her to keep it down so we could watch TV. 

I was completely relaxed the entire time. No fear, no worry. I just felt really comfortable. Maybe too comfortable. All of a sudden I looked at AJ and said “did you just fart?”. He claimed no, I assumed he was lying. And for the next 10 minutes I swore he must have accidentally let out a toot. I mean, it SMELLED. Finally a nurse came in to check me, and then I hear something I will never forget. “Oh my, ok let me just get something to clean you up.” I looked at her, looked at AJ, looked back at her and said “um excuse me miss, did I just sh*t myself?” She didn’t need to answer. And all I could think was, but I ALREADY POOPED TODAY! AND I ONLY ATE AN OMELET! And ugh that other nurse was right! Oh, and PS you are NOT good at a quick clean up.

That happened 2 more times over the next 6 hours while I slept quasi-peacefully through the night. At 6am the doctor woke me up and said, “morning, it’s time to start pushing. AJ, grab a leg.” I thought about fighting it and sticking to our original “north of the border” policy, but in the heat of the moment, after sh*tting myself 3 times on the table, it just didn’t seem to matter any more. Besides, I was pretty sure if AJ was going to be disgusted with me it would have already happened, like 2 poops ago.

I pushed for 1 hour. It was the longest hour of my life. It never hurt; I barely felt a thing. But it was exhausting. I was out of breath, I wanted a nap, I wanted coffee, and you only get like a 20 second freakin’ break between contractions. It’s not enough! Turns out Owen was what they called “sunny side up”, meaning his face was facing the ceiling, not the floor, which makes it harder to get the baby out naturally. But I pushed on through, literally. I kept thinking that 26.2 miles was easy compared to this, because at least during the marathon you can stop for water and a snack, your vagina isn’t exposed and you’re not pooping yourself. And then, at 7:05am, I gave one final push, I heard AJ scream “HOLY CRAP”, and I farted out Owen Abe Nahmad. They put that slimy creature on my belly, cone head and all (just temporary, thanks to an hour of being stuck in my birth canal), and suddenly, just like that, I was a mom.

It was the weirdest, most insane, funny experience of my life. I’d do it again in a second, but here’s hoping that the next time around has a little less poop.

The First (Worst) Trimester

Written by BROOKE

Announcement time: we are expecting baby number 3 in early October! I know, we’re somewhat crazy but coming from families with four and five kids, my husband and I want to have a big family (meaning, no, we’re probably not done. It’s ok get up off the floor). 

But it is in this first trimester, that I sometimes think that is a really stupid idea. I am sure that I could get a really good argument from any 37-week pregnant woman, but I dare to say that this first trimester is the WORST! 

Here is why the first trimester is the worst: Not ONLY am I so exhausted I can barely function, sick (I don’t get as sick as some, the barfers win hands down), bloated, I can’t poop, and no food sounds good, BUT, no one even KNOWS! That is the worst part and THAT is why I will argue with any about-to-pop pregnant woman that the first trimester is the worst! 

In the third and even the heavenly second trimester, I get those sweet looks from everyone in the store. I get offered a seat while waiting at a restaurant, I even get people who let me cut in line for the bathroom (really happened!). EVERYONE gets my plight. EVERYONE is nice. EVERYONE understands why my other children are running around like maniacs. When I was pregnant (and showing) with Brady people fell all over themselves to help me with Zach. 

The first trimester? I look (and feel) like a neglectful, slobby, flabby, greasy, lazy mom everywhere I go. I am out in public when I realize the checker is staring at my once A cup, now D, cup boobs hanging out of my now too tight t-shirt as I wrestle two kids, and everyone in line wonders if I am homeless or a crack addict or something. No one feels sorry for me! The people at they gym are wondering how the girl who comes so often is managing to get FATTER by the day. 

The first trimester is all about survival. I do anything to get a nap or sleep for a few more minutes, including giving my phone to my four year old to play Angry Birds for over an hour while the little one naps so I can catch a nap too. My kids watch more movies than I can count. If I even make dinner at all, it’s frozen or from a box. My big accomplishment of the week? Pigs in a blanket. My kids were thrilled. They have started to ask, “where are we going for lunch today mom?” 

I think that the first trimester moms should get a sign or something. Maybe a t-shirt that says “I’m pregnant and feel like crap! Be nice to me!” 

Expanding the Family: When is it Time for the Second Child?

“Three kids, for sure! And the closer together, the better. Just bang ‘em all out, 1, 2, 3.” This is what I always wanted. When Marlowe was around 5 months old, we had this great routine of nursing, sleeping and playing, and I thought, “No prob. I’ve got this DOWN! Babies are easy. I could do this ten more times.” But then she changed, as kids do. Each month, while something became easier, something else became tougher. The constant change was unpredictably challenging and exhausting. Welcome to parenting, right? And because I was very vocal about wanting many children close together, the question of #2 pops up frequently.

Each time I learn that yet another friend is pregnant with #2 or #3, I find myself wondering, “Is it possible to raise a well adjusted only-child???”, because there is nothing I envy about a first trimester (or the fourth, shutter!). But I still fantasize about a home full of children, activity and love. My ambivalence, I fear, isn’t over the particularly difficult time I’ve had with motherhood. Quite the contrary, in fact. My daughter, while offering daily challenges, is a dream and has been from the get-go! And that’s where the conundrum lies: How will another kid ever be as great as Marlowe? I don’t worry about loving another child as much as I love her, though. I worry about liking another child as much as I like Marlowe. 

Little Miss Marlowe, the apple of my eye.

My husband and I often debate Nature vs. Nurture in regards to Marlowe’s awesomeness. He is pretty certain that she’s a cool little cat because of us. While I’m always eager to flatter myself, like telling the world how awesome my kid is via this blog, I feel very strongly that while we shape our children’s experiences, they are who they are. Marlowe’s awesomeness is hers and hers alone. I’m terrified that round two will be… well, not as awesome. 

See, before we had our daughter, there was this intoxicating reckless feeling that overcame me. We knew we wanted a family, but had no idea what that meant. So when we finally pulled the trigger, it was impulsive and crazy and wonderful! But this time around, we know exactly what we’re in for: poop, puke, poop, puke and no sleep. How do people make the decision to do that again? Well, I take that back… there are those few days each month when my hormones take over and they have the power to make me say some pretty F-ing crazy sh*t, like, “Let’s have another baby!!!” I’ve warned my husband to disregard me at all costs. ALL COSTS! 

Just this weekend, I was catching up with a newly pregnant friend at a playdate (our first kids are just weeks apart), and she confessed that she feared if she didn’t get pregnant ASAP she’d “chicken out”. Something about that struck me. Maybe it’s like jumping off the high-dive: it’s terrifying but mind-blowingly wonderful, and that’s why we do it. Once you make the leap, gravity takes over and the rest is fantastic. Parenthood is like controlled falling, and falling in love, free-falling, falling to pieces, and so on. The meaningful moments in life happen when we let go. 

The Mum Tum

Written by GWEN

I’ve never had a flat stomach. It’s just not the way I’m built. I mean I can see my feet, and most of the time my hoo-ha, unless I’ve been out for a celebratory meal or something, if you know what I mean. No? 

ANYWAY, I’ve learned to hide this, handicap if you will, pretty well.  Because otherwise I’m a pretty small person, proportionally. I’ve been told I have nice long legs and a tight little toosh. (By the way, apparently this shape is known in magazines like Glamour as “The Apple”. I know, I don’t get it either.) So I accentuate my good areas. You know, I work a lot of A-line or tent dresses. Kaftans, blouses. Nothing tight. Ever. I guess my body has molded my fashion sense and taste in a way, and I’m okay with that. Every now and then I wish I could sport a belt, show a little waist line—especially when high-waisted jeans were in—but it’s fine. I get by and still manage to look pretty put together if you ask me.

When I was prego, it was quite liberating to let it all hang out. I actually did wear tight tops for the first time in my life. It was OK to have a belly and I was proud to show it off.

Me about to pop in probably the tightest shirt I’ve ever owned!

Then, once I had Izzy, I went back to my normal figure pretty quickly. (Isn’t figure such a retro word??) That is to say, I still had a little belly, but everything else was pretty good. And when I was breast feeding and chasing around Izzy every day, I was pretty skinny. Still had a pooch mind you, but not bad. 

Almost three months have passed now since I stopped breast feeding and I’m looking a little worse for wear these days. I hide it well, and like I said, I’m certainly not fat, but the tum is BACK. And better than ever. It’s a little bigger than I would like and I understand at some point I am going to have to cut down on the dessert and pork belly dinners. Not in winter though. Don’t be ridiculous. 

I have been feeling a little bad about myself lately, though, and here’s what didn’t help… I ran into a fellow mom friend yesterday at a playcentre. I looked pretty cute, wearing jeans, boots and a navy silky kaftany-type top. I hadn’t seen my friend in a while, and after we had chatted for a few minutes, I must have leaned a certain way, which prompted, “OH! Is that a little bump you’re hiding under there?” 

“NOOO!!!!” I shouted without thinking.

She turned bright red and apologized profusely. I mean, I wasn’t really upset, it takes a lot to offend me. 

And to be fair, the real answer to her question is, “Yes. Since 2001.”

Baby Brain

Written by ERICA

Ever heard the term “baby brain”? It’s when a pregnant woman acts like a total ditz because the growing fetus inside of her is hogging all her brainpower for “important” tasks like growing fingernails/genitals and learning to suck/blink/breath etc. Yeah, like THAT’S important. Anyway, it happened to me. A lot. I forgot people’s names, I’d blank on my to-do list, or worse, I’d forget to DVR The Vampire Diaries. But I figured that once the little guy arrived I’d be back to normal. I’d get my body and my brain back.

Body, check. Brain, not so much.

Turns out that in a cruel joke the mom gods played on all of us, the second they give you a baby is the exact moment they take away your brain function.  I don’t mean you become brain dead or like a Stepford wife. No such luck husbands. I’m still the same old “are you SURE you don’t want to order in sushi?” wife I always was. 

Nah, the kind of brain loss I’m talking about is different. It’s embarrassing, it’s frustrating, it’s downright unfair. I’m talking about “baby brain”. 

Somewhere along the way from working girl to full-time mom I forgot how to multi-task. I used to spend all day juggling 20 things at once. Annoyed clients, demanded co-workers, vendors, readers, psycho contest winners—I managed to keep it all together and STILL remember to buy toilet paper. And now I give myself a major pat on the a$$ if I can remember to fold laundry that’s been sitting in the dryer for days. I get pumped when I manage to get myself and Owen dressed (in cute outfits obvi), make the bed, clean the apartment, and take the dog out. If I make dinner, it’s a HUGE deal.

Last week I had just finished the NYC marathon and despite my exhaustion (which thank god was masked by a 4-day adrenalin rush) I still remembered to buy groceries and pack up our luggage for our return to Miami. I was knocking things off my to-do list left and right. And then, just when I thought maybe I had my old, sane, non-mommy mind back, I left our luggage on our NYC doorstep.

Seriously. Amidst the chaos of trying to load a barking dog, whining baby, and myself into a car, I FORGOT TO LOAD OUR BAGS. True, the doorman was supposed to help me and true, the cab driver told me he got everything loaded up (I clearly assumed he meant my suitcases). But also true, I didn’t check. My mind was 100% focused on Owen and his diaper bag, and everything else was shoved aside, into deep brain storage along with where I put our glass mixing bowls 3 years ago.

And it’s funny. One of the reasons baby brain strikes is because you’re trying so hard to be a responsible care taker that everything else is lost. But when your ditzy baby brain kicks in you don’t act like a mom, you act like a blackout drunk. Me leaving my bags behind in NYC felt like that time I came home wasted and woke up unable to find my shoes. Convinced there was no way I walked home barefoot in New York City I searched everywhere. Hours later I found my heels tucked away in the very back of my underwear drawer. (Don’t ask, I don’t remember.)

Anyway, I suppose I should go back to my trusty to-do lists instead of relying entirely on memory, since I think we can all agree that’s just asking for trouble. I just hope I don’t lose/forget/misplace something really important, like oh I don’t know, my CHILD.

Run Mommy Run

Written by ERICA

Owen cheering me on from the comfort of his high chair.

I haven’t always been a runner. A fitness enthusiast, sure. An athlete, absolutely. But not always a runner. I played sports in high school and I grew up very active. And when my “sports career” was over, college had ended and I was working, I needed something. Something that I did for me and something that made me push myself mentally and physically. A few months later my friend and I signed up for our first half marathon. We figured, hey we like to go for jogs and gossip, so 13.1 miles should be easy if we do it together. It wasn’t easy. But it was also addictive. Crossing that finish line was like a high. And one half marathon turned into ten, and ten turned into my first full NYC Marathon in 2006.

For anyone who’s not aware just how cray cray a marathon is, it’s 26.2 miles of constant running. You don’t stop to rest; you don’t pause to pee/poop (sike! I obviously stop to poop).  It’s 6 months of hard training. And the hardest part isn’t even the running, it’s the waking up at the butt-crack of dawn on a SATURDAY to bust your balls, and even worse, it’s giving up a few glasses of wine on Friday night in preparation for that early morning run. But like I said, it’s addicting. 

So one marathon turned into four, and I loved every second of the grueling schedule and intense workouts. And then I got preggo. And the first thing my doctor told me I had to give up (aside from the obvious casualties—wine, sushi, caffeine, raw cheese) was running. My pregnancy was somewhat complicated due to a few scary tests early on, and she felt strongly about me protecting that fetus rather than beating my body up. Ugh doctors. So for about 12 months (pregnancy + post-pregnancy periods) I did not run. I was active, but I missed my running. I saw people jogging, I watched tens of thousands complete the marathon and experience the high that only a runner would know, and me and my bulging baby bump were JEALOUS. 

Fast forward to d-day (delivery day). My “focal point” (the picture I was supposed to look at when pushing a human out of me) was me crossing the finish line of marathon #4. And I remember it being 45 minutes into my delivery, I’m sweaty, I’m numb (amen for epidurals), I’m tired, I’m swollen, I’m hungry as a mo-fo, and I see this photo of one of my proudest, most challenging moments. It was supposed to remind me that I could do anything. But all I could think was “Screw this. The marathon is easy. All you have to do is run. Pushing out this kid is a pain in my a$$.” (Literally. People don’t tell you this, but childbirth also hurts in your butt.) 

And then he arrived. And he was slimy and gross, but so totally amazing. And the “runner’s high” was put to shame, because I experienced something so much more awesome—a mommy’s high. 

So now here we are… 11 months later, and it’s been about 6 months of me disappearing for 3-4 hours at a time to train for my 5th NYC Marathon. Love to my hubby, parents, babysitter and jogging stroller for allowing me to train. It’s go-time. And now I have a whole new incentive to run. It’s not just for the high. It’s not just to push myself (I think I pushed enough during child birth, thank you very much). It’s to make my little boy proud and maybe, just maybe, one day Owen and I can run the marathon together.

At mile 7 (ish) of yesterday’s 2011 NYC Marathon…sweaty, but loving life.

P.S. I really hope that as you read this on Monday, November 7th, I’ve completed the race, I’m in one piece, and I’m sitting on my couch, feet up, watching someone else tote my 20 lb munchkin around the apartment (hint hint mom).

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.

Oct. 15th is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Day

Written by BROOKE

To me, it is ironic that this day, a reminder of the greatest tragedy in my life, falls the day before my birthday, a day of celebration. However, it does remind me that while I have suffered a terrible tragedy, I have gone on living. We are almost at the 5-year anniversary of the death and subsequent birth of our twin daughters.

The day after our first wedding anniversary we found out we were pregnant. A few weeks later, we found out we were pregnant with twins. Life was good. We made it through the “scary” first trimester and felt like we were smooth sailing. We made it past 24 weeks, viability!  We ordered two cribs, we had two baby showers, we bought two of everything. Heck, we bought a freakin’ minivan! I just knew at that point everything would be ok.

But it wasn’t. Around 26 weeks I started to feel like the babies weren’t moving enough. I had a perfect ultrasound the week before so I tried not to worry. They probably just moved positions or something. When I went in for my next ultrasound at 27 weeks, I got the most devastating news of my life. My babies, both of them, had died. They did not have heartbeats. 

I was induced the next day and after 14 hours of miserable, painful, epidural-failing labor, our daughters, Kate Evelyn and Riley Lynn came silently into this world. The only sounds of crying were mine, my husband’s and yes both nurses and my wonderful doctor who cried and mourned along with us.

Those days and months following were bad. Life was dark; it was hard. Babies seemed to be everywhere. It felt like all my friends were pregnant. And it felt like no one knew what to say to me or how to act around me.

I found a wonderful online support community (silentgrief.com) and time and faith have helped me to move forward. We have since welcomed our two beautiful boys into our lives and although we miss Kate and Riley every day, we no longer feel the dark emptiness that we did when they first left us. We have been able to become stronger and more faithful through our loss.

I had wonderful friends and family rally around me and my husband during this time. I thought I would share the good/right things that they did so that if this ever happens to someone you know you might have some ideas of what to do. I also thought I’d share a few ideas of what not to do.

Don’t

—Say this was “meant to be”. I don’t care what you have to believe to justify it in your own head; no one wants to hear that it was anything other than a terrible tragedy. It really doesn’t help.

— Compare it to something totally different. I had a stillbirth at 27 weeks. I know mothers who had them at 40 weeks. I don’t pretend to understand their pain or the pain of someone who has lost a spouse, older child or had an earlier miscarriage.  Although it is always well meaning, don’t compare your pain to theirs. Someone I knew actually said to me “It happens to everyone”. No, it doesn’t. The stillbirth rate is about 1%, so 1 in 100 which, although it is far too many, isn’t exactly “everyone”. It is ok to talk about your grief with them, just try to avoid making comparisons or saying “I know how you feel because…”

—Tell them “something was probably wrong” only 25% of stillbirths happen because something was genetically or otherwise wrong with the baby. That means 75% happen for other reasons, many of which are unexplained. Most of us would happily take a baby with some problems over having no baby at all. It does not make anyone feel better to think that something would have been wrong with their baby.

Do

—Their baby is real. They were born, they were held, loved, buried, etc. It is ok and welcomed to ask about that baby. The best thing anyone did for me was ask their names, how much did they weigh, about my labor, etc.

—They might need to be left alone, they might want to talk. Put yourself out there (again and again if necessary) but don’t be offended if they don’t answer right away. Knowing that you are there and that you care is enough. It is OK to call back if you already called 2 or 3 times.

—Let them talk, and talk and talk (if they want). That’s what I needed a lot, just to talk.

—Offer to do things they might not have the ability to (call and cancel the cribs that were ordered, help find a mortuary, find info. on a support group)

—-Find a photographer. That might sound weird to you but I promise it is not. There is an organization called Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. They will take pictures of stillborn babies or babies who die shortly after birth. There is nothing I envy more of the other stillbirth moms I know than the NILMDS pictures. They are beautiful works of art. I have some pictures, taken by well meaning nurses in terrible lighting and although I’m grateful for them, professional pictures would have been priceless.

—Be sensitive. It is one thing to still look pregnant when you are toting around a newborn and it is an entirely other thing to still look pregnant when you are grieving the death of your baby. I was paranoid to go out because I thought someone would ask me when I was due. I most appreciated the friends who were willing to come, sit on my couch and talk. I did, eventually, want to get out but it took some time.

— Remember. It doesn’t go away. You don’t get “better” from your baby dying. There isn’t a time period for grief. You don’t get better because you got pregnant again or because you had another baby. Try to remember. On my girls’ first birthday my friends brought over a cake and presents (we donate presents on their birthday to charity). It meant SO much to me that they remembered. 

Zumba Feva’

Written by GWEN

I have a confession. I’ve got the zumba feva’! You must have heard of it. It’s the aerobic Latin dance craze that is certainly happening at a gym near you. Zumba has swept the globe, and I jumped right on that band wagon. When I tell friends I’ve been going, they kinda crinkle their noses and say, “Isn’t that for like 65 year old women?” No offense mom. 

And it is. It is, in fact, for anyone and everyone. The number of characters in my Wednesday morning class, never ceases to bring a smile to my face. There’s the Indian woman with the bright pink lipstick who is always the most enthusiastic person in the class. Shouting out whoops, cheers and an occasional, “Let’s do that one AGAIN!” Then there’s the 70 year old man who is perennially tan and well, just adorable. There’s the badass black girl teacher’s pet and the too cool for school black girl who stands in the back with a half bored half sexy expression on her face. There’s the overweight Asian right at the front, each week in a different tennis outfit. The late 40 something woman, obviously single, who definitely taught salsa in the 90’s and has finally found a use for all those unitards.

And then there’s my girl crush. When I first started the class, she was 8 months prego. Still looked amazing, always front row totally working it. She has dyed grey hair, a piercing in between her eyebrows and unusually shaped bangs in that alternative/40s way that only super cool people can pull off. She’s dripping with confidence and while she’s not skinny, she has one of those bodies that never looks jiggly or awkward. The girl has grace.

Last week, she returned to class, after I would say a seven or eight week hiatus. You know having a baby. She was right back in the front, bouncing away without a care in the world. Um, it’s been 9 months since I had my baby, and I still dance my way through the class wondering if I’m going to need depends in 20 years (or now), as every shimmy brings another little leak. Meanwhile, my super boob is practically bursting out of my pre-pregnancy sport’s bra, the other one lost somewhere below the elastic. This girl lifted up her shirt at one point to wipe some sweat away. I don’t lift up my shirt to take a shower these days. To be fair, she was on the other side of the room, but I didn’t detect a single stretch mark. And where were the lumps and folds?

I know I still look pretty good post baby, and I’m sure even Zumba girl has her complaints. I guess it’s more about the confidence. She owns that class and her body. As for me, I’m working on it, and in the mean time, think I might invest in a new sports bra.