The Poopsie Collective

Morning Routines with a Preschooler

Written by BROOKE 

I’m not much of a routine person. I’m more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants person. I always have been. But there’s one thing I’ve learned as a mom and it is that in certain cases, a routine can really help with the screaming, whining, cajoling, begging and punishing that starts to happen when you have to be out the door at a certain time. 

For the first half of this year preschool mornings weren’t too bad. They coincided with the days of my early runs so I was up early and home by 7am. The kids were up and I had over an hour before we had to be out of the house—no big deal. Lately though, the early morning workouts are not happening. Instead I stay in bed with a pillow over my head until the last possible second (or until Brady insists that I come “downstairs, WIGHT NOW!”). Aaron gets the kids downstairs and usually manages to throw a piece of toast at them with some fruit, which will at least tide them over until I can drag my sorry pregnant butt out of bed. 

At that point we only have about 45 minutes until we have to leave. And it is chaos. I am trying to get myself ready for the gym, get the kids dressed, everyone’s teeth brushed, backpack packed, eat my own breakfast so I don’t pass out, and get out the door. It is nuts. And I usually end up yelling. A lot. So I decided something needed to change. And it wasn’t going to be me getting out of bed earlier. Because really, all that meant was that I’d have an extra 30 min to yell and it wasn’t really solving the problem that Zach had no desire to MOVE in the mornings. Matchbox cars and TV shows were much more interesting than getting dressed and brushing his teeth. 

So I decided to put it in my four-year-old’s hands. He’s really in to responsibility. He loves it when I give him jobs like emptying the silverware from the clean dishwasher (he actually asks me multiple times a day if the silverware needs to be emptied). So I went online (what did moms do before Pinterest?) and found a chart. A sticker chart that has pictures and tells him what needs to be done each morning. There are lots out there but I found one that had the basics I wanted—-get dressed, brush teeth, eat breakfast (I told him that also means clearing his place), get hair combed, and backpack ready. I put it in a sheet protector, because I’m way too lazy to get it laminated, and found some stickers I had leftover from potty training (another time a sticker chart worked great for us). 

Now I’m not going to say this has solved all of our problems. But it has REALLY, really helped. It is nice to just say (even if I have to say it 20 times) “check your chart!” Instead of “GET UP HERE AND BRUSH YOUR TEETH!” Instead of feeling like I’m nagging him I’m reminding him how to get stickers, which he loves. He is much more motivated to get ready and I am much less stressed. It even motivates the two-year-old because he wants to do everything his brother does. 

I feel like one of the hard things about having a preschooler is reminding yourself that even though it might be easier to remind them or tell them everything, or even do it for them, all they are really craving is some autonomy and independence. I have to keep reminding myself that putting him in charge is exactly what he wants and the more I can channel it into something positive, the better. Otherwise he asserts his independence by fighting with his brother and defying me. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a few more charts around this house. 

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.

Inside the Mind of a Mellow Mama

Written by ERICA

Being a mom is scary. Actually, I think it starts way before motherhood. Being a grown up is scary. Realizing you are not a kid anymore and your childish, sometimes flat-out irresponsible behavior (i.e. sneaking out to clubs in Paris at 3am when you are 15, drinking your body weight in beer during an intense game of flip cup, inviting 200+ of your nearest and dearest friends to a party at your grandparents house WHILE THEY ARE ASLEEP INSIDE…) might not fly, is pretty freakin’ terrifying. 

And on top of that, now not only do you have to own up to your own behavior, but you are solely responsible for the wellbeing and safety of another human. You are a parent. Your kid is depending on you to not f*ck it up. NO PRESSURE OR ANYTHING.

So considering what’s at stake, it seems pretty likely that any new mom would be a total nutcase—a ticking time bomb, freaking out over every little fall, every scrape, every cry, every poop-splosion… It seems unavoidable. Or is it?

Poop? What poop?  Don’t ask how it got down his leg, the important thing is, I chose to laugh instead of freak out.

Somehow, against all the odds, I have managed to be an extremely mellow mama. It’s not even intentional, if I’m being honest. I truthfully never set out to be so laid back, and sometimes I think I might be mild-mannered to a fault. Like when Owen was sick for the first time at 3 months old and AJ kept saying he felt really hot and I was all “nah he’s fine, just let the kid be.” And then oops, he had a fever of 105.3. Yeah, that wasn’t my finest moment as a mom. 

Anyhoo, enough people have asked me how I stay so calm even in the face of projectile vomit, so here’s a sneak peak inside the mind of this mellow mama. Disclaimer: I have absolutely zero credentials and am in no way qualified to be giving you advice, but these are the honest thoughts that go through my twisted-yet-calm mind on a daily basis.

Crack Whores Have Kids

I kept telling myself this when AJ and I first got home from the hospital and had one of those “holy crap we should not be allowed to care for this child we have NO IDEA what we’re doing” moments. I took a breath, put Owen in his crib and reminded myself that there are people far less qualified, less responsible and more drugged out than me who somehow manage to successfully raise a child. If a 15 year old who didn’t even have the wits to know she was pregnant (which, by the way, WTF?) is able to take care of a baby, then surely I can handle this.

Crash, Boom

If you’re a mom and you have this notion that you will be able to prevent your kid from ever falling down or getting hurt, then you’re living in a Band-Aid-free dream world and you’re setting yourself up to fail. Kids get hurt. Accidents happen. Their grandmothers drop them. They fall off beds. They tumble down stairs while their mom “watches” them. (Yup, all of that happened.) The good news is, they’re super resilient and will probably just bounce back up and continue whatever they were doing before they face planted. What matters is not necessarily preventing them from ever getting hurt, but how you handle it when they do take a spill. If you freak they will freak. If you’re calm they’ll be calm. Our new thing is laughing in Owen’s face anytime he falls and saying “crash, boom”. It sounds mean and pretty ridiculous, but when I laugh he laughs and soon enough we’re both cracking up over the fact that he has a huge lump on his forehead. 

Don’t mind the massive gash on his cheek, just a little nail-cutting (or my neglecting to cut his nails) incident at 2 months old. A (sadly) common accident in our house.

It’s Just a Little Poop

I’ve said it before; I’ll say it some more. Being a mom is messy. The minute you decide to accept the mess is the minute you will stop caring that it’s messy. At the beginning I tried to keep everything insanely tidy (I am type A after all). I put away his toys while he was still playing with them, diaper changes only happened on the changing table, hand sanitizer was positioned in every nook of our apartment, Owen had a bib strapped around his neck at all times. And then I realized it wasn’t worth it. Don’t get me wrong. I clean our home like a crazy woman. I scrub every surface, I organize his toys by category, I fold AJ’s shirts by color, and I spend way too much time putting together his stackable sets. But I also let him make a mess. Our kitchen is like his casino; pulling Tupperware out of the cabinet and dumping cups on the floor is his version of craps. I let him enjoy it and clean it up later. And now that diaper changes have gotten a lot more squirmy (aka impossible), I’ve realized it’s OK if it happens on the floor, without any wipes, and with some of his feces on my hands. It happens, and it’s just a little poop.

Owen with his bib strapped securely around his neck, in an attempt to minimize any drooling/puke messes. Not a good look for him.

TV is Your Friend

I know a lot of people out there might think that TV rots the brain (does that mentality still exist?). Now I can tell you first hand, both as someone who has worked for Nickelodeon and someone who now watches Nickelodeon religiously, TV is a mom’s best friend. “Dora the Explorer” is the only reason I can take a dump after my morning coffee. If the Bubble Guppies weren’t on I’d still be wearing pajamas at noon. I park Owen in front of the TV and take my 10 minutes for mommy. And that’s OK. Turns out that most kid-friendly television shows are actually educational and full of catchy tunes (that I annoyingly sing all day). He loves it, I love it, it’s a win-win. And yes, I recognize that “The Bachelor” doesn’t fall under the educational kids TV category (I actually think I get dumber and more dramatic every time I watch it), but Owen needs to know who Ben sends home. 

Save the Drama for Another Mama

Find a friend to vent to. If and when something freaks you out (and as calm as you may try to be at all times, it will), talk to a fellow mom. Commiserate and compare notes and let yourself lose it a little, but don’t do it in front of your kid. If you can manage to keep your cool when your baby falls, or has a tantrum, or decides to pee standing up in the corner of the room (fact), then your kid will follow suit. And then, once the bambino has gone to sleep, whip out a glass of wine, call a friend and let it rip. Or better yet, share your comments/concerns/stories/insanity with us! After all, if you’ve been there, you can bet the Poopsie team has been there and back twice. Email us at poopsiecollective@gmail.com