The Poopsie Collective

Brotherly Love

Written by BROOKE

My husband and I are both close to our siblings. Not like crazy, talk on the phone ten times a day close, but close as in we can stay in a house for a week with our siblings, not kill each other and have a really good time. I think we’re really lucky that we both like each other’s families. I love it and I feel happy that my kids will know their cousins well because we all get along and enjoy spending time together. 

But it wasn’t always that way in my family. My siblings and I didn’t always get along. We fought. A lot. And violently. (Kid violently, not like sociopath violently). At least my brother closest in age and I did, and I’m pretty sure the others did too. I was 7 and 11 years older than the other two, so we didn’t fight quite as much. But I can’t say we liked each other. Sure, I have memories of us having fun together and doing fun things. But I have a lot of memories of us screaming and hitting. And then I left for college. And when we weren’t all under the same roof things started to change. We got along a lot better. And now that three of the four of us are married with kids I’d say we’re even closer. We now have more in common. 

But I don’t want my kids to be adults before they like each other.  How do I make them like each other now? I’d say at 2 and 4 they are about 60/40 as in 60% of the time they are fighting and 40% of the time they are getting along fabulously. I blame the 4 year old mostly because he’s crazy possessive of things right now and can’t learn how to share. But the 2 year old isn’t blameless. I mean, he has learned how to push his brother’s buttons. You should see the devilish look on his face when he grabs one of Zach’s cars and runs out of the room with it. 

I keep telling Zach, “this is your BROTHER; he should be your best friend!” But his response is always, “he is NOT my best friend, WILL is my best friend.” I don’t know how to teach them to love each other. I know that fighting is inevitable; I mean I don’t think there are siblings on the planet that never fought. But I look at kids who were best friends with their siblings even in high school and I envy that. I want that for my kids. I’m just not sure how to get us there (and I have a feeling yelling “LOVE YOUR BROTHER” might not be working). 

But there are those moments… like last night when they took forever to go to sleep because they were giggling and being silly in their room. Or when I come get them at the gym and they are laying on the ground together coloring as if they really are best friends. Those are the moments when I think I might have a chance. 

Brothers AND best friends? We’re working on it…

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.

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.