The Poopsie Collective

Recipe: Snowflakes in Summer

Written by GWEN 

I’m not very neat (as Think Tidy can attest to). I’m organized, but in my own special, unorganized way. Erica, for one, might like to bring up the tornado that hits her guest room when I go to stay with her. (To which I might scoff, “5 minutes late? Try 20!” in response to her post this week.)

I wouldn’t be your first port of call to help out with an arts and crafts project…like coloring within the lines or cutting along the dotted ones. BUT, I do try and make an effort when it comes to food and decor! 

Last week, my mister’s parents were in town, and it happened to coincide with what will probably be the one week of summer in London. SO, we BBQed and picnicked. I baked, I marinated, I made side dishes and salads galore! Oh and I worked at my super demanding PR job (Yes. Super.) And I looked after Izzy! I was on FIRE. Toot Toot.

Anyhoo, below is a recipe for ‘Snowflakes’ which are basically white chocolate melted with Rice Krispies and peanuts. They are totally addictive, extremely easy to make, and a treat for the whole family—Izzy LOVES them! Plus they look adorable in a little glass jar (which I can’t take credit for, as my friend Christa gave them to us in a jar for Christmas.) Perfect for a picnic in Primrose Hill!

Izzy passed out after two days of fun in the sun!

Makes about 40 snowflakes

Ingredients:

1 pound white chocolate, chopped

2 1/2 cups Rice Krispies

1 cup salted roasted peanuts

Preparation:

- Melt the chocolate in a double boiler, stirring until smooth. Stir in the Rice Krispies and the peanuts, coating the dry ingredients evenly in the chocolate.

- Drop rounded teaspoonfuls of the mixture in little mounds onto a baking sheet lined with wax paper or parchment (no need to space them apart too much as you won’t be baking them, so they won’t spread). Refrigerate uncovered until the chocolate hardens, at least 30 minutes, before eating. Once they’ve hardened, store the snowflakes in the refrigerator in a sealed container so the chocolate doesn’t melt.

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.

Selective Memory: A Mother’s Gift to Herself

Written by GWEN

After I had Izzy, everyone told me I would forget the pain of giving birth and eventually I would feel ready to have another one.  I think that advice really holds true for most things with kids, not just birth. Somehow I can imagine having another baby now, even though in addition to the actual birth, the sleepless nights and year of lop-sided boobs definitely made me feel like once was ENOUGH! Likewise, every time I travel with Izzy, I think to myself, “That’s IT! We’re never leaving our flat again!” And yet, once the trip is over, I get home and start planning the next one.

Just last week I flew with Izzy, sans Adam, to New York for a friend’s wedding and to see my parents. It’s not that Izzy was bad on the flight. He didn’t cry or throw tantrums. He was simply a one and a half year old. He wanted to run around, explore and play games. So for two hours, I chased Izzy up and down the aisles, while avoiding eye contact with anyone in our path. At one point, he grabbed a mini whiskey bottle from the catering cart and before I could snatch it out of his hands, he was tearing through Economy, Economy Plus and Business. My reaction? Well, it was three-fold really: This sucks. This is kinda funny. What would happen if he drank a little??

Once we were in New York, things only sort of improved. It was great to see Izzy with my parents and to spend time with my friends, but his jet-lagged 4am wake-up times were less than ideal. We were only there for four days, so he never properly adjusted. At the end of the trip, a family friend looked at the bags under my eyes and asked, “Was it worth it?” If she had asked me this question on the plane, I would have said no immediately, but in retrospect, I would say of course! Just like giving birth, the plane was ridiculously painful, but obviously Izzy was worth every contraction (well, maybe not those last few. JK!!) and seeing him with his grandparents and watching them discover his amazing little personality and all his funny habits that I know so well, is worth the whisky bottle drama every time!

Izzy passing out in the car from the airport!!

The Terrible Twos Come Early?

Written by GWEN 

Sometimes I read Brooke’s posts about tantrums and grocery store scenes and I get really, really scared. (No offense Brooke!) But I wonder how I will handle it and, of course, deep down think, my Izzy will NEVER throw tantrums. And yet, at 17 months, it has already started. They’re not full fledged yet and don’t include any I HATE YOU MOMs, since he has a pretty limited vocabulary, but the screaming fits and crying over something utterly ridiculous have definitely arrived.

Mainly, they occur when we take things away from him—duh. Izzy seems to have a penchant for playing with things that aren’t toys at all. And when I say penchant, I mean he becomes OBSESSED. Like with the vacuum, cereals, pens, and just this morning… my razor. This brings me to my next point. With these irrational obsessions and tantrums comes the necessity for actual parenting skills and discipline. Things I have worked very hard to avoid up until now. Obviously I had to draw the line at my razor, but I mean… if he wants to play with the cereal, it’s not hurting anyone. I say go for it. That is until Adam comes downstairs and sees a trail of Cheerios all over the living room rug.

“GWEN! Why does he have that? That is just asking to make a mess!”

“Well, he took it out of the cupboard. I didn’t even see him do it.”

“Did you open the cupboard for him?”

“I mean… yeah, but he loves it so much! Look how happy he is.”

These conversations are then followed by Adam grabbing the cereal box from Izzy and putting it away. Which is then followed by Izzy bursting into hysterical tears. Usually these little tanties pass fairly quickly and I am able to distract him with other things, but Izzy does not forget. Twenty minutes later, he’s back in from of the kitchen cupboard saying, “More! More. MORE!” Clearly I need to be more disciplined with him, and I have started, but he’s always going to want what he can’t have, right? I know, I know, BOUNDARIES!

This morning, I was upstairs getting ready for work, while Adam was downstairs with Izzy, when all of a sudden Izzy burst into tears. Face bright red sobbing, “MOMMY! MOMMY!” I ran downstairs to hold him and asked Adam what had happened. Nothing. He was standing in the middle of the room and had a melt down. Just missed me I guess. Kinda flattering, but also kinda terrifying.

Did I also mention he’s obsessed with toothbrushes? And bowls?

The Family Unit: The Good, The Bad & The Sickly

Written by GWEN 

I have a friend who’s a pediatrician. That’s it. Just wanted to brag a little.

Anyway, we had dinner the other night and I asked her if there was anything to be worried about since Izzy seems to be chronically sick with a cough and runny nose. She asked me for his symptoms, like a responsible doctor, and then simply said it was normal and to get used to it. Since he’s always around other kids and has a limited immune system at this point, he’s just going to keep picking up bugs for the next few years. AWESOME. Obviously, I’m very concerned for Izzy and it breaks my heart to see him ill, but actually his cough doesn’t seem to bother him all that much most of the time. It does, however, seem to bother mommy. Every time Izzy gets sick, I get sick. Adult sick. Like, right now, I have a chest infection. Two weeks ago I had conjunctivitis. Twice. Before that it was a fever and the flu. I kinda feel like I want to shoot myself in my ridiculously fuzzy head, all the time.

Does my mister get sick, you ask? Rarely. Nice for him and nice to have one healthy, fully-functioning adult in the house. Not so nice when I get sick so often that he stops feeling sorry for me and starts telling me it’s my fault. I mean, I have asthma. I’m Jewish. I like to make out with my son, even when he has snot smeared all over his head. I can’t help that I was born to these circumstances. I work out…I eat healthily…I wash my hands every time I go to the bathroom…well except in the middle of the night, but that’s just excessive. Right? If it’s dark it doesn’t count.

I know there was a point in here somewhere. Mainly, it’s that I feel very very sorry for myself that for the next three years I’m just going to continue to get infections and sinusitis and diarrhea while my arian race husband pops his echinacea pills and stays healthy by sheer positive spirit and lack of bad genes.

I suppose I could keep Izzy away from other kids and the sand pit, but that seems cruel and not very smart. Maybe I’ll buy a humidifier. That oughta do it. A humidifier and a lot of Afrin.

Izzy and his friend Jakey in the sand pit of germs!

Recipe: Roasted Lemon Garlic Herb Shrimp

Written by GWEN 

Today I received an email from one of my FAVE fellow yummy mummies - a mother of twin girls. She is an AMAZING chef and I trust her on everything to do with food, babies and most things really! 

ENJOY… a la Natalia.

ROASTED LEMON GARLIC HERB SHRIMP

Source: Cinnamon Spice & Everything Nice

Prep Time: 20 minutes

Cook Time: 20 minutes

Total Time: 40 minutes

Yields: 3-4 servings

Ingredients:

1/3 cup olive oil

1 lemon, zested then half cut into thin slices and other half into wedges

3-4 fresh thyme sprigs, leaves removed

sea or kosher salt and fresh black pepper

spaghetti/pasta, couscous or rice for serving

2 tablespoons butter

1 pound fresh shrimp, medium-sized, deveined with tails off

5 cloves garlic, minced

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees F. In an 8x8 glass baking pan combine olive oil, lemon zest and thyme. Olive oil should liberally cover the bottom of the pan, if it doesn’t drizzle in a little more. Season with salt and pepper. Bake in oven for 10-12 minutes, checking every few minutes, if it looks like it is getting too brown remove and proceed to next step. Meanwhile cook pasta, drain and toss with a pat of butter or olive oil.

2. Remove pan from oven, add butter and move it around a little to melt, add shrimp, garlic and the thin sliced lemons (don’t squeeze them), toss to coat with oil mixture. Bake for 8-10 more minutes or until shrimp turn pink and just start to curl, check often. Serve over pasta, couscous or rice tossed with additional extra-virgin olive oil and fresh-squeezed lemon with additional lemon wedges for serving.

Note: Adapted from Fine Cooking

Making Sure I’m Me…a Mom…and Also Well-Dressed

Written by GWEN 

Last week my Mister expressed concern to me that I may be unhappy or depressed. His biggest indicator: that I haven’t been shopping in a while.

Challenge extended?

Challenge accepted.

After a MAJOR shopping spree last Friday, I did begin to reflect on what he could be talking about. Besides the lack of shopping, he said I seemed to wear the same clothes quite a bit, and I snapped at him a lot. I didn’t seem as easy-going as I usually am and perhaps I had lost my passion…for fashion. (Yikes…sorry.)

At the time, all I could shout was, “IT’S A CHANGE IN SEASON!”  Sounds like a lame excuse, but I can’t wear summer clothes at the mo’ and I can’t wear my winter wardrobe anymore. You tell me what I’m supposed to wear in this season they supposedly call “spring” in London. Oh. AND, I have a toddler. Who eats with three spoons at once and enjoys flinging things at me or on the floor, but mainly on my white shirts. So yeah, I don’t like to wear my Sunday best when I’m taking care of Izzy.

Oops. Was that me snapping? Like I said, I have a toddler. Sometimes I snap.

Seriously though, I have thought about this a lot over the last week and have come up with the following conclusion. I hardly ever relax anymore. I am always rushing or worrying about Izzy. I’m always feeling responsible for someone else, or trying not to get fired by my new CEO. I snap because I really don’t have time to complete a sentence or fully iterate my thoughts. My life is like one big game of charades. Most of the time I can only conjur up every other word I’m looking for, which results in a lot of wild gesticulations and mild bruising. If my team members can’t figure out what I’m trying to convey in a timely manner, well that’s THEIR fault. And quite frustrating for me.

As for my love for fashion, I used to try my clothes on for hours. Putting together outfits, accessorizing, taking pics and sending them to friends. I still manage to do this from time to time, but more often than not I’m late for work and throw on a go-to outfit that I know will look good. And if it’s an Izzy day, suddenly he has pooped, there’s someone buzzing at the door and the phone is ringing, so I wind up throwing on the same outfit from the day before or the weekend.

I’m actually glad my Mister brought this up because it gave me a chance to reflect. I’m not unhappy. I’m not depressed. I do need to relax a bit more and find some time for myself to make sure I’m still ME. And if that means going to COS and trying on every item in the store on my day off, well so be it.

Trying on an outfit! Don’t worry - I chose different shoes!

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!

Motherhood Confession: What if I Didn’t Have a Baby?

Written by GWEN

Ummm, let me start by admitting that I’m not proud of what I’m about to say, but I am hoping some of you can at least empathize.  Lately, just sometimes, in certain situations that is… I find myself wondering what I might be doing differently if I didn’t have a baby. I know that’s AWFUL and I’m probably going straight to hell for even thinking it (if Jews believed in that sort of thing), but come on! You know you’ve been there. 

OBVIOUSLY, I love Izzy more than life itself and wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world. Most of the time I want to eat him or make out with him or both. BUT, there are those moments when I miss not always having to worry about someone else and being totally responsible for another life over my own. I fully admit to craving a weekend of lying in OR a night out without that constant thought in the back of my mind of “slow it down, you still have to be up at 6:15 tomorrow morning.”

So, yeah, I’ve thought about it. I’ve reminisced about my life pre-Izzy. But at the end of the day, all I can think about is my mushy and how perfect he is, so I know even though there are sacrifices, I can’t imagine my life without him.  And then it hit me. The perfect day dream. What I REALLY would love is to be able to lie in on a Saturday morning WITH Izzy. OR be able to look at my little boo and say, “Mommy’s feeling a little hungover today. Wanna lie on the couch with me and watch Kardashian re-runs?” 

And Izzy would wrap his arms around me and reply, “That sounds delightful mommy. Let me just put a pair of sweat pants on.” And then… maybe, in the afternoon… Izzy might lift his head up from the little nook in my arms and say, “Shall I order us a pizza for lunch?”

Now, that would be having it all!

PJ Party!

Positive Birth: London Style

Written by GWEN

When I think back on Izzy’s birth, it’s all a bit surreal. I didn’t have that overwhelming feeling of LOVE immediately. I didn’t cry. There was relief. There was fear. There was a lot of HOLY SH*T!

So where do I begin? First of all, I was an American (still am, as it turns out) having a baby in London. They do things differently here. Most people go through their pregnancies and birth with the NHS, National Health Service. Private Health Insurance doesn’t cover maternity here, except apparently the one Goldman Sachs uses, but that may just be urban legend. Using the NHS means you meet with midwives instead of doctors for the entire pregnancy, and if all goes well, the midwife delivers your baby and you don’t even see an OBGYN the entire time.

Some people, ex-pats mainly, choose to go private, but that usually adds up to over £15,000 because you are seeing actual specialist doctors the entire 9 months (gynos) and you get a private room for the birth, etc.

There was no way the Mister was going to pay £15,000 for me to squeeze something out of my hoo-ha, so we went all native and decided to use the NHS with the qualifier that if anything went wrong at any point or lab results were questionable, we would pay to see a specialist.

At first I was totally freaked out. All I had known my whole life was, you get pregnant, you see your gyno, the same one that gives you your yearly pap smears, and they deliver your baby. BUT, I decided if this was what I was doing, I had to trust that millions of women had delivered babies safely with the NHS and I could do it too. So I accepted it and dove in head first. I won’t go into the whole 9 months too much, since this is supposed to be my birth story, but I will say I was pleasantly surprised with the experience. I met with midwives at my chosen hospital - a different one each time - and I liked almost all of them. The idea was to meet a different midwife at each appointment, so when I actually gave birth I would have likely met the one I was assigned to at some point. Obviously that didn’t happen, but whatevs - by that point Dr. Drake Ramoray could have delivered my baby and that would have been just fine with me.

Everything was fairly relaxed - as Steph said, giving birth is a natural thing, so in the UK they don’t like to over-test or over-examine. In fact, I was only weighed twice. Once at the beginning and once after about 7 months because Erica kept asking me if I had been weighed, so I got super nervous and asked at my next appointment. The mid-wife looked me up and down and said you look fine. You obviously aren’t too thin or too big, but if you want me to weigh you, I can. And she did. And that was the last time I made that mistake.

OKAY - so here’s my BIRTH STORY!

Background info: Izzy’s Due Date, Nov 30, 2010. 

Nov 29, 2010

6:00am

I’m lying in bed and I feel kinda like I’ve just peed my pants.

“Adam. ADAM!”

“Hmmm”

“I think my water just broke.”

“Oh! So what should we do?”

“I guess I better call the hospital.”

6:15am

I dial the maternity ward.

“Hi. Ummm I think I’m in a labour??”

“You think you’re in labour?”

Just what I need, a bitchy receptionist. I MEAN, it’s my FIRST TIME!

“Well, my water just broke, but I don’t feel any contractions.”

“Oh. Okay. Then, come into the hospital when you’re ready. No rush. We’ll check you out and then you’ll probably have to come back tonight when you’re further along.”

“Can I shower and stuff?”

“Yeah. No rush.” See what I mean about relaxed?

 8:30am

The mister and I hop into the car with my bag and head to Chelsea & Westminster Hospital.

8:45am

Adam drops me off so he can park. As I cross the street to the hospital a GUSH (like 10 pees worth) of water rushes down my leg. Awesome. Guess your water doesn’t just break the ONE TIME!

8:50am

I waddle, dripping wet, into the maternity ward. A pleasant mid-wife checks me out in the triage area. She doesn’t actually examine me, just asks me a few questions and tells me to go home and wait. 

9:30am

Back at home we make a few phone calls - my parents book a red-eye flight. And we… wait.

1:00pm

I start having contractions. Nothing major, but something is DEFINITELY happening.

2:30pm

I go into the bathroom ‘cause I feel like I have to SQUEEZE SOMETHING OUT. I am squatting over the toilet kinda afraid that I am about to push the baby out. A tiny little poop appears instead.

3:00pm

This isn’t so fun anymore. I’m actually doing all the positions we learned at our birthing class. I’m kneeling on the floor, holding onto the couch, trying to breathe. Leaning against the wall… trying to breathe. Walking around… trying to figure out why the hell Adam is on his phone in the kitchen instead of giving me his undivided FREAKING attention!

4:00pm

I call the hospital. (I don’t know about the US, but in London, you can’t just show up at the hospital. You have to call first and let them know you’re coming.)

I have about 3 contractions on the phone, but the midwife tells me to try and hold out a bit longer. UGHGHGHGH! 

4:30pm

Did I mention we scheduled an Ocado (grocery store) delivery for today between 5 and 6? I mean who goes into labour the day before their due date!? What are the odds?

4:45pm

All I can think is, “WE HAVE TO WAIT FOR OCADO!”

4:50pm

Umm can we ask a neighbour to wait in the flat for Ocado?? Oh that’s right, all our neighbours hate us because we wanted to paint the building pastel blue last year.

5:00pm

I am actually moaning now. Just like my dorky birthing teacher showed us. It’s all true. ALL OF IT!

5:05pm

Adam looks at me, “You know, we don’t have to wait for Ocado. If you want to go, let’s go.”

“NO! WE HAVE TO WAIT.”

5:30pm

The buzzer rings. It’s Ocado!!!!! I go up to our room to moan by myself while Adam take delivery of our groceries. I am kinda screaming now. Loudly apparently, because Adam comes up and closes the door. I am furious. 

5:35pm

Adam reappears in our bedroom.

“The Ocado guy said you’re doing GREAT!”

I smile and think that is SO sweet!

Turns out, Adam was kidding, but I clearly wasn’t in a state to understand sarcasm. 

5:36pm

“Call the hospital and tell them we’re coming. We’re not ASKING anymore!”

5:45pm

We’re in the car and it’s rush hour. Of course it is. We get stuck in a huge traffic jam at Holland Park Avenue.

I turn to Adam, “Whatever we do, can we please not take the streets with the speed bumps??”

“Of course.” 

6:00pm

“We’re going to have to take the street with the speed bumps.” 

6:15pm

I am so unbelievably uncomfortable, I almost get out of the car on several occasions.

7:00pm

We FINALLY arrive at the hospital. Once again, I am dropped off so Adam can go park. They do have validated parking for the maternity ward, but apparently this is too much of a hassle.

7:10pm

I somehow make it to the elevator on my own. People are staring at me as I can barely stand. One other pregnant girl turns to her mother and says, “I’m glad I’m not at that stage yet.” Thanks.

7:15pm

I am checked in and put in a bed in the triage area - which is basically lots of beds with curtains around them.

7:30pm

Adam has finally arrived and we are told it’s change over time for the mid wives, so we’ll have to wait a bit longer until I’m examined.

I want to die.

8:00pm

Finally someone comes to help us. I am examined and told I’m 5cm dilated.

“Great. I’ll take my epidural now.

“Unfortunately, all the delivery rooms are being cleaned at the moment and all the anesthetists are in emergency C-sections, so you’ll have to wait a bit longer.”

“How much longer?!?”

“Shouldn’t be too long.” 

8:30pm

I’m given gas and air to use during my contractions, which is basically constant! It’s a mild distraction, but it does not mask the pain AT ALL. JUST FYI!

My mid-wife is totally unsympathetic.

There is one other woman who is far along in her labour as well in the triage area screaming at her husband.

Between the two of us, I think the other women in the beds around us have all packed their bags and decided actually, I think I won’t have my baby today.

9:00pm

I am really pissed off now. This was not in my plan. I waited it out at home. I did everything I was supposed to, so where was my epidural? Where was my bliss?

“This wouldn’t happen in AMERICA! Can’t we go private? Let’s go private right now! THROW SOME MONEY AT IT!!”

Adam turns to the mid-wife, “Can we do that? Can we pay for someone to come give her the epidural now?”

Bitchy Mid-wife, “No, I’m sorry. There’s nobody available.”

You’re SOO NOT SORRY! I won’t forget this PAIN! I SWEAR I WILL NOT FORGET!

10:00pm

I am finally told there is a room for me.

I wait for someone to come with a wheel chair or just wheel my bed in, but it becomes apparent that I am expected to just walk into the room. I mean, have the movies been lying to me ALL THESE YEARS?!

I manage to sit up, get down and start towards my room.

Bitchy Midwife:”You need to put your shoes on first.”

“What? I can’t bend down. I don’t mind, I’ll just go barefoot.”

“This is a hospital. You have to wear shoes.”

Somehow I manage to get my shoes on and hobble into my room and back into bed.

10:15pm

Miracle of miracles, I am now assigned Yvette, my delivery mid-wife. The anti-bitch.

Yvette: “The anesthetist is just getting out of surgery. And you are next.” I’m in LOVE!

10:45pm

The needle has ARRIVED. BUT first we have to go through all the questions.

Aware of the risks? Yup.

Paralysis? Fine. DO IT!

11:00pm

O.M.G.

“What was your name again?”

“Yvette.”

“Thank you so so much Yvette. And can you thank everyone for me? Thank that other mid-wife too. And the doctor with the needle. Can you thank him??”

Adam, “Actually that other mid-wife wasn’t very nice.”

“That’s okay. I’m sure she meant well.”

11:15pm

The head of the ward comes in to apologize to me.

“Oh, that’s okay. I understand. No prob! Hey Yvette, do you think I’ll poop myself? I poop a lot!!”

Adam let’s out a huge sigh of relief and has a snack.

We make a few calls. We talk to AJ (Erica’s mister) and have a little chat about the London birth experience thus far. Ah the times we’ve had! 

11:45pm

Yvette tells me my contractions are very strong and close together and in 15 minutes I’m going to PUSH!

Adam is given a button to hold. If she ever tells him to press it, he is to  do so immediately.

12:00am, Nov 30, 2010

I start to push. I’m not that good at it at first and I am disappointed in myself. I mean, not to brag, but when it comes to pooping, I’m an expert pusher!!!

A few minutes later we try again! Things are happening. Yvette says I’m doing better.

12:10am

Yvette looks at Adam. “Press the button!!”

Within seconds, 5 doctors are in the room.

Izzy has gotten a little stuck, but I am assured there is nothing to worry about.

I am asked to turn on my side and try to push him out that way.

I am pushing as hard as I possibly can, but the poor thing is still stuck.

12:25am

The obgyn tells me they are going to have to use a kiwi-cup (suction) to get Izzy out.

12:29am

Isadore Mylo BdM Edgell-Bush (I know) is welcomed into the world!!!

I hold him for a second, but then the pediatrician whisks him away.

“Is he okay?? Is he okay?” 

12:35am

Yvette brings him over to me and shows me his fingers and toes.

“See. 10 fingers. 10 toes. He was in a bit of shock and they had to give him oxygen, but he’s perfect!”

The next couple hours are a bit of a blur. I breast fed Izzy and lay there with him and Adam until about 3am. At that point, I was taken to a bathroom in the ward where I showered and got into my sweatpants and top.

After that, Izzy and I were settled into a curtained off bed in another triage area and Adam had to go home. Throughout the night I pressed my little button about a dozen times for help with breast feeding. I slept a bit, but was more concerned with what exactly I was supposed to do with this thing lying next to me in a little plastic crib. In the morning, I finally realized he needed a diaper change, and ran around in a panic for about 15 minutes trying to deal with it. Cotton balls! Does anybody have cotton balls?!

Finally, at 11am Adam showed up with my parents!! At that point I grabbed a nurse and said, “Can we please go home now??”

By 7pm that night, Izzy had been checked by a pediatrician and we were released. Adam, Izzy and I climbed into the car and made the journey home - on his actual due date, I might add.

It was QUITE a day. There were some bumps in the road (pun intended), but all in all I was happy with my UK birth experience. Obviously there were a few things I would have changed on the day, but I know medically I was very well taken care of - we did choose one of the best hospitals in the UK after all. And, now that number 2 is actually entering our thoughts, I wouldn’t hesitate to go through the NHS all over again. 

I have not forgotten the pain, as I promised myself I wouldn’t, but all I can hope for this time is a free room and fewer C-sections going on for the LOVE OF GOD!!

It’s water weight, I swear!

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!

Recipe: Poached Salmon and Risoni Salad

Written by GWEN

As you may recall, while I enjoy cooking, I’m not a huge fan of making separate meals for Izzy. So, now that he eats most things, I try and find meals I can make that the whole family will enjoy. Yup, I just said that.

Below is a healthy summery salmon salad that the Mister and I love, and it turns out, if you throw it in the Cuisinart for a few seconds, so does Izzy. Obviously, it’s a Bill Granger recipe.

AND, as an extra bonus, here’s a link to a chocolate pear dessert loafy type cake from our fave food site food52.com. It has become a staple in our house. And yes, Izzy likes it too! Anything with pear.

Yogurt Cake with Pear and Dark Chocolate… a family favorite, Izzy included. 

Poached Salmon and Risoni Salad

Chef: Bill Granger 

Serves:4-6

Ingredients

1 tablespoon salt


½ teaspoon white peppercorns - I use black ones


1 bay leaf


400 g (14 oz) salmon fillets, skin removed


200 g (7 oz) risoni - use orzo if you want, always easier for me to find


85 g (3 oz/1/2 cup) peas (frozen are fine)


Grated zest and juice of 1 lemon


55 g (2 oz) baby spinach leaves


2 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf (italian) parsley


2 teaspoons chopped fresh dill


1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil


A large pinch of caster (superfine) sugar


Freshly ground black pepper

Method

Put the salt, peppercorns and bay leaf in a large deep frying pan with 750 ml (26 fl oz/3 cups) of water and bring to the boil. Simmer for 5 minutes, then remove from the heat. Add the salmon, cover and leave for 15 minutes. 

Lift the fish carefully out of the stock. When cool enough to handle, flake the fish into pieces, picking out any bones. Cook the risoni in a large pan of boiling salted water until al dente, adding the peas and lemon zest for the last 2 minutes of cooking. Rinse under cold running water and drain well.

Put the risoni, peas, salmon, spinach, parsley and dill in a large bowl. Whisk together the lemon juice, olive oil and sugar to make a dressing. Add the dressing to the salad and toss gently. Season with sea salt and black pepper. 

When I put this in the cuisinart for Izzy, I add a little of the cooking stock. It freezes well too!

Does that look like the belly of an undernourished child?!

Things We’re Really Into Right Now

Written by GWEN

Now that Izzy is almost 16 months old, I can really see a little boy emerging. More and more of his own personality presents itself every day. He definitely knows what he likes, what he doesn’t like, what he finds funny and who needs a good hug. So, I thought I’d do a little compare and contrast of what I’m really into right now and, more importantly, what Izzy is really into at the mo’. 

IZZY

1) Umbrellas—open or closed, rain or shine

2) Bananas. He likes to eat them, but lately he just insists on carrying one everywhere he goes. Freudian? We won’t go there

3) Dogs, which are known as “Woof”

4) Having a good giggle

5) Lying on the couch with mommy and Leroy watching cartoons

6) Doors…opening and closing them. If there are keys involved, all the better

7) Stairs and slides 

8) Animal crackers 

9) Giving hugs and kisses—you should be so lucky!

10) Jay-Z (I swear to god.) And the theme song to Friends

11) Pooping

Izzy playing with the gate to the playground! It’s a type of door.

ME

1) My Wednesday morning pilates class

2) Uniqlo jeans

3) Food52.com & Bill Granger’s Feed Me Now

4) Having a good giggle

5) Boozy lunches (because boozy dinners aren’t as fun now that no matter what I have to be up at 6:15 the next morning)

6) Lying on the couch with Izzy and Leroy watching “Pretty Little Liars”

7) My Kindle (see how I just put a trashy TV show on my list and then told you I read too?)

8) Spring/Summer Isabel Marant

9) Making Summer travel plans

10) Elderflower Ricola (I’ve been sick for the last two months basically, which sucks, but I have to say these things taste GOOD)

11) Pooping. Isn’t everyone?

Think Tidy

Written by GWEN

Surprise surprise, here comes another blanket declaration from me on my personality. Ready? I’m not a neat person. Yup, I don’t have a flat stomach, I had a super boob and I’m not a neat person. I’m guessing there’s a type out there to describe me, and it most certainly is not Type A. 

My Mister, on the other hand, is a bit on the anal side. He’s extremely organized, neat, motivated, efficient… and while my motto is “why do today what I can put off ‘til after Izzy’s high school graduation?” Adam likes to clear my plate before I’ve taken my last bite. As you can imagine, this poses a bit of a problem from time to time.

Enter “Think Tidy.” Think Tidy is a fictional character Adam has invited into our home to drill into my genetic code how to inherently be a neater person. My new housemate isn’t much to look at, but has the voice of Randy Watson, lead singer of the band Sexual Chocolate from Coming to America. When he regularly offers his helpful common sense tips, I have to smile and nod, because who doesn’t love getting advice from Eddie Murphy circa 1988?

For example…

“Think Tidy wouldn’t leave that cutting board hanging over the edge of the counter like that for Izzy to grab. Think Tidy would clean and put it away when he’s done using it.”

“Huh, did I leave it like that?”

“You sho’ did. And it’s not the first time Think Tidy has found it like that.”

“Oh! Thanks, Think Tidy.”

*  *  *

“Think Tidy would immediately put his pajama pants away after his shower in the morning.”

“But I’m just going to wear them again tonight Think Tidy, so I think it’s ok to keep them on the bed.”

Think Tidy might then ask, “Why ever put anything away? Seems to me it’s smarter just for things to be in their proper place all the time, so they are easy to find when you need ‘em.”

“I guess that makes sense. Thanks, Think Tidy.”

*  *  *

Did I mention Think Tidy likes to refer to himself in the third person???

I’m undecided on how long Think Tidy will be staying with us, but his presence has made me want to be better. I can see the benefits of being a neat and organized person, but every time I think I’ve improved, Think Tidy is right there to remind me of something else even NEATER that I could have done. This has encouraged me to invite my own house-guest over for next month. Unfortunately, she’ll have to share a room with Think Tidy, as we’re a little strapped for space.

Think Tidy, meet your new roommate, Think Less.

Poops and Poo-Pooed at St. Peters

Written by GWEN

Yesterday I took Izzy to church. Nah, not like that. St. Peter’s Church, around the corner from us, opens as a play center on Wednesday mornings with a two pound entry fee. We figured why not. Surely, Jews must be welcome. Izzy had a ball interacting with all the other kiddies, checking out the new surroundings, and most importantly, the NEW toys. In fact, he was having such a great time, that he pooped about three minutes after we arrived. He didn’t seem to notice, so I pretended not to as well. I mean, isn’t it like sacrilegious to change a diaper in a church anyway? Did I just sound like I knew what I was talking about??  

Like I said, we were having a fab time, me chatting with some local mom friends, while I kept one eye on Izzy making the rounds. At one point I spied him walking past two women who looked like a nanny and a grandmother. Izzy gently laid his hand on the grandmother’s knee to steady himself as he toddled by. I love it when he does that to strangers—totally uninhibited and delightful. The grandmother, however, seemed to feel differently. She glared at my child and his misplaced hand as if to say, “Excuse me. WHAT is going on here?”

What’s going on here, lady, is that you’re in a church filled with about 100 babies and toddlers. And one of them, who just so happens to be the cutest and sweetest of them all, needed a little support from the nearest leg. I mean, if you don’t like kids, I think you’re in the wrong place. Typically, Izzy leaned on the same woman again about ten minutes later. That time she just ignored him altogether. 

Anyway, just thought I’d share, because people never cease to amaze me. 

And on a side note, I would like to dedicate this post to my Mister whomI love very much and who never ceases to amaze me, but in a totally different way. The other day when I asked him which shoe went best with my outfit, instead of saying, “the left one” or “the red one” he looked me up and down carefully and replied definitively with, “The Miu Mius.”

And you can bet your ass he knew the ones on the right were Vanessa Bruno.

My boys!