The Poopsie Collective

It’s All a Matter of Perspective

Written by ERICA

I’d consider myself to be a pretty levelheaded person and generally speaking, I don’t sweat the small stuff. Unless you count frozen yogurt stores closing unexpectedly to be “small stuff”…which I don’t. Everyone needs their go-to fro yo joint! Anyway, before I had Owen it was a different story. Not that I was ever an emotionally charged psycho-pants who freaked out if someone cut me in line at the cafeteria sandwich station. Oh wait…that did kinda happen. Whatever that b*tch in 6” heels should learn to WAIT HER TURN! 

Where was I? Oh yes… so, before my eggo got preggo things were different. I stressed out over the following things, on a far-too-regular basis:

- The weather - specifically long periods of incessant rain (I have a case of self-diagnosed seasonal depression)

- My commute - sometimes cab traffic, sometimes sweaty/smelly subway crowds, always involving me being 5 minutes late to pretty much everything

- Work - mostly when I had too much of it and not enough time to get things done

- Missing a workout - mostly because sweating keeps me sane and some problems really can only be solved by a good long run on the Hudson

- TV - specifically skipping one of my fave shows and/or learning that my DVR deleted a recording of important programming, like say, The Bachelor (I mean, I HAD to know which douche got sent home, it was important!)

I could go on. But looking back at this list now I can admit that they were all trivial, ridiculous occurrences to lose my cool over. There was no reason to lose sleep over a missed training run or the fact that my skin tone was slowly resembling the pale complexion of a vampire after a week of solid downpour (as a wanna-be-vampire I should haven been psyched about that last one). I see that now, but at the time I was so wrapped up in the little things that I lost sight of the big picture.

It wasn’t until an experience early on in my pregnancy that I was able to take a step back and regain a little perspective on my life.

When I was 11 weeks pregnant I went to the hospital for my routine nuchal exam. For all those non-mommies out there, a nuchal is a prenatal ultrasound and blood test used to help identify higher risks of chromosomal defects such as Down’s Syndrome. I was an active 27-year-old with no medical conditions and an extremely healthy lifestyle. It didn’t even dawn on AJ or I that we might not pass the test with flying colors. We are over-achievers after all. So when we got the call that the results were abnormal and there was a 1 in 52 chance that our baby had some chromosomal disorder, we were in shock. (Note: normal, healthy results typically indicate a 1 in 10,000 chance of some abnormality.) We were devastated and confused. Sure, it was just an indicator that something might be wrong, not a definitive prognosis. But still, it was in no way good news. 

The next step was a CVS test, where the doctor takes a sample of the placenta, in my case, by inserting a needle through your abdomen, through your uterus and into the placenta while you try desperately to lie still and not lose your sh*t. I was crying the entire time and AJ tried to stay strong as he held my hand. The next 3 days while we waited for results were brutal. And the worst part was trying to pretend everything was fine to the friends and colleagues who had no idea what we were dealing with. Remember, no one ever knew I was pregnant. 

And so we waited, and while we waited I got a real glimpse into what’s actually important to me in life. I wasn’t bugging out because I was missing 2 unplanned days of work, or because for 2 days I wasn’t allowed to work out. I wasn’t even interested in watching reruns of 90210 on SoapNet. All I wanted was a healthy baby. I wanted good news of a future filled with poopy diapers, middle-of-the-night screaming sessions and breast pumps. All the things I now joke about hating, I was desperate for during those long LONG days.

And then, finally, on one of the happiest days of my life (closely followed by my Bat Mitzvah, my wedding and the day that Damon & Elena first kissed on The Vampire Diaries) we got REALLY good news. Our doctor told us that not only was our baby perfect, healthy and 100% fine, but it was going to be a boy. I cried, AJ cried, and our doctor teared up though she’d never admit it.

I wouldn’t wish such a scary experience on anyone. But I do know that becoming a mom, and having my first real test of motherhood forced me to find some perspective. I started to focus on the things that really mattered to me, and not freak out over the small stuff. And that attitude has stuck with me. Once upon a time I would have flipped my lid if I spilled coffee on my nice white pants or realized I was walking around with a splat of purple paint on my face all day (both of which have happened numerous times in recent months). I would have been pissed if someone dumped out the contents of my wallet into a puddle or eaten the granola bar I had been looking forward to all morning. I would have lost it if anyone uttered so much as a “hello” during an episode of Pretty Little Liars, let alone interrupted my viewing entirely to demand cartoons and attention.  

A mess that the pre-motherhood me would NOT have been happy about. Post-baby, I snap pictures instead of stress.

And now I just smile and laugh when any of the above happens. Things go wrong all the time. Things get messy. Life rarely goes according to plan. As a mom you’re going to be disappointed and frustrated from time to time. You’re going to get your hands dirty (literally and figuratively). You’re going to get bad news and be faced with situations that make you feel like you’re not good enough. And that’s OK. Because at the end of the day if I can climb in bed and know that I was the best mom I can be that day I’m happy. And I know that when I wake up I’ll have a smiling kiddo screaming my name wanting nothing more than to kiss and hug me. And maybe even get some pee/poop/food on me, if I’m really lucky.

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.

I Need a Vacation from Vacation

Written by STEPHANIE 

Aloha, folks. I’m in Hawaii and, from what people keep telling me, I’m on vacation. Typically, I get on the airplane and all my worries and stresses are left behind on the tarmac as I climb higher and higher into the sky. They all look so tiny, so silly, so very far away. With a drink in one hand and an US Weekly in the other, I relax quite easily and the pre-vacation stresses dissipate. Vacation means time “off” from work and real life, but when you’re full-time job is Mom, there ain’t no such thing as a vacation. 

The twitch I developed under my left eye last week while prepping for the trip is getting worse. The near-tears breakdown that ensued the morning we left for the airport when we lost the garage key and couldn’t get the stroller out, hasn’t left my nervous system yet. My husband and I are bickering. Marlowe isn’t eating. I’m exhausted. It seems that no matter what I do, or don’t do, it’s wrong. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I mean, I’m in an AMAZING location. It’s beautiful! And, my parents are picking up the entire tab! WHAT?!?! Yes, seriously. The only thing better than a vacation is a free vacation. But…

Schedules are thrown out the window which means that our days and nights are utterly unpredictable. For example, Marlowe looked sleepy yesterday about 4 hours from when she woke up. Now, at home this means nap-time. So, I put her in the stroller that we bought at Kmart when we landed here on Maui (because, remember, we locked ourselves OUT of the garage at home), tucked her in like usual with her lovey and milk. She sucked away on her thumb, sleepily smiled out at me, then 45 minutes later after walking up and down the beach in hot, blazing, scorching sun, she peaked out from under the blanket, smiled and screeched, “MAMA!” Let me spoil the rest of this nightmare for you: she didn’t nap. And here’s another spoiler alert, Mama needs Marlowe’s nap more than Marlowe does. I nearly cried sitting poolside while Marlowe giggled and jumped from lounge chair to lounge chair, including the one I was on.  

I try to take the inconsistency with a light heart. After all, we’re in Hawaii, right? How bad could any of it be? And it isn’t Marlowe’s fault. 99.9% of the time, she’s having the BEST time… far better than anyone else around. Vacation just doesn’t mean what it used to. It doesn’t mean quiet time anymore. It doesn’t mean throwing out a schedule. It doesn’t mean leaving behind “stuff” (both metaphorical and literal). It doesn’t mean relaxing. It doesn’t mean napping, drinking, wandering, lingering, savoring…I could go on.

If there’s any chance of “saving” this trip and making the most of a potentially wonderful experience, I’m going to have to figure out how to balance my responsibilities of motherhood with my own needs. And if I figure that out, I may have just answered every mother’s wish! After all, vacation or not, that’s what’s we’re all struggling with: balance.

My Proudest Mom Moments

Written by ERICA 

In the past, I’ve shared plenty of moments that I am NOT proud of as a mom. I’ve happily dished on things I’ve done that maybe I’m a little embarrassed about. I’ve talked about crapping myself during childbirth (3 times!), eating my son’s chewed up food, about my irrational fear of birds, my dependence on stretch pants, and my potty mouth. I would happily shout “I SUCKED AT BREASTFEEDING” from the mountaintops or tell you that this morning I let my kid eat food off the dirty (and very public) floor. I’m not exactly proud of any of those behaviors, but I can also share my faults with minimal humiliation because I’m a mom, and moms make mistakes all the time.

As it turns out, it’s pretty easy to recall and share your less stellar moments of motherhood. On the flip side, it’s a lot harder to think about the experiences that you ARE proud of. Maybe it’s because confidence can quickly become cocky, or because if you discuss your achievements you run the risk of sounding arrogant. I get it… nobody wants to be that girl. “Ooooh look at me… today I baked a pie and climbed a mountain and fed the homeless and knit a sweater and wrote a novel and waxed my own bikini and still managed to put a home-cooked meal on the table.” NOBODY LIKES A SHOWOFF.

But today I realized something: motherhood is filled with uphill battles, frustrating scenarios and no-win situations. Yes, you have to be able to laugh at your blunders. But you also HAVE to focus on the moments that make you feel accomplished. It’s OK to want to be praised for your good days and it’s not only OK, but also essential, that you be your own biggest supporter. After all, if you don’t give yourself a pat on the back for changing your kid’s poopy diaper while he’s standing up in the backseat of your car, who will? 

So, at the risk of sounding totally obnoxious, here are a few of my proud mom moments (not counting the obvious, when I actually squeezed a human being out of my lady parts)… 

Traveling Solo with Two “Kids” – When AJ was away on business I decided to take Owen and our puppy to New York, by myself. Sydney, our 17-pound Schnoodle, in her dog carrier on one arm, Owen in my other. It was exhausting, my back hurt, my head hurt and I had to go about 6 hours without peeing, which is hard when the only thing keeping you awake is chugging coffee. But I did it. And every time a passerby would say, “wow, you’ve got your hands full, you’re a brave mom” I would smile to myself and think, “damn straight.”

Anything to keep him happy at 35,000 feet…

Running My First Post-Motherhood Marathon – I had to take almost a year off from the adrenalin rush of running when I was pregnant. So when I completed my 5th NYC Marathon on the same weekend that Owen turned 11 months old, and finished with my fastest time yet, I felt on top of the world. But there is nothing like a sloppy kiss from your toddler, followed by a massive dirty diaper, to knock you back to reality when you get home.

Successful Mealtime – I am lucky…Owen is a really good eater. And he always has been. Pretty sure that has nothing to do with me or my cooking. But AJ has a much more demanding palette. So if I’m able to make a meal (after a long day of entertaining a 17-month-old, mind you) that both Owen and AJ devour, then I think I’ve earned that glass of wine I guzzle at dinnertime. 

Diaper Changing Combat – Owen will not sit still. Never. Unless Dora the Explorer is on, he’s moving around at maniac speed. So to change a diaper without the contents of said dirty diaper ending up on my nice white rug is a challenge. 9 times out of 10 I am sweating bullets by the time a new Pampers is covering O’s crack. So every time I find a new way to keep my kiddo occupied while I wipe his a$$ I get a huge sense of pride. 

Possibly the only time a toddler diaper change has been this easy.

Thank You Mommy – Owen has become very verbal over the past few months. He went from saying one word to full phrases to saying those same phrases at appropriate times, showing me that he actually understands what he’s saying, at least in theory. And one of his most recent favorites is “thank you” after I give him a toy, hand him his water, or put on his shoes. I swear to god I almost eat his face off when he says that. I honestly feel more proud when my little munchkin shows some appreciation and affection than I ever did when I got a promotion at work or an A in college. 

Bottom line: I am finally realizing how important it is to toot your own horn from time to time. I get that if you don’t relish in your own successes as a mom, you’ll surely feel overwhelmed by your failures. Because we do all make mistakes, and we do all have many moments we’re not proud of. But for every bad decision there are a million things we do right to make our kids feel special, safe and loved on a daily basis. So go ahead, share your proudest success stories below…Even if it’s just for a few minutes, take pride in your mothering! You’ve earned it!

This Was My Life Before You

written by STEPHANIE

Confession: I am completely in love with Lena Dunham’s HBO sitcom, GIRLS. I find myself laughing almost start to finish, and proclaim several times every show, “She is SO good!” My husband giggles throughout, but admits that he likes it better because I love it so damn much. At the end of the first episode he asked, “So, does she write girls well?” Oh yes. Yes, she does. The show is the highlight of my week because it’s the first fresh, honest and real TV show that captures the inner workings of a woman’s mind with rawness and wit. I feel inspired after each episode to write better, because Lena writes so well. I feel more confident after each episode that I’m not alone, because there are so many utterly relate-able moments. And I eerily recognize younger versions of myself (and my friends) in the characters.

The cast of GIRLS

I moved to New York when I was 23. I was fresh out of college, starting a design program at Parsons, and I was insatiable in every way. For the first time, I felt completely untethered and recognized that my life was wholly in my hands. I felt so very, very young, in the best way possible. 

I waitressed to pay the rent. I rationed my weekly loaf of Wonderbread and stole rolls of toilet paper from public bathrooms (toilet paper is really expensive!). I lived in a flat on 18th Street & Broadway with 4 other girls (including Gwen). I interned for Marc Jacobs. I snuck backstage at concerts. I had sex in public places. I stayed out all night. I explored every corner of the city. I fell madly in love. I graduated from Parsons. I got a real job. I traveled non-stop for work. I had an expensive wardrobe. I went to fashion shows. I called my underwear “lingerie”. I moved in with my boyfriend. I got engaged. We bought a condo. I got a better job. I made a lot of money. I spent a lot of money. I got married. I got a dog. I grew up. I grew bored. I left New York. I moved to France. I got pregnant. I traveled around Northern Europe in a VW camper van. I longed for my family. I missed California. I moved to LA. I became a mother.

2007 — Williamsburg, Brooklyn

Then came a moment of sheer panic and confusion when at an uber cool LA party, an “It” girl who was popping Adderall and wearing a fedora and red lipstick asked, “And what do you do?” Too many answers flooded my mind. Unable to put together a coherent sentence, I blinked, staring out dumbly at the question. I knew what my career was, but I had left it behind in New York so many, many months ago, along with a version of myself who would have been wearing a fedora and red lipstick by now too. I knew where I’d been, but not exactly where I was at that moment. And I knew what I’d been doing (cleaning baby vomit off my left shoulder), but caring for a baby wasn’t yet an occupation I had accepted, neither as part of my identity nor as a viable job.

Now, my daughter is 18 months old. The age itself has caused me to take inventory. It came upon me so quickly. My pre-child ambitions ebbed and flowed during those 18 months with each of my daughter’s phases. Sometimes I ached for something else. I was impatient and lonely and frustrated. Other times I was utterly absorbed, unable to think of anything aside from the here and now. And then there were months when my daughter and I were completely in-synch, when I had this “motherhood” thing down pat, and I felt ready to take on projects that inched me back toward a career.

While I blindly obsessed on and off over insecurities about my new position as a stay-at-home mom, I realized, with her turning a year and half, that this has been the most valuable time of my life. Sure, over the course of my studies, career and travels, I have done a lot. I achieved. I had success. But I never contributed more to the world than I did these past 18 months, because I made a person, and that person that I’ve been diligently and lovingly caring for will go on to make her own impact on this world. How much more productive can one be? Motherhood has brought with it a wholeness that I hadn’t had in my life before. Where there was once personal ambition, now there is satisfaction. 

There is a memory that I play over and over again in my mind. It was shortly before we’d made the decision to leave New York, and I was alone in our home. I walked through the large, Williamsburg flat, running my hands along the rough exposed brick, allowing my gaze to absorb the view outside the front windows. Our narrow street was lined with beautiful trees whose branches bowed under the pregnant weight of their spring blossoms. Inside, I took in the dark wood, white walls, high ceilings and skylights. I sewed the curtains myself, along with the paisley throw pillows. Upon an orange Moroccan rug were piles of DVDs. A partially unpacked suitcase sat in the corner still from my last trip to California. My husband’s black and white photographs, our flea market furniture, street art on the walls, a shopping bag of designer clothing and farmer’s market flowers, littered the living room. I took in the well-stocked bar, rows of high heels, and heaps of dirty laundry. I wandered toward the back of the house, felt the cold bathroom tile underfoot, the pale green bedroom walls we painted with friends, and the smell of lilacs from the back garden. I thought, “This is my life before you.”    

Super Mom or Super Over-Booked?

Written by ERICA

Confession #1 of the day: I am writing this post—a post that will be published on Monday at 1am EST—at 9pm on Mother’s Day (Sunday). It is totally unlike me to leave something to the last minute like this. And as I just informed my hubby of my current situation, he looked at me with the same shock and disappointment that my parents used to display when I was in high school. And here comes the slacker guilt…

Confession #2: The reason I am scrambling to make sense of my story at 9pm on a Sunday night is because this past week, a week when I had seemingly endless amounts of free time, I totally and completely over-booked myself. I saw empty days on my calendar, I filled up those days with tons of fun activities and less-fun errands that I had been meaning to do for months. And now, here I am, exhausted, slightly brain-dead, and running way behind schedule on a Sunday night.

And the worst part is that no matter how hard I try, this isn’t the first nor will it be the last time I’ll over-book myself. But it shouldn’t be that way…

I am a planner. Always have been. I make lists. I take detailed notes. I use check boxes to track my progress. I am neurotic about updating my calendar. I set calendar reminders for literally everything. I even set calendar reminders to update my calendar. I told you. I AM A CRAY CRAY.

So it would seem that someone who is so organized about her schedule would manage to actually stay on schedule, right? I mean, it’s only logical that after dedicating so much time to managing my time, I’d be able to actually make proper use of the little free time I have. (Did you follow that? Me either.) But somehow, I go to bed at night feeling like I still have a million things to do and a bunch more that got done but could have been handled way better. And I HATE that feeling. 

I like going to bed at night feeling accomplished. I thrive on checking things off my to-do list, never to see them again. Sometimes I even write things down that I’ve already done, just so I can cross them off and reward myself for a job well done. (Oh crap, I can’t believe I said that out loud.) My deep desire for that feeling of completion is part of what made me so good at my job before I was a mom. I could’t leave things unfinished or finished in an average capacity, so everything was done on time and to the high standards that I set for myself. 

But ever since I became a mom things are different. I can’t seem to get things done nearly as efficiently as I used to. Everything seems to take longer. My to-do lists don’t work anymore. And even if I set reminders on my calendar (call the pediatrician, schedule the baby proofer, fold laundry, buy milk) thanks to Owen’s obsession with my iPhone, I rarely receive the alerts I used to rely on. Even the daily events that I thought I had on lock seem to take longer…bath time used to be so quick and easy, but tonight Owen insisted on splashing for 20 minutes and then decided to take a nice large dump in the tub right before I drained the water. His 5-minute bath became a 35-minute Operation Poop Cleanup.

And the real issue is that I still hold myself to those same standards that I used to live by when I had a handle on my own time. I want to be a super-mom. It’s not OK for me to leave the bed unmade before I leave the house for the day. I have a really hard time leaving dirty dishes in the sink, even for an hour. Owen’s toy area, though meant to be played in, is organized (and re-organized) virtually every single time he steps foot in his crib. I need to have a stocked fridge at all times and I hate seeing our hampers pile-up with dirty clothes. 

So my regular tasks have changed, my ability to manage those tasks has gone downhill, and yet, my need to get everything done (and done well) is still in full force. Anyone else smell a recipe for disaster? 

And even though most days I feel like I am setting myself up to fail, I do it anyway. I make my lists of the 20 errands I intend to run in between play dates, diaper changes, nap-time, dog-walking and blog writing. I make appointments I know I’ll be 10 minutes late for. I make half-a$$ed plans to catch up on the TV shows I am already 3 weeks behind on. And I map out delicious dinners that end up being semi-homemade when I realize I don’t have the time or energy to roast a freakin’ chicken. 

Point being, over the past 17 months I’ve learned a lot about myself. I’ve learned that I am both mellow in my mothering and neurotic in scheduling my time. I am as laid back as a mom can be, but I’m also a total over-achiever. I’ve learned that I still crave a sense of task completion at the end of the day. And I’ve learned that even if you try your best to be a super-mom who can do it all, that sense of satisfaction—knowing that I’ve done all I set out to do that day—is rare, if not impossible to achieve. It’s unfortunately just not a common occurrence when your top job is being a mom.

But if I can look back on my crazy day and know that even though I didn’t get around to everything, I did the important stuff, the stuff that made Owen smile, then I’m happy. And if I also managed to find time to take a dump and watch The Vampire Diaries, then I’m REALLY happy.

The Ultimate Mother’s Day Gift

Written by BROOKE 

Where I’ll be celebrating mother’s day…

When your kids are too young to really get it, the task of the perfect Mother’s Day gift falls to Dad. But what IS the perfect gift? Something practical? You are, after all, a MOM. Something sentimental? Or something totally indulgent? Maybe something that reminds you that you are, actually, MORE than a mother. A break, if you will, from all things “mother.” 

Indulging is how spent my first Mother’s Day. I met my two best college girlfriends in Vegas and we lived it up! Massages, dinners out, a show, laying out by the pool—oh and two of the three of us attached to the breast pump every 3-4 hours (even in the parking lot of a Las Vegas casino). Aside from the pumping, it was everything I needed as a new mom: a few days away and a little relaxation. I arrived home in time for an Italian dinner made by my fabulous husband, and felt that not only was I VERY appreciated as a mother (nothing will help your husband appreciate you more than doing your job for a few days), but I was ready to go back to being the best mom I could be. I had missed my little man and was grateful to be back home with him. 

When some of my cousins and I decided to plan a girls’ weekend this spring and someone suggested we do it over Mother’s Day weekend, I knew I had to make it happen again. So, today, I jet out to Scottsdale on my first solo flight in over 3 years. I plan on a little sleeping, a little reading while laying out, a few virgin mojitos and, oh don’t forget that 80-minute prenatal massage I booked. 

Is it selfish to ditch my family for Mother’s Day? Is it sad that I won’t get to see my son sing the adorable little song he’s been practicing at church for the past month? No, I actually think it’s the ultimate Mother’s Day gift. 

How will you celebrate? 

Happy Mother’s Day, From the Poopsie Team

One of the more awesome Mother’s Day cards any of us have received to date…

In honor of Mother’s Day, and all that us moms do on a daily basis, we want to give a quick shout out to the husbands and fathers who have made us feel special when we need it most. Sometimes it’s not the grand gifts (though we like those too) or the big gestures that make us smile, it’s the small moments that make our days of poop-filled fun worth it. So to get you geared up for a fabulous Mother’s Day, here are some of our favorite—and most appreciated—moments that have made us proud to be moms and able to tackle whatever chaotic kid adventures come our way.

Erica

It’s not so much of a singular moment as it is a daily occurrence, but it is widely known that I cannot function without coffee. Like, my mind is on the verge of exploding until that dreamy drop of caffeine hits my lips. I have a hard time doing anything before I’ve had coffee, let alone take care of another human being who’s tugging on my leg begging for food and attention. And because my wonderful husband understands—and sympathizes with—this, he brings me coffee every morning. Not just on Mother’s Day, but every single day. True, he only has to venture as far as the free coffee room in our condo lobby (best perk ever!), but every day I know he’s going to come back from his morning puppy stroll with a pipping hot cup of joe. And that coffee usually comes with a kiss too…though sometimes it’s served with a “I can’t believe you’re still in bed” eye-roll on the days Owen decides to sleep late. Anyway, it’s his daily gift to me. A small gesture with big returns, so that I can start my crazy day as a mom on the right (and caffeinated) foot. Bring on the poop!

Stephanie

“Supposed to” isn’t part of my husband’s vocabulary. So when it comes to Hallmark holidays like Mother’s Day and Valentine’s, he isn’t eager to fulfill wishlists. It’s the days between that mean more to him. In the early months after my daughter’s birth, while I was in the depths of laundry misery, mentally cursing everyone in my household and wondering why the F I’d had a baby, he came in and said the best thing I’d ever heard: he’d hired a cleaning lady. I was so happy, relieved and surprised, I immediately started crying (probably a hormone/sleep deprivation combination). It was the best gift I’d ever gotten and was perfectly timed. I didn’t ask for it, and it wasn’t for any occasion. He just saw that I was struggling and did what he could to alleviate it. Nice one, Alan. 

Gwen

When Izzy was just a couple days old, I vividly remember walking down the stairs of our flat thinking/freaking out to myself over how my life had changed forever and when was anyone ever going to consider me and my feelings ever again?! I had this unbelievable sense of responsibility hanging over me and couldn’t see a light at the end of my sleepless tunnel, when I would once again be deemed important to anyone for anything except my boobs. AND, with this roller coaster of emotions whirling around in my head, I reached our kitchen. At which point Adam looked at me, held his arms out and gave me a big hug. Obviously I burst into tears. It was exactly what I needed in that moment.  Not only did he make me feel loved and like he knew how I was feeling, but most of all that I was still his wife, as important to him as ever and not alone.

Brooke

My husband is practical, not romantic. This is why I love him; I’m not interested in sap (well, occasionally a little might be nice) but more importantly, I need those little things. This is why I love Aaron. I am a sleeper. I need sleep. So having a baby was hard on me. Really hard. Aaron is also a sleeper, but he stepped up when Zach was a baby and it continues to this day. In those early baby days when I am up all night and a mess of lactating exhaustion, he gets up with the baby sometimes as early as 5 am and goes in to work late just so I can catch a few extra hours in the mornings. I can’t say what a difference it makes to get those 2-3 extra hours in the morning. It makes the day manageable with a new one. Eventually we all get back into sleeping normal hours but Aaron still sacrifices sleep for me regularly. Whether it’s getting up with the kids so I can go on my 5am runs or feeding them breakfast every morning these days so my tired pregnant body can get that extra hour, he does it without complaining. I’ll take sleep over flowers any day. 

Have I Become a Gross Mom?

Written by ERICA 

First off, let me clarify why I mean by “gross” because it’s not what you might think. I don’t mean frumpy or sloppy. I may wear leggings-as-pants as my daily wardrobe, but somehow I think—I hope—I manage to make myself look somewhat put together despite my loyalty to spandex. And while there are definitely times I look in the mirror and see wrinkles/grey hairs/under-eye circles that never used to be there pre-baby, generally speaking I think I look like the same 15-year-old that I did before Owen came along.

So in (not so) short, when I say gross, I’m not referring to my looks. I’m referring to my actions. 

I’ll never forget two specific scenes from the amazingly hysterical movie Baby Mama starring Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, who are comic geniuses in my book. The first is during birthing class when Amy Poehler asks if she can “just spray some Pam on her taint” instead of rubbing olive oil on her perineum to prepare for labor. ABSOLUTELY GENIUS. 

But the second (and more relevant to my point) scene is when Tina Fey’s sister goes up to her son and says, “What is that brown stuff? Chocolate or poop?” And then she LICKS IT to see what the culprit is. And her response to Tina Fey’s look of disgust is “I told you, motherhood is messy. Great, but messy.” Oooooooohmygod. 

I thought to myself, “I’ll never be like that.” I watched, I laughed, and I shook it off as an exaggerated situation that only exists for comedic purposes on the big screen. Moms don’t really do that. I would most definitely NOT risk putting poop in my mouth, even if it was my own child’s feces. NEVER.

But then, the other day something happened. Owen had just finished eating his dinner and had managed to accidentally leave a piece of half-chewed chicken on his face. Did I get a napkin and wipe it away? No, of course not. It was a perfectly good bite of rotisserie chicken. So, I picked it off his cheek, and I ate it. When faced with my son’s discarded food I chose to eat his CHEWED UP leftovers instead of getting a napkin and tossing it into the trash. And I didn’t think twice about it. 

There has been a significant change in my perception of what is appropriate and what is disgusting. I wipe Owen’s snot and boogers on my leg and think it’s totally fine even though I freak out when I catch AJ picking his own nose. I let Owen crawl around on the dirty city streets and then happily shove those same nasty hands in my mouth (and his own). I have spent an entire morning feeling like something doesn’t smell quite right, only to find a little bit of throw-up in my hair hours later. And on occasion I eat my son’s half-chewed food because it seems like an easier clean-up method than the alternative. 

What has happened to me? I was never a germaphob by any means, but if I had seen someone else perform the same nasty behaviors that I’m currently practicing I’m fairly certain I would have gagged, judged and run the other way, in that order. I’m not sure if it was when I pooped myself during childbirth or when Owen pissed through all of his clothes and onto mine (numerous times)…but at some point in the past 17 months I have gone from a civilized adult to a gross mom.

And the hardest part to process is that I’m actually OK with it. I still clean up nice when I want to…dinners, the occasional concert, weddings, date nights. But if you gave me the choice between looking fancy and being a hands-off mom, or being covered in boogers and having my giggling (and disgustingly dirty) son snuggling on my lap, I’d choose the latter any day. So I guess it’s a good thing I typically wear a uniform of sweaty gym clothes. I’d feel way worse about getting soaked in half-digested-scrambled-eggs puke when sporting my favorite Marc Jacobs top.

Fitness: My Postnatal Yoga Experience

guest written by Jessica James of www.solpoweryoga.com

As a yoga teacher I was considered successful. I taught privates exclusively, had celebrity clients and was booked months in advance, yet I secretly felt a little like a fraud. Almost like my success as a teacher came faster than my practice could support, because I hadn’t mastered the handstand. I felt that if I were to teach and accept people’s hard earned cash then I should be able to perform the tricks as well, and worried that I couldn’t be taken seriously if I didn’t have the handstand mastered. While the rush of balancing upside down on my hands for 10 seconds led me into a deeper state of at oneness that we call “yoga bliss”, it was honestly ego driven. I was determined to be “worthy” to teach, so I sought out the best gravity defying teacher in town and my practice shifted from a moving meditation to inversion boot camp, complete with grunting, cursing and “atta girl” coaching. I was just starting to get it, or so I thought…

Jessica in handstand.

I found out I was pregnant and quickly shifted my practice by excluding most poses that twisted my mid section and ab work. I continued practicing inversions, but I had someone spotting me, and inherently lower expectations for myself and from my teachers. I was pregnant… of course pouncing like a cat from a pushup position into a handstand would be difficult. But I remained committed to my practice through my pregnancy like it was a lifeline. The support from my peers and colleagues was overwhelming. No one was judging me or measuring my abilities as a yogi and teacher. My pregnancy was, appropriately, my focus.

Jessica in Astavakrasana, or Eight-Angle Pose. Inspiring and impressive, right? 

After my delivery I was strictly instructed by my doula not to exercise for six weeks. She warned me that if I went back to soon I could undo my healing making it harder for my body to bounce back. I felt stuck.  What?  No Yoga at all? I had a whole new way of being in the world, new responsibilities, a lot of pent up energy and I was told that my practice was suddenly off limits? The one thing that kept me sane, the one thing that I ran to for comfort in times of big change was just beyond my grasp.

I heeded my doula’s advice and counted down the days until that “yoga bliss” could be all mine again! I waited…

Three days before my six weeks was up, my boyfriend’s instructor knocked on the door for his private lesson. I greeted and escorted him to the yoga space downstairs. My boyfriend and new daughter, Ava, were still sound asleep. I woke my boyfriend telling him it was time for his yoga when he surprised me: He offered to watch Ava while I took his session. I knew he just wanted to sleep longer and thought watching Ava meant sleeping next to her, but I jumped at the opportunity, and played it off accepting his generosity. I changed  and headed downstairs secretly hoping Ava would wake and my boyfriend would experience some of what I had been doing for the past six weeks. 

The instructor was my pre-pregnancy gravity defying inversion coach. He seemed genuinely happy to see me; we did the regular new-mommy small talk, then got to work. He didn’t mess around. No more than five minutes in, I started daydreaming about changing a diaper. I thought, “Holy hell, what have I gotten myself into? I am hating this!” I can’t blame my instructor, he’s a guy, and was used to my pre-baby attitude of “if I don’t get this I am no good”. He had me in a standing splits and was picking on the alignment of my hips! He wanted them square, but I practically had a new set of hips on me! I tried. I gritted my teeth through mustering up everything I had, to hating my teacher, wanting to punch him, and then eventually just collapsed to the floor in a puddle of tears.

I apologized and blamed my crazy post-baby hormones. He felt badly and backed way off. We finished the session and I ran upstairs quickly resuming my position as “mommy”.  Ava had done her part and tormented her daddy, who was equally relived that our roles had fallen back into place.

The following day my back was a mess. I tried to delicately place Ava in her car seat while pain shot up my back. I sat on my yoga ball with my new daughter and cried again in mourning of my yoga practice. My body was ready for activity but apparently not that kind. I began to quietly skip out of my boyfriend’s private classes, and started to practice by myself again. I tuned in, listened to what I needed that day and began to let the practice lead me.

While taking myself through my own sequences I was reminded of why my clients liked my brand of yoga in the first place. Yoga was the one thing that they could do for themselves, at which they didn’t have to compete or even be very good. They just had to show up on the mat and breathe.

As my yoga journey spiraled inward, I reemerged with a different sense of self. I was a mother now; I had to take care of myself so that I could care for my daughter. Instead of following my ego I began to follow my bliss. My practice is not “back”, I still haven’t mastered handstand, but no one cares. Truth is the only person who ever cared about my handstand was me.

Every single one of my clients was anxious for me to return to teaching, and when I did I came with a much deeper understanding of the practice. I discovered that the quality of my teaching and my mothering is in direct proportion to my dedication and cultivation of self-love. I got my ego out of the way and allowed my practice to finally become an expression of love and devotion. I found that center and sense of self that I thought mastering handstand would give me, but I found it within myself, not within a pose. In a way, my practice was reborn and with it, so was I.

Jessica James has been practicing yoga seriously for 8 years, and for the last 4 years she has taught movie stars, pop stars and all sorts of fancy people that pay her to keep them looking “Hollywood ready.” As a teacher, she has developed yoga sets that sculpt the body and clear the mind. Yoga has brought a whole new dimension to her life, and she loves both her practice and her clients. She is currently developing and shooting a Prenatal Vinyasa Flow program (DVD) due out this Summer. For more on Jessica, visit her website: www.solpoweryoga.com. 

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!

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!

The Best Laid Plans of Moms and Tots Often Go Astray

written by STEPHANIE

When I woke up with death-breath, feeling like I’d been punched in the stomach by a pack of hooligans, I should have known it wasn’t going to be my day. My husband was off with friends for cicLAvia, an event in LA where 10 miles of streets are closed to cars and open only for bikes and pedestrians, and I was solo with the munchkin on this sunny, lovely past Sunday. I had high hopes for the day: 9:30am Gentle Yoga (with Marlowe in the Kids Club Gym, god bless), brunch together at home, then she’d nap, then we’d meet my friend for lunch followed by furniture shopping, and back home to meet “Dada” for our evening routines. But that isn’t how things went… 

9:30am: Gentle Yoga? Try chasing Marlowe around the house trying to get her dressed, fed, and then doing the same for myself. Decide to scrap yoga since I feel like there is a toxic tornado whirling around in my guts (p.s. I have just completed a 3-day juice cleanse, which is why my stomach and the rest of my body feel beaten up). Instead, we change course for the Beverly Hills Farmer’s Market. I put together my list, load up the canvas totes, dream about sunshine and fresh flowers, and promise Marlowe she can dance with the guitar guy who plays for the kids there. 

10:40am: Schelp out of the house, Marlowe is doing her best limp noodle move to get free in one of my arms while the other is overloaded with the diaper bag and canvas totes. 

11am: About halfway there, I peak in the rearview mirror to find Marlowe fast asleep. Sh*t! What to do…? What to do…? Go to the market, wake Marlowe, risk the rest of our day without a proper nap for her? Ugh, no. Turn around and head for home, hope she transfers to her crib and finishes out her nap? Yes. 

11:20am: Out of car, through the door, into her room, down. Success! 

11:30am: Text my friend to see if we can move our plans up and meet earlier, since Marlowe will be waking earlier than planned. She replies that she has brunch at noon so can’t meet until 2pm as planned. No problem, 2 is fine. But then I realize, if she’s brunching at noon how could she lunch at 2? Upon further texting we realize there was a misunderstanding. She can’t have lunch. We’ll just meet for shopping. Sh*t! 

Noon: Desperately searching for something to eat, as the dang cleanse left me starving but unable to eat “normally”. Marlowe starts coughing and wakes herself up. She cries on and off for 15 minutes before we both finally decide the nap is over. Sh*t! I get her up, throw her in the car and start driving back toward the farmer’s market.

12:25pm: Glance back in the rearview mirror, she appears to be asleep again at the exact same spot. Sh*t! Realizing we’ll hit the market just in time for closing (pointless), I’m forced to change course again. I turn left and head down Robertson Blvd toward a strip of shops and restaurants that might offer me a chance to eat something. Le Pain Quotidien = perfect! Healthy and easy with kids.

12:30pm: I drive around a few times, find a spot but the parking signs are ridiculous and my brain doesn’t have enough fuel to process the information. I’m pretty sure my car is going to be towed. Sh*t! Marlowe is already out of her carseat and there’s no way I can get her back in to find another spot. While I really want to sit with her and have a civilized lunch, I opt instead for take-out and we can eat in the backyard. I will salvage this day yet!

Yes, I took a photo. 

12:35pm: Inside Le Pain, everyone is smitten with Marlowe and her pigtails. She delights in the attention by waving and making eye contact. I splurge and order a coffee, which I’ve been without for 5 days while cleansing and prepping for the cleanse. It took me a week to get off the caffeine, which was BRUTAL, but I could really use the comfort and optimism of a delicious cup right now. Marlowe plays with some free magazines near the door while I doctor up my half-caff, feeling righteous over my choice of soy milk and agave instead of cream and raw sugar. Take my first sip, fight back literal tears of disappointment. It’s disgusting. Not sure if it’s the soy & agave combo or just my post-cleanse taste buds messing with me. Either way, Sh*t!

12:45pm: Food & Marlowe with one arm, hot gross coffee in other. Arrive at parking spot, car is still there, breathe sigh of relief and try to regain my composure. I get the food in the front seat, Marlowe in the back, apologize to her for being a grump, and she responds by puckering her lips and giving me a dramatic air kiss. She’s giggling, all seems ok. Then I try to put her back in the carseat and she loses it completely. Full fledged meltdown ensues. Sh*t! I fight both her and more tears for a minute, then give up. She immediately smiles. I put her in the front seat, get in the driver seat, and eat lunch just like that. She’s thrilled and a few bites into my lunch, when my blood sugar returns to a normal level, I am too. 

She ate all the radishes and only the radishes. Weirdo, right? 

12:55pm: Text from my friend comes up. She has to move things back because someone showed up an hour late for brunch. Sh*t! I was planning to head straight to meet her from here, but now I have to kill too much time. Decide we’ll just go home for a bit. I have to pee pretty badly anyway. 

1:20pm: Get home, pee, diaper change, zone out for an episode of Sesame Street.

2:30pm: Back in car.

3pm: Meet up with my friend, we’re both pretty drained, plus Marlowe is a nightmare. She won’t stay in her stroller, she won’t let us carry her or hold her hand. Sh*t! She wants to sit on every chair in the giant furniture showroom. She intentionally runs up to glass objects, puts her hand on them, then looks back to make sure I’m watching. Little devil.

4pm: We’re both hungry and Marlowe is making furniture shopping a tad unpleasant. We decide to get a snack. I realize Marlowe’s lovey isn’t in the diaper bag, not in the stroller either, and I know I took it with us from the car. Sh*t! It’s lost. This is bad. 

4:10pm: All in my car, I make a quick stop at the showroom’s front desk, maybe someone found the lovey and turned it in. Yes, they’ve seen it, it was there, but where has it gone now? Sh*t! The guys asks a few other people all equally disinterested in the task, and as I’m feeling a cold, sweaty, panic of helpless loss waft over me someone FINALLY remembers and pulls it out of a back room. I nearly cry again, but this time tears of joy. 

4:20pm: Park, get into the restaurant, order, sit, eat, feeling human again. My friend makes me laugh so hard I nearly pee in my pants when she suggests that maybe the cleanse was a bad idea and when I get home my husband and I should eat chocolate cake and have sex, like a couple of Fat Feeder Fettishists. Yes, it’s a real thing and it’s shocking. Don’t look it up. Actually, do look it up. 

4:45pm: Heading for home, Marlowe nods off, wish I could do the same. Feeling better and thankful for a friend that makes me laugh so hard I can forget this sh*tty day. All in all, just goes to show that the best laid plans often go astray.

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!

Raising a Nice Boy, Not an A$$hole

Written by ERICA

When I first found out I was pregnant, it didn’t dawn on me that I might have a boy. I am one of two girls, I have two adorable nieces, and for a short period of time most of my friends were welcoming baby girls. And while I had a hard time picturing myself surrounded by pink, ballerinas and baby dolls, I had an equally hard time imagining myself with a baby boy. I guess the truth is that I had a hard time accepting that I was old enough to have a child…girl or boy. I mean, I just had my bat mitzvah. I’m barely old enough to have sex. I am most certainly not old enough to have a baby. 

Note: if MTV’s Teen Mom has taught us anything, a bat mitzvah girl could absolutely have sex and a baby. Also, my bat mitzvah was over 16 years ago. So, yeah, there’s that.

Anyway, as my pregnancy progressed I started to only picture myself with a little dude in my arms. And at week 12 when we had our CVS test (without a doubt one of the scariest, most emotional and, thankfully, happiest days of my life), we got confirmation that within my womb there was, indeed, a tiny, healthy penis developing, among other organs. I cried because the baby was healthy, AJ cried because the healthy baby just happened to be male. He explained later that night that it was like hitting the first shot of a one-and-one free-throw attempt in basketball. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes heavily in response to his comparison.

Anyway, it was official. We were having a boy. We were both THRILLED. I laughed hysterically every time an ultrasound technician made jokes about the size of our son’s male parts (sick senses of humor, those ultrasound techs). But at the same time that we were ecstatic, I also wondered what it would be like to have a son. Everyone told me that sons are typically mama’s boys. They’re easier. I was lucky, because girls can be b*tchy and boys LOVE their mommies. But I wasn’t sold. I had never spent time around a baby boy before. I really had no idea what to expect. 

And here’s what I’ve found…everyone was right. Owen is obsessed with me. I’m not saying that in a conceited way. It is a fact. He cannot get enough of my hugs. He’s not clingy, but when he sees my face he comes running at me with a snuggle that just makes my heart explode. As much as my little guy loves to play, explore, rough house, run around and cause trouble, he without a doubt LOVES HIS MOMMY.

Best buds who do everything together…even sip in unison.

And I love him more than anything. Even more than I thought I would. I mean, I knew I would adore him, but I didn’t know I’d also really LIKE him. He’s funny, and fun, and so dang sweet. And even on days when I don’t speak to another adult human being all day long, I’m OK with it. He’s great company.

But here is where things are starting to get complicated. Every time Owen gives me a big wet smooch I squeeze him as hard as I can and I’m tempted to say “no woman will ever love you like I do.” I want to scream that he is the most delicious boy I’ve ever snuggled. I accidentally/on purpose call Owen “handsome” regularly and I coo that he is too amazing for words when he does pretty much anything, including poop which requires absolutely zero skill. 

I can’t help it! And I think am in trouble. I think I might be becoming one of those moms who raises a specific breed of male; the kind of male that I HATE. You know the type: the cocky bastard who thinks that his sh*t don’t stink. The kind of guy who in high school walked around like he owned the place, and the kind of young man who at 22 got a job in investment banking and said crap like “I COULD BUY YOU” to other people. (Yes, that happened. Some douche said it to AJ at a bar shortly after college. I wonder if he had a god complex or anything.) 

Those guys are a$$holes. True, girls can definitely be b*tchy, but guys can be a$$wipes. Owen CANNOT become an a-hole!

Is this the face of an a-hole or a nice guy? I mean how could that angel face ever be anything other than sweet?

I mean, I don’t want him to be too nice. Let’s be honest, nice guys get walked all over. But I also don’t want him to be a jerk. I want him to know every day how much I love him and how special he is, but I’d also love him to exhibit some humility. 

I’d love a son who has manners, who respects all people, who loves animals, who can be funny and inappropriate and irreverent without being disrespectful. A son who can laugh and make others laugh. Who graciously accepts compliments and gives credit where credit is due. A guy who can play hard and work hard, but can also fail, learn from his mistakes and move on. A guy who appreciates beautiful things but doesn’t care too much about appearances. A guy who is sweet and sassy. And most importantly, a guy who knows that his sh*t does, in fact, stink. (I’ve cleaned it about 8 million times. I KNOW.)

Realizing what I would like Owen to become as a person is the easy part. Figuring out how to get him there is hard.

I’m starting small. Teaching him to say “I love you,” to give hugs, to say “hi” when he walks into a room and “bye” when he leaves. I’m teaching him to say “thank you” and not just to the nice women at Dunkin Donuts who let me cut the line and give him free munchkins. I’m trying desperately to watch what I say around him (so far I have completely failed) so that maybe his first full phrase won’t be “WHAT THE F*CK!” Like I said, small stuff. 

I’m sure eventually (and probably sooner than I expect) I’ll have to practice some actual discipline to ensure Owen stays the same sweet, delicious, nice boy he is now. And maybe (definitely) at some point in his childhood/pubescent years/adult life he will act like a jerk to someone. Probably me. And as hard as it is for me to imagine my little nugget not running into my arms for some QST (quality snuggle time), I know that day will come too. One day he’ll be embarrassed by me, and will definitely be mortified by this blog. He’ll look at me and say “moooommmmm-uhhh” instead of “I wuvvvv youuuu” and will squirm out of my arms instead of into my hug. And that’s all OK. As long as that phase passes with time and he comes out on the other end a nice boy. I’d even be OK with some devious behavior from time to time… I mean hello, I did get thrown out of tennis camp. Just please, let him not be an a$$hole.

OK, fine. He looks a little pissed here. Maybe he could be a jerkoff one day. I love you Owen! Never change! Always stay sweet and loving! Don’t be an a-hole!