The Poopsie Collective

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!

Is Playtime an Early Lesson on Supply and Demand?

written by STEPHANIE

Meet Baby Doll, or Baby as we call her in our house. She came into our lives on Marlowe’s first birthday. It was love at first sight and since then they do pretty much everything together. Marlowe shares snacks with Baby, blows her nose, puts stickers on her chest, kisses her, props her in the window so they can squawk at passing cars together… and so on. The two are quite the pair! When we’re in the car, I love hearing Marlowe babble on and on to Baby in the backseat. And I’m happy to tote them both along on any of our adventures. Any adventures, that is, except for one BIG category: playtime. Playtime includes playdates, classes and activities that might involve other kids. Why? Because while Baby is an excellent one-on-one playmate for Marlowe, she has the power to bring out the worst in other kids.

In Marlowe’s Toddler Music & Dance class (really just 45 minutes of utter chaos, with Marlowe running to the door desperate to escape every 90 seconds), I saw the havoc created when two kids brought along their favorite buddies: one was a baby doll and the other a plastic horse. Every kid was interested in these two toys because, unlike everything else in the class, those toys were the only ones. There weren’t enough to go around. And so, as the laws of supply and demand dictate, once scarcity is introduced all hell breaks loose. 

Both the little girl with the baby doll, and the little boy with the plastic horse, sat stone faced while their parents defended them and their toys, telling all the children in class, one by one, “No. This is Madeline’s doll/Jack’s horse. You can’t play with it. Sorry.” Um, WHAT?! (insert sound of record scratching and all music comes to an astonishing halt) 

Marlowe’s confusion and heartbreak upon learning she couldn’t play with either of these toys was flawlessly communicated by her first ever pouty lipped, teary-eyed look of disbelief. She ran into my arms without even crying, looked up at me with that textbook “but w-w-w-why?” face. I was at an utter loss. I didn’t know what to tell her. What I wanted to tell her, though, was that these people were obviously huge jackholes.

These parents had to know other children weren’t bringing their favorite toys along, because when the rest of us registered it wasn’t for a class called ‘Show-and-Tell’. If they were interested in raising a well-adjusted kid, bringing them into a class (the purpose of which is socializing) with their favorite toy isn’t a great idea. And who, aside from a jackhole, could tell a bunch of tiny, curious children that they couldn’t play with his/her kid’s toy, over and over and over again. In the off chance that these parents were NEW and unprepared for the frenzy they created, why didn’t they simply put the toy away until the end of the class…? 

Once the 8 or so toddlers got over it and began running around like little maniacs, I was upset by what had unfolded back with Madeline and Jack. Neither of them were dancing, singing, running or playing along with the other kids. They were both sitting with their parents, clinging to their toys, unable to participate in the class. Now, I suppose it’s possible that both kids have social anxiety, and perhaps their parents toted the toys into class hoping it would help to ease their child’s nerves. But I’m gonna go ahead and toss that possibility into a pile I’ve labeled ‘CHANCES: SLIM TO NONE’. 

I think these jackhole parents are creating the social anxiety, not alleviating it. So, the next time you’re heading off to Mommy-and-Me, try to leave that toy behind, because in my pompous opinion, you’re doing your kid a disservice. Plus, you’re breaking tiny hearts everywhere you go, your child’s included.  

American vs French Playdates: Are We Raising Insecure Kids?

written by STEPHANIE

Playground Politics

Written by ERICA

I believe in something called social etiquette. I believe in manners. I truly feel that one of the more important lessons you can teach your kids (or be taught yourself) is to treat others the way you want to be treated. Be polite. Be courteous. Be kind. Blah blah blah. Now, this is not to say that I’ve never treated others badly. Please, we’ve all been through middle school. And truth be told I did get kicked out of tennis camp for pranking a 10-year-old girl and framing another kid for the crime. (It was a REALLY clever prank, which I won’t divulge here because if I do then I’m pretty sure no one will ever listen to my parenting advice or read my posts again.) 

But despite some of my less-than-sophisticated decisions in the past (I suppose throwing red, white and blue dyed tampons into a crowd of kids on July 4th is considered poor form?) and any bad behavior I exhibit from time to time, I try to always treat people (adults and their kids) with respect, and I expect the same in return.

That said, here’s a pickle. How the hell are you supposed to act respectful and mature when a bratty 7-year old sporting a ‘tude and zero parental supervision crosses you in the playground? 

A few weeks ago we were hanging around a park with my sister-in-law Val and my niece Parker, who’s slightly older than Owen. Owen had recently mastered the whole running around thing, so a fenced-in playground where he could roam free without fear of stumbling into oncoming traffic was a dream (for both of us). He was flopping around like a drunken frat boy during Greek Week and I could sit comfortably on the bench catching up with Val in peace. That is, until Bratty-pants McGee walked in. 

Owen happily chilling on some swings…not prepared for the playground drama to come. 

I’m sure you’ve all met a kid like this… struts her stuff like her sh*t don’t stink and thinks she owns the joint. You know what I mean. And yes, she was approximately 7 years old, as if that gives her a right to behave that way. Anyway, fine, she was clearly a snotty little biyatch, but that’s OK. Really her attitude is none of my business. Until it is.  

Owen and Parker were playing nicely, climbing on the jungle gym, or in Owen’s case attempting to climb and instead falling on his face into mulch. It was cute and they were bothering no one. Then, up walks Little Miss Bitchy to tell me that Owen was in her space and I quote “He’s annoying me, he’s in my way and you need to move him.” He was doing nothing but looking clueless and giggling next to the jungle gym, which apparently was “her house and he needed to move because he wasn’t invited into her house.” Ok, fine. She’s playing house. I get it. But guess what? I don’t give a crap about your game of house. F*ck off little lady. 

Which is clearly not what I said. Remember, I’m respectful. Social etiquette and all that. So I smiled and looked for her mother, who was nowhere to be found. All I saw was her nanny and a man who seemed questionably homeless, but turns out was just her grandpa. And PS, both were doing absolutely nothing to manage this kid. So then I tried to negotiate. “Ok sweetheart, you don’t have to play with him, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t get in your way if you just let him play here with me.” Seemed like a fair deal, but nope, not good enough for her. She was a tough cookie. “NO! I DON’T LIKE HIM. GET HIM AWAY.” 

This went on for a few minutes and it took every bit of strength I had not to throw her off the swings. Literally, I wanted to punch her face in. I don’t care that she’s 7. And actually, what I really wanted was to beat down her “caretakers” (I use the term loosely) for being so freakin’ neglectful. Like WAKE UP NANNY. WHAT’S UP GRANDPA? Why don’t you help or something?!

Thank goodness for my sis-in-law, who’s more experienced at this crap than I. She gave the whole “listen kid, this is a big playground. Everyone is invited to play here, this isn’t your house. This playground was here before you got here, and it will be here when you leave. So why don’t you stick to your game over there and we’ll play over here” talk. All I wanted to do was yell a WHOOP WHOOP and a TAKE THAT SLUT in the kid’s face, but I didn’t. I held it in, we moved locations slightly, and 10 minutes later it was time to leave. Fights were avoided and I managed to leave almost as mature and polite as I walked in.

And on my way home I realized, I think that was officially my first lesson in playground politics. It was a lesson I was not really prepared to learn so soon, and one I think failed. Because even though I held myself together, I’m pretty sure a deep desire to smack someone else’s child is not really a good thing.

So as innocent as a playground may look, apparently this is where a kid’s bratty side comes out and his mother’s patience is put to the test.

Trigger Happy

Written by GWEN

Izzy’s new thing is he always has to hold a leaf when we’re out and about. Swoon!

I’ve been trying to write this post for the last two months, but every time I sit down to write it, my words get jumbled and my point seems to lose its way. So I have narrowed it down to this main… thesis statement, if you will. Since having a baby, I feel nostalgic and yearning for simplicity. As I walk around, everything triggers a memory or feeling of familiarity. The fall reminds me of jumping in piles of leaves as a kid, and I wonder if Izzy will get the chance to do that someday. I see girls walking around in Ugg boots and I think of America (Warning; this might get offensive) where people enjoy being “fashionable,” but it’s an entirely different kind of fashion to what I’m used to in NYC and London. It’s simple and comfortable and functional.  It makes me visualize oversized houses with SUPER comfy couches, Range Rovers, ridiculously amazing stocked fridges, giant… everything… you know, America. 

On Halloween I saw a group of girls arriving at their friend’s flat, clearly all gathering to get ready together for a party. And I was torn. Do I still want to be the one showing up at my friend’s house to do my makeup before going out, or am I ready to have a home buzzing with Izzy and his friends getting ready for the school formal?

All these introspective moments, have made me ask the question, am I still the city girl I’ve been for the past ten years? I do LOVE to be within walking distance of the coolest best new restaurants in the world. Having first look at the new APC collection. Drycleaners open at all hours. Anything I want to eat available for delivery whenever I want.  But there is a part of me that thinks I could be just as happy in a big house in a suburb with weekend jaunts to the city. 

Or maybe I’ve just REALLY grown out of my flat and need more room. The mister would definitely say let’s not go OVERBOARD! I’m not making any hasty decisions, but I have to say, I think I enjoyed a trip to the mall last week entirely too much.