The Poopsie Collective

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.

When Should They Stop Seeing ME Naked?

Written by BROOKE 

On the heels of Erica’s nudity clause for our kids, comes a discussion I recently had at, of all things, a baby shower. 

It started when I ran into a girlfriend one day at Wal-Mart. I love running into friends at Wal Mart because it takes away some of the shame, like ahh, I’m not the only one!  Anyway, my girlfriend tells me she’s glad she ran in to me because she has a question for me. She has two sons, both a little younger than mine. And she asks me, right there in the Wal Mart aisle (another reason I love that place), at what age I stopped letting them see me naked. When I stopped? I raised my eyebrows. I’m not supposed to let them see me naked? ‘Cuz I’m pretty sure we all three took a shower together yesterday. Is that weird? 

So we decided to raise the question with some more friends. A few nights later, at the baby shower, we brought it up again. This time with a whole group of moms who all have boys (we decided girls didn’t count) who ranged from babies to six years old. A few of the moms had stopped letting their kids see them naked. The rest of us had not. So the question stands, when do you stop letting them see you naked? 

One friend just started telling her kids to get out of the room because “mom needs some privacy now.” She didn’t make it weird, which I liked, she just made a request for privacy. But I could hear Zach now, “why mommy?” After all, my kids gather round to check out my poop.  One friend said hers naturally got shy about it and would turn around if he walked in while she was naked. But knowing my little exhibitionist that would never happen, nakedness is not weird to him. And I guess that’s my question, should it be? Will it be? I mean I don’t want to traumatize him. I certainly don’t want him to have vivid memories of me naked. But I also don’t want to make it a “thing” where nakedness is weird or naughty or something. I mean, it’s just my body and nothing could be more non-sexual than a mother’s body, right? 

Brady in the tub… what’s a little nudity when it means I get to share bath time with that face?

The answer, for me at least, is that it’s still ok. For us, for now. I’m sure it will change some day. There will be a time when he will absolutely cringe at the thought of seeing his mom naked. But for now, I will enjoy the absolute innocence of my four year old. And since, in a household full of boys, I know there will be a day when they yell “eww, MO-OM” if I even dare to leave my bathroom in my underwear, I’m going to enjoy the fact that for at least the next little while, I can walk around naked with no complaints. And I’ll remind myself that I’ll have many years of audience free poops and empty showers and that some day I might miss those little visitors (ok, not for poop, I don’t think I’ll ever miss an audience for poop). 

Readers, how about you? Do your kids still see you naked? How and when did you stop? 

Positive Birth: A Mirror, an Audience & a Spritzer

Written by BROOKE 

When the Poopsie writers decided we’d like to run a series on our positive birth experiences, I had a hard time deciding which of my births I wanted to talk about. My first experience giving birth was to my stillborn twins. While their birth is something I hold completely sacred and was a special experience, it doesn’t fall into the “encourage other moms with our positive birth stories” category. Zachary’s birth was easy and quick, painless and tremendously overjoying but still filled with a little anxiety because we all just wanted a baby safe in my arms. So, I’ve decided to share the story of Brady’s birth. It has been by far my most laid back, enjoyable, fun (yes, I said fun) birthing experience. 

I’ve had the same doctor for all of my pregnancies and births. I love her to no end, as she has been with us through the best and worst of times. She has held my hand as I sobbed and sobbed right along with me, and has been the one to bring our precious boys safely into my arms.  I can’t say enough how important it is to have someone with you whom you trust and feel good about their decisions. I cringe when I hear stories of people who aren’t happy with their doctors, who have doctors who don’t listen to their fears or who push them to do things they don’t want to. 

For Brady we decided on an induction about three days before his due date. This is probably a controversial decision to a lot of people, but once you’ve experienced tragedy as we have, getting that baby safely in our arms is the main objective and as my babies have all had low amniotic fluid we have chosen both times to induce close to their due dates.  People get nervous about inductions but I’m a fan in the right situation. There is something that is definitely nice about getting up, showering, doing your makeup, making all the arrangements you need and heading off to the hospital, totally calm. There is something to be said for getting all settled in and getting the show on the road. And there is REALLY something to be said for getting that epidural right when you need it. It has also, for me at least, guaranteed that my own doctor would be able to deliver my babies. 

The beauty of induction—hair done, makeup on, ready to go! 

The morning of Brady’s birth we dropped Zach off at a friend’s and headed over to the hospital. When we arrived, we headed to our ocean-view room. The nurse got us all set up; I find they automatically warm up to us as a couple and family once they know our story. I think they know that we aren’t taking this day for granted in any way. 

I’ll admit the rest of the day was, well, kind of boring! The induction was a little slow (my doctor blamed it on the nurse, which totally made me laugh). We watched shows on the computer, made friends with our nurse when we found out we liked all the same shows, talked on the phone to family and friends and just hung out. I got my epidural in the afternoon—an important tip is to ask the nurse to make sure you get a good anesthesiologist. I’ve had bad and good; sometimes you don’t have a choice, but if you can, you tell the nurse to get the GOOD one in there. They know who the good ones are. To me, there is nothing like a good epidural. Not to knock natural birth, but I did one where the epidural didn’t work and I prefer the pain free route now. 

It wasn’t until the evening that I was ready to push. The nurse had me do some practice pushes, which are always awesome when your husband stands behind the nurse pointing down and mouthing the words “YOU’RE POOPING!” Thanks for the moral support, honey. 

This, to me is where the “fun” part began. First the nurse asked if she could bring in a mirror. Umm, no. No thanks. She said (since we had really gotten to know each other and were now besties), “I really think you’ll like it. It is really cool to watch and if you don’t like it, I’ll pull it away.” So I agreed to try. That seemed so hippie and unlike me! (Which now makes me laugh because nothing about my births is hippie in any way.) So we had the mirror. We had our nurse. She had a student nurse shadowing her for the day, which had been fine because she pretty much seemed too scared to talk to me anyway. Then there would be a baby nurse, and my doctor.  

And then the nurse asks me how I’d feel about letting some intern come watch. “She can’t do anything, she can’t even say anything, she just watches and she can get you a sandwich and a spritzer after the baby is born.” SOLD. Our hospital is famous for their “spritzers” which are really just sprite and cranberry juice but somehow in those Styrofoam cups with that crushed ice there is just nothing better. So, hey, if this audience member came with the promise of a spritzer, bring her on in! 

It felt like a lot of people, but it was also kind of cool. My own little cheering section. My doctor came in. She was feeling cheeky. She was giving the nurse a hard time about my induction taking too long. They turned on the spotlights, which made it feel like we were in a  movie. They put me in those stirrups. And we pushed. And in between pushes? We told stories. And jokes. And my doctor teased me about always giving Zach fruit snacks at my OB appointments to keep him quiet. And she told stories about her youngest child being a little sh*t. Which made me giggle. Because there I was, giving birth, feet in the stirrups and we’re telling stories like we’re out at lunch. It was like we were all just having this great, fun time. The mirror was there, and it was cool! I could see him making progress as I pushed and I could see which pushes were working and which were not, which I think helped me get it right.  And 20 min later, it was over. Baby in my arms. It was kind of surreal. I couldn’t believe how easy and FUN it had been. I got my precious baby, I got my spritzer and life was good!  

I don’t share my boys birth stories that often because they don’t fall into the scary, crazy or traumatizing category. But I agree that we should be sharing the fun, the positive, the easy and beautiful of it all. When I hear about a mom going to the hospital I’m never scared for them, just excited! 

Positive Birth: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way Through the Birth Canal

Written by ERICA 

When people describe the birth of their children a lot of different adjectives come to mind… some say it was scary, some say amazing, others claim it was empowering; some say it was emotional, or terrifying, or intense… and I can totally relate to some of those words. It was emotional. And it really was amazing.  But it was also totally, and completely hysterical. That’s right, it was FUNNY. I mean, a human being came wiggling out of my vag-hole. Someone please tell me what’s not funny about that?

It all began about 4 weeks days before D-day (my due date). I went for a routine checkup with my OBGYN and she confirmed that I was not going into labor anytime soon…my hoo-ha was nowhere near ready to let that nugget out. Keep in mind, that early deliveries run in my family so I had this sneaking suspicion that baby boy Nahmad was gonna make a surprise appearance sooner rather than on time. But my doc said no, so I went about my business… work, gym, walk the dog, watch vampire TV shows, salivate over AJ’s wine, dream about the sushi I couldn’t have, sleep and repeat. It was just any other week. 

I left work on Friday and promised by boss I’d see him on Monday. I (unintentionally) lied. We went to dinner with friends that night, and Saturday morning had brunch with one of AJ’s professors from business school. We had a lovely meal where I opted for the healthy egg-white omelet even though I wanted the French toast. We headed home, where we met my parents who came to help set up some baby furniture. AJ claims I was in crazy-lady nesting mode that week, but I beg to differ. So sue me for wanting to be a little prepared for our impending houseguest. We finished the crib, my parents left, and AJ decided to hang the blinds in the nursery. And by AJ decided, I clearly mean I bugged him every day until he agreed to hang them. Anyway, AJ had a drill in one hand and was covered in sawdust, and he asked me to hand him the wrench. And yes, I know what a wrench is. I stood up, grabbed the tool, and decided to throw in a nice dose of amniotic fluid for good measure.

Yup, my water broke. But it didn’t happen like in the movies when a massive gush of fluid drenches your new fancy shoes. It felt like a tiny pop, followed by me pissing myself a bit. Which, let’s be honest, was standard practice at that point in my pregnancy. I burst out laughing and went to the bathroom to check my situation. Verdict: it was most definitely not urine. It was pink, and it was coming out of me in a steady stream no matter how hard I clenched. And I had been doing my kegel exercises!

So I called my doctor who also assumed I was mistaken, since last time she had a one-on-one with my cervix it was not ready to pop out a child. But she instructed us to go to the hospital to get checked out, you know, to confirm I wasn’t really in labor yet. So we threw on some sweats (me a new pair, not soaked in fluid), grabbed our wallets, and out we went. It wasn’t until we were in the cab that I started to think, “holy crap, I am DEFINITELY in labor.” At this point fluid was gushing out of me every time I giggled (which was often), and every time the driver hit the breaks, which was even more often because cab drivers are jackasses behind the wheel.

As we walked in the hospital the security guard almost asked us where we were going, then he saw me cupping my belly and the puddle between my legs and he stepped aside. I had to fight off laughter for fear the baby would fall out in the next gush of fluid. We made our way to triage, where I got checked out (aka internal exam) and then got checked in (because yup, I was in labor). 3.5 weeks early, maybe the first and only time I’ve been early to an event in my life.

Once we were settled in our delivery room there were 4 things on our immediate to-do list: 1) Call our families. 2) Call our friends. 3) Get my epidural. I had spoken to Gwen the week before when she went through Izzy’s birth (remember when our sons are 5 days apart, by DESIGN!?), so I knew enough to get the drugs immediately. None of that waiting until it’s too late crap. Drugs, in my spine, NOW. 4) FOOD. Oh wait, I couldn’t eat. AJ devoured a sandwich while I got to slurp jello. I kept thinking “I wish I had ordered that freakin’ French toast.”

It was right about at this point that I started to think back to the birthing class we had taken a few weeks back. It’s basically a prep-class where a labor and delivery nurse (the woman who is in the delivery room with you and your OGBYN) gives you all the dirty details on what happens during childbirth. Topped off with a lovely documentary film from the 80s that follows 4 (unattractive) pregnant women as they moan their way through delivery. All I remember from that movie are the traumatizing sounds of agony and a nasty crotch shot of one woman as her baby peeked out. ICK. It was at this point that I turned to AJ and said “YOU LISTEN TO ME. YOU WILL BE STAYING ABOVE THE BELT THE ENTIRE BIRTH. Once you see that you can never go back, so you stay north of the border, pal.” He nodded as he fought off gags and tears. I remember the nurse warning us that childbirth is like war. We must be prepared for a battle. 

Also, I remember her telling us that 99% of women sh*t themselves during childbirth. That number just seemed absurd, but she claimed that while most people will tell you they didn’t poop on the delivery table, that’s because most people may have no idea that they ever did. “Nurses are really good at quick clean up,” she explained. I let her words sink in and thanked god I wasn’t a nurse.

Anyway, so there we were, 3.5 weeks before my due date, December 4^th, 2010, in labor, and thinking that nurse from our birthing class was full of crap. This wasn’t like war. I felt great. It wasn’t scary, I was totally relaxed. Plus, I had taken a huge dump earlier in the day, so I would most certainly not be a part of that one percent who craps themselves.

The rest of the night was a blur. I was in the most delightful drugged haze. I felt absolutely no pain. Once that epidural took over, I swear I might as well have been wasted in a bar doing tequila shots. Our friends came over, we watched SNL (which was either absolutely hysterical or I was just buzzed), and we hung out with our families. It was sort of like any other night. Oh, except I was about to have a human head come out of my lady-parts. And the fact that there was a woman down the hall screaming bloody murder. We actually asked her to keep it down so we could watch TV. 

I was completely relaxed the entire time. No fear, no worry. I just felt really comfortable. Maybe too comfortable. All of a sudden I looked at AJ and said “did you just fart?”. He claimed no, I assumed he was lying. And for the next 10 minutes I swore he must have accidentally let out a toot. I mean, it SMELLED. Finally a nurse came in to check me, and then I hear something I will never forget. “Oh my, ok let me just get something to clean you up.” I looked at her, looked at AJ, looked back at her and said “um excuse me miss, did I just sh*t myself?” She didn’t need to answer. And all I could think was, but I ALREADY POOPED TODAY! AND I ONLY ATE AN OMELET! And ugh that other nurse was right! Oh, and PS you are NOT good at a quick clean up.

That happened 2 more times over the next 6 hours while I slept quasi-peacefully through the night. At 6am the doctor woke me up and said, “morning, it’s time to start pushing. AJ, grab a leg.” I thought about fighting it and sticking to our original “north of the border” policy, but in the heat of the moment, after sh*tting myself 3 times on the table, it just didn’t seem to matter any more. Besides, I was pretty sure if AJ was going to be disgusted with me it would have already happened, like 2 poops ago.

I pushed for 1 hour. It was the longest hour of my life. It never hurt; I barely felt a thing. But it was exhausting. I was out of breath, I wanted a nap, I wanted coffee, and you only get like a 20 second freakin’ break between contractions. It’s not enough! Turns out Owen was what they called “sunny side up”, meaning his face was facing the ceiling, not the floor, which makes it harder to get the baby out naturally. But I pushed on through, literally. I kept thinking that 26.2 miles was easy compared to this, because at least during the marathon you can stop for water and a snack, your vagina isn’t exposed and you’re not pooping yourself. And then, at 7:05am, I gave one final push, I heard AJ scream “HOLY CRAP”, and I farted out Owen Abe Nahmad. They put that slimy creature on my belly, cone head and all (just temporary, thanks to an hour of being stuck in my birth canal), and suddenly, just like that, I was a mom.

It was the weirdest, most insane, funny experience of my life. I’d do it again in a second, but here’s hoping that the next time around has a little less poop.

Wildcard Wednesday: I’m a Weird Mom

Guest Written by Jennifer Prinzing

Hi, my name is Jenn, I’m a reader of The Poopsie Collective, and I have a confession: I’m a weird mom. 

Sure, on the outside I certainly seem like a normal mama of 1-year old Mia, but up in my brain I register about an 87 on the oddball scale. I’ve recently started thinking that the things that run through my head on a daily basis are uncommon to say the least. Or are they? Intrigued? Well, take a peek…(and here’s hoping that my weirdo realizations and passing thoughts as a mom aren’t quite as bizarre as I think. I mean, it can’t just be me, right?)

- No one could have prepared me (or is it that no one did prepare me) for how many of Mia’s boogers I would wipe on my own pants. 

- I hate when I have to poop during Mia’s naps. It feels like such a waste of my free time.

- Mia loves this crappy board book filled with babies doing mundane things (touching their shoulders, smelling a flower). It is so boring to read and the photos are ultra cheesy. But then I realized: this is basically her version of US Weekly.

- Has my baby completely wrecked my brain, or is Kathie Lee Gifford starting to make sense? 

- A plane ride is like Spring Break for babies. Mia gets unlimited access to all her vices (boobs, pacifiers, puffs), she gets to try adventurous new snacks and, most exciting of all, she gets typically forbidden things—like my iPod touch and cartoons. Like a sorority girl boozing with Malibu, she is drunk with power. Babies Gone Wild, indeed.

- Whenever I hold Mia up to a mirror, I feel like my face is super weird. Next to her, my head is giant and oddly long, my skintone is uneven, red & shiny, my pores and teeth are huge. And there’s no getting away—baby toys almost always have mirrors.

Like mother like daughter? We shall see…

- Getting my period back post-preggo was stupid. I mean, how much practice do we really need moving that egg down?!  Certainly not every month for years and years.

- Could I be the only person whose farts have started to smell like her baby’s poop?

- This Christmas, I got to thinking: adults need their own version of Elf on a Shelf. It’s called Midge in a Fridge and he gets rid of any old food or stuff that you don’t want anymore but feel too guilty to throw away. He would even rinse and recycle out-dated condiment jars. 

- I’m not looking forward to the phase where Mia berates me with her words. You probably think I’m talking about when she’s a teenager, but I’m not. I know from other moms that toddlers can be pretty harsh. When Mia hits this stage, it’ll be like I’m back in junior high, worrying about my hair and makeup and what I’m wearing everyday (shudder). These are actual quotes from friends’ toddlers:                   

   “Ew, your breath stinks; brush your teeth.”

   “Hair too wacky-doody,” while handing her a comb. 

   ”Your legs are scratchy! You need to shave.” 

Inside the Mind of a Mellow Mama

Written by ERICA

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crack Whores Have Kids

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

Crash, Boom

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

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

It’s Just a Little Poop

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

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

TV is Your Friend

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

Save the Drama for Another Mama

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

5 Mom Moments/Things I’m Not Proud Of (Part III of a Poopsie Collective Series)

Written by GWEN

1) Before Izzy was mobile, I pretty much plonked him on the ground wherever I went… like, mainly nail salons.

Impressed I managed to snap this pic while my nails were drying?

2) When I was about 8 months preggo, I got a TERRIBLE sinus infection. I was prescribed antibiotics, which helped, but my nose refused to unplug. It got so bad, the Mister started sleeping in the guest room. Not being able to breath through my nose is a REAL pet peeve of mine, so despite the doctor’s warnings, I used Afrin, the wonder drug nasal spray. It was a DREAM! I, of course, then worried that I had somehow screwed Izzy up for life, but everything worked out in the end. Well, so far. 

3) I have memorized all of the songs on BabyTV and hum them at work now. And I’m pretty sure once Izzy starts talking, he’ll be doing the same.

4) Sometimes if bath time is only an hour and a half away, I decide… Meh. The poop can wait. 

5) Three weeks after Izzy was born, after feeding him one morning, I came downstairs to talk to the Mister and his mom. It was at least five minutes into the conversation that I realized my left boob was still hanging out of my shirt. 

5 Mom Moments I’m Not Proud Of (Part II of a Poopsie Collective Series)

written by Stephanie

The Stanky Car
One morning mid-summer, I gagged getting into my car. It smelled like Indian food, pot, poopey diapers and coffee. Only 50% were my fault though. Oh sure, LIKE YOU’RE ONE TO JUDGE!
 

Baby Diva
Back in June, while my breasts were enormous from breastfeeding and my stomach was super soft and mushy, I had a black-tie wedding to attend at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills. I needed to look hot and the closest my closet’s contents were getting me was a hot mess. My sister-in-law’s BF is a celeb stylist. She’s kind of a big deal and she agreed to dress me for the occasion. I felt like Charlie, finding the golden ticket. This was major.  
 
I’d hoped to drop the baby off to my husband before my styling but I ran out of time and had to take her with. No worries, this stylist only HATES babies. When she met my daughter the first time she literally said, “Ew.” My daughter doesn’t cry unless she is tired or hungry. She is pretty chill. But the second we walked in she started screaming. Fat, hot tears were dripping down her cheeks. She was inconsolable.
 
Did I step outside to calm her down? Figure out what was ailing her and try to fix it? No. I looked her square in the eyes, said, “No one likes a cry baby,”  then handed her off on the Assistant Stylist so that I could try on Dolce & Gabanna gowns.
 

Live Wire Teether
We have been pretty lax about baby proofing our house. My husband and I tend to live by the idea that kids need to explore and get hurt from time to time in order to learn the truth about the world. Marlowe is eating a clump of hair she pulled off the dog? Meh. Marlowe is crawling under the table and got herself stuck? Meh. Marlowe is sitting in my lap, casually chewing on the end of my cell phone cord while the other end is plugged in? “STEPHANIE!!!!! WHAT THE F*CK?!?!?!?!” Oh. Right. Oops.

The White Jeans Incident
Diaper blow outs and spit-ups are par for the course of motherhood. At a certain point very early on, I stopped worrying about stains on my clothes. I stopped taking dirty clothes off and instead started putting dirty clothes on (it saved a lot of effort). But then came a day when Marlowe kept her body fluids to herself. And another day. And another. And I started to resemble a normal person again. So I wore white jeans. BIG MISTAKE.
 
Marlowe had one of those chartreuse breastmilk poops that shot out of her so violently and with such spite that it splattered everything in a 10 foot radius. I ran shrieking into her room, dropped her all covered in sh*t into her crib (knowing that now her sheets would be covered too) and stripped myself down in the bathtub. I wasn’t freaking out about the white jeans. I didn’t care about them at all. I even knew in the back of my mind when I got dressed that morning that they weren’t making it through the day. What had me bugging out was that the poop had seeped immediately through the jeans, through my underwear, and was ALL over my crotch. My baby’s sh*t was in my crotch.  And while the baby rolled around in her poopey crib, crying, I showered thoroughly, got redressed, stain treated my jeans, and THEN went to clean her up.

TV-MA
There are days when Marlowe doesn’t nap. Those are bad days. I get all bug eyed and twitchy. So I turn on PBS Kids and drop her in her bouncer. But at 5pm Little Amadeus comes on. I can’t stomach that. It’s too lame. So I turn on Family Guy. The other day, Marlowe was totally content, squealing happily at the screen. After a while my husband walks by and notices that Meg is bashing another girl’s head into a locker. There’s blood everywhere. Marlowe is riveted. “Uh, Steph? I don’t think this is appropriate.” Great, how’s Fox News then? We don’t have cable.

5 Mom Moments I’m Not Proud Of (Part I of a Poopsie Collective Series)

Written by ERICA

5) When my water broke about 3.5 weeks early (although at the time I thought I had just pissed myself, which was fairly standard for this super preggo eggo) AJ and I ran out of our apartment to rush to the hospital. And just our luck, there were no available cabs in sight. Freakin’ shift changes! So we played the “bun in the oven” card and begged an off-duty cab for a ride as I clutched my own crotch and pretended like I was crowning. I then proceeded to leak amniotic fluid all over his back seat. But we did give him a nice tip as a “sorry I messed up your car with my bodily fluids” gesture.

4) You know those moms who expose their kids to educational media at a VERY early age? Yeah, that’s not me. I expose my child to vampire shows, trashy reality TV and gossip mags. Which I thought I wasn’t embarrassed about. “I’m not a regular mom; I’m a COOL MOM!” That is, until a mom at baby yoga (yes, it’s a thing) asked if I had been doing the Baby Einstein videos. And in the heat of the moment, I LIED. I smiled and nodded and acted all up on the baby genius crap, but inside I was picturing that super racy sex scene Owen and I watched between (SPOILER ALERT) Sookie Stackhouse and Eric Northman on True Blood the night before. I guess when he’s old enough to find his own penis then I’ll swap HBO for Einstein. 

Owen and I, having a hot date with Edward Cullen.

3) Confession time: I HATE cutting Owen’s nails. Or maybe more accurately, I’m terrified of it. I’m pretty sure I’m going to chop off his finger by accident. And nobody likes a nubbin. So instead, I avoid the task at all costs. Which is fine in theory, until he scratches off a chunk of my lip or wakes up with a gash on his cheek. Also, he looks a bit like a teeny tiny nomad living in dirt with gunk under his overgrown nails.

2) One time I let Owen sit in his own crap for a 3-hour flight to Miami. In fairness, he pooped during take off and then promptly fell asleep in the Bjorn on my lap. Who am I to wake him up for a mile-high a$$ wiping? It was the better of the 2 options, at least I thought…until we deplaned and the poop (plus some pee as a bonus) had seeped through his clothes and onto mine. 

1) Anyone who says childbirth is beautiful clearly wasn’t in my birthing room. Labor was not one of my most impressive moments as a freshly crowned mom, unless you find shitting yourself impressive. And the best part is, it didn’t happen once, nope, not even twice. I crapped myself 3 TIMES, 2 of which were before even pushing. I blame my epidural and big pre-labor brunch. AND I even tried to blame the poop smell on AJ. I was all “Are you SURE you didn’t fart!?” but turns out…it was ME. A realization I am far from proud of. And I’m pretty sure I’ll regret sharing it here…

Drugged up, relaxed as can be, and sitting in my own feces.

I Didn’t Eat Any Corn…

Written by ERICA

Fat Bastard. A very wise and very perceptive man.

I am obsessed with Austin Powers. I love everything about those flicks: the gross humor, the inappropriate fat jokes, the making fun of Dutch people. I just die every f-ing time. My favorite line, you ask? Obviously it’s when Fat Bastard looks at his crap in the toilet and exclaims, “I didn’t eat any corn…” Not finding it funny yet? Maybe that’s because you fail to realize just how dead on balls accurate it is.  I mean, think about it. As an adult, rarely does your poop reflect your last meal. Except, of course, when you eat corn. It’s so bizarre and gross that your next poo will most definitely have kernels in it. So sick! (So awesome!)

 Anyway, how does this relate to me being a mom? Well, I’ll bet you a breast friend pillow (yes, it’s actually a thing) that you didn’t know that with an infant, virtually everything they eat affects their poop.  And if you did know that, then screw you. You’re a more informed parent than I. Because when the day came to start feeding Owen semi-solids I was less interested in the feeding part and more SHOCKED (mesmerized) at what came out the other end.

First of all, poop changes colors.

Carrots = orange poo. Broccoli/peas = green poo. Bananas = (strangely) dark brown poo. Food can cause a rainbow of crap. So beware. Changing a poopy diaper has a tendency to get messy, and it can be even messier when your little one grabs a handful of bright orange poop and smears that on your arm. Try getting that out of a white shirt.

Poop changes in texture.

When you feed a baby rice cereal (or rice) expect to get some back in return. That’s right, just like corn, rice pellets make their way through your little one fairly untouched. It’s bizarre, but much less so once you know it’s coming. And the more food your baby gets, the more solid their poop. Buh-bye mustard and hello mush. Yes, it’s a gross change, but on the flip side, it also means less side-diaper-explosions (in theory).

Eventually, it looks like a log.

Yup, that delicious little baby of yours, he/she will start to make grown-up looking craps. And strangely, they can be adult sized too. I still fail to understand how the F my 18 lb baby can basically poop his body weight and walk around happily with it in his butt crack for 2 hours. Or is it not normal to let your child play even though he’s sitting in his own feces? 

And from the looks on Owen’s face, it can be a lot of work to get out.

My boy has a poop face. I’ve tried to capture it on camera but I’m usually laughing too hard to get a solid shot. It involves biting his tongue, squeezing so hard his face turns beet red, and usually some sort of grunt while filling his cheeks up with air. It’s, AH-MAZING.

Owen’s first poop face, caught on camera. (Please don’t kill me for posting this.)

Now, I’ll admit, I still feel fairly clueless as a mom. There’s a whole lot I don’t know about raising a human, but I’ve gotten very good at faking it. Thankfully, what I lack in motherhood know-how, I more than make up for in poo-ducation.

And it’s an important skill, because at the end of the day, everything comes down to poo…

Who Let the Dog in?

Guest written by Sara Siegel Ross

Something happened today. Something that made me stop in my tracks and laugh my a$$ off!

Let me back up for a minute. Lily hadn’t been pooping well for the past few days. It wasn’t her normal kind of crap, but I chalked it up to her changing eating habits since we had just started her on semi-solids. Instead of the mush she used to make from the strict breast-feeding, she had just been producing harder pellets that resembled the delicious yams she seemed to prefer.

On one glorious Tuesday afternoon we got home from playgroup after a jam-packed day of swimming, eating, rolling around, and just generally being adorable. When I changed her diaper, hoping for a massive (overdue) surprise, I saw that Lily only had a typical little nugget of a poo, but no real action. Disappointed, I put Lily in her jumperoo and took advantage of my few free moments to chat on the phone with my mom (Grammy Pammy) and admire my spotless apartment (thanks to the recent visit from my housekeeper). 20 minutes went by and Lily was happy as a clam as I chatted away.

And that’s when I saw it. Right underneath my precious baby girl…

Someone had brought a dog into my apartment while I was out, and that dog had taken a giant crap on my floor. This would have been bad enough on an average day, but today my apartment was immaculate. The dog HAD to pick the day after a professional scrubbed every surface to literally take a dump on my dreams of a tidy home. 

It wasn’t until a few minutes later when I approached my Princess Lilypad that I connected the dots (and checked her crotch) and realized that the giant load was not the work of a canine, but the masterpiece of my angel. My dainty little girl, jumping away in a sea of her own sh*t.

I say masterpiece because somehow Lily had poop oozing out the side of her diaper, through the leg hole of the jumperoo, and onto the hardwood floor in the most perfect pile. Yes, it required a MASSIVE clean up job (of her, me and the floor). Yes, it was disgusting. But at the same time, I was so impressed. Who knew a 14 pound princess could poop like that!