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.

RECIPE: Eat Your Greens

Written by ERICA 

I’ve always been a healthy eater. Well, maybe healthy isn’t the right word, and maybe always isn’t appropriate either. When I was younger I’m pretty sure I ate about 2 bagels with cream cheese a day and saw nothing wrong with downing a massive bag of gummy candy before dinner. (And yes, I still do the latter.) So I guess a more accurate statement would be that in my adult life I’ve become a very aware eater. I am extremely aware of what I put in my body. I’m not a crazy obsessive health nut—I would live on nothing but ice cream sundaes, cookies, pick n’ mix candy and wine if I could—but I do enjoy fresh, balanced meals. I feel better after I eat them and I feel way better serving them to my family.

And this poses a slight problem. Because typically healthy foods have zero flavor, and naturally kids are smart enough to know what tastes good. Even when Owen first tried semi-solid food at 5-months-old he knew that plain rice cereal tasted like cement and banana puree was a slurp of sweet heaven. And now, at almost 18 months, he’s got opinions. Not only does he know what flavorful, delicious food tastes like (damn you grilled cheese!), he also has enough sense to reject everything else.

So what’s a mom to do? You want to serve balanced meals to your child (and your entire family for that matter), but you also don’t want to cook up something they are going to toss back in your face, literally.

Anyway, I think I’ve found a way to solve this dining dilemma. It’s a little thing I like to call trickery. Kids can be sneaky…hiding their veggies under their legs, behind their back, even in their shirt during dinnertime. Well guess what? Moms can be sneakier.

Here’s a recipe I made recently that I can vouch is delicious, healthy, easy to make and sneaky enough that even your kids will like it. I originally found it on epicurious.com but amended it a bit to suit my needs…

Pasta with Broccoli Pesto

Ingredients:

- 1 Box of Whole Wheat Pasta (I like Barilla Plus Rotini or Penne, it’s easy for little fingers and it traps just the right amount of sauce in all the nooks)

- Broccoli (about 1 pound, cut into small florets with the stems removed)

- ½ Cup of Extra Virgin Olive Oil

- 1-2 Cloves of Garlic, minced (fresh is best, pre-minced is OK too)

- 1 Tsp of Onion powder (or about ½ a finely chopped onion, if you’re not lazy like me)

- 1 Tbsp Pine Nuts (optional, but highly recommended)

- ½ Cup Parmesan Cheese (ditto)

- Sprinkle of Chili Flakes to taste (optional, I add this after removing a portion for Owen)

- Salt & Pepper to taste

Preparation:

1) Bring water, seasoned with salt, to a boil and add the pasta. Cook the pasta according to the box’s directions.

2) About halfway through the pasta cooking process (so for Rotini, after about 5 minutes), add the broccoli florets to the boiling water and cover for the remaining time.

3) While that is cooking, in a separate pan heat up the olive oil, garlic, onion (powder or minced) and pine nuts over medium-low heat until the garlic & pine nuts start to brown.

4) Once the pasta is done cooking, pour the pasta and broccoli into a colander, but be sure to use a wire mesh or fine strainer so the broccoli bits don’t fall through. Then return to the pot.

5) Add the oil mixture to the pasta and broccoli and stir vigorously until the broccoli florets fall apart and begin to mix in with the sauce. Add more olive oil as needed and season with salt and pepper. After a few minutes of mixing, the broccoli will be completely incorporated into the sauce and will look like a pesto sauce. Add the Parmesan cheese (and chili flakes if you choose), stir, serve and enjoy!

The broccoli is so mashed up in the sauce that your kids won’t be able to pick it apart, and they won’t want to because the pasta tastes so good they’ll be too busy inhaling it to care they’re eating their greens.

I told you… sneaky!

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!

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.

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.

Look Who’s Talking!

Written by Erica 

So it’s happened. Well, it’s been happening for a while, but I think it is now fair to say that Owen is officially talking. I can’t remember exactly when it started, so we can add this to the list of milestones that I will never be able to accurately recall along with the first time he smiled, first time he crawled and his real first meal. For someone who has always prided herself on having an impressive memory, I really suck at commemorating my son’s developmental feats. 

Anyway, even though the whole talking thing began months ago (if my muddled memory serves he started saying mom first, then dad, sometime around 9 months?), in recent weeks it’s gone from random words that have zero meaning to actually being able to communicate. There is absolutely no denying that Owen now speaks. And just like when he started walking, it’s both amazing to watch, hysterical to experience and exhausting to keep up with. He talks ALL. THE. TIME. He has a lot to say, which isn’t shocking since I too am a talker. And now when I go an entire day without any other (adult) human contact, I’m OK with it because at least I have someone to chat with. And now he can finally talk back. It’s pretty great actually. “What do you want for breakfast Owen? How about a waffle?” “Yeah, yeah, yeah! Waffle!” Or when I’m picking out his outfit for the day and I’m really just talking to myself, he chimes in…”This. This one!” Typically he points at something that completely doesn’t match so I smile, thank him for his input, ignore his request and move on. But the point is, he talks!

The other day we were out and were chatting away when a woman in the elevator looked at me and goes “Wait, what did he just say? Did you understand that?” (Of course I did, he clearly said “oh my gosh” and shook his head.) And then it dawned on me. Owen definitely speaks; it’s definitely real, complete words and phrases that come out of his mouth. But it’s also in a weird baby-voiced language that maybe only I can comprehend. A total stranger might hear “wa wa weeeze” but I hear “water please.” Or maybe he’ll mutter something that resembles “ah-na sure” but I know he said “I’m not sure.”

So in an effort to help out anyone who may converse with my kiddo, and quite frankly, to mark in writing his latest ventures in the world of verbal communication (so that a few months down the road I don’t have to add this to the list of moments I completely forgot), here’s a quick dictionary of Owen’s current favorite words and phrases. And no, I am not entirely shocked that “‘sup” made the cut.

Hiiiii (and Byeeeeeeee) - Self-explanatory and easy to understand. Also impossible to ignore since he screams both words whenever someone enters or leaves his peripheral vision.

Hello - Similar to above, but reserved for when he answers the phone (or puts any electronic device up to his ear).

Yeah, Yeah Yeah! - When he agrees with something. He rarely offers a singular “yeah”. He usually triples it up for emphasis and includes a nice enthusiastic head nod for good measure. (See the above video for proof.)

No, No No - Said combined with a finger shaking when he doesn’t want to do something. He’s basically mimicking the way I must look when I scold him, which is hysterical because it makes me realize how not-scary I am when I’m mad. Oh well…

Uh Oh (sometimes replaced by “Oh No!”) - When he drops something (aka throws something on the floor). So, we hear this one A LOT.

Nana - Nope, not in reference to either of his Grandmothers. Here he’s talking about the “ba” kind of nana. As in, banana. In related news, I’m working on teaching him to say “that’s bananas” but so far no dice.

Fank Fu (otherwise known as Thank you) - The good news is, my boy is learning manners. He might not be able to pronounce his “th” sound yet but at least he’s got most of right. And here’s hoping he learns his “t-h” before his “f-u”.

I Wuv Woooo (I Love You) - He apparently also can’t really squeeze out the “L” sound. But his inflection is perfect. Plus he does a nice little hand motion where he puts his finger to his eye when he says “I” then across his chest for “wuv” and then he points at pretty much anyone walking by for “woo”.

Ah-na Sure (I’m Not Sure) - And yes, I know that’s what he’s actually saying because he shrugs his shoulders and lifts up his little hands like he’s confused every time he says it.

‘Sup (short for our attempted What’s Up) - Let’s be honest, we all use the phrase “what’s up” 90% of the time when greeting one another. Or maybe that’s just me. It only seemed appropriate this be one of Owen’s first words. The best part is, he’s already too cool to say the fully pronounced “what is up”. He jumped right to the slightly more ghetto “‘sup.”

Sock (and Shoe) - As if getting Owen dressed wasn’t getting difficult enough now that he wants to do everything himself without help. Now that he knows the words “sock” and “shoe” he also insists on taking off his socks and shoes just so he can say the words as he throws the items on the floor.

Sissy (short for Sister) - And NO! I’m not pregnant. When he says sissy he is solely referring to his dog, who is 100% his sister. A much hairier sister with far fewer words in her vocab, but a sissy nonetheless.

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!

Developmental Phases: When Is It Time To…

Written by ERICA

Recently I looked at my baby boy as he legit said “I WUV YOU” and hugged me, and I realized, holy crapola, this is no baby. Owen is a BIG BOY. He is growing up, and fast. 

I mean, I’ve known it’s happening all along; it’s not like I was expecting to birth a 5 lb nugget and have him stay that way forever. That would be creepy. The fact that Owen is growing and developing isn’t the scary part. The hard part to swallow isn’t that our kids are changing, it’s that we as moms have to change with them.

When your kids become toddlers you, as a mom, have to up your A-game. The same old tricks that used to soothe/entertain your munchkin no longer cut it, and the activities/behaviors/milestones that you never used to think about suddenly become important, if not imminent. And as a first-time mom who’s never done this whole toddler thing before, I’m often not really sure what to do, or more accurately, when to do it. These days I’m wondering, when is it time to…

Introduce Utensils

My general attitude towards parenting has been very laid back from day one. I let Owen show me when he’s ready for something; we give it a try, if it doesn’t work, no biggie, we’ll get there. This mentality applied to the bottle-to-sippy-cup transition when he turned one. And the same rule applies to utensils. I am hesitant to introduce them, mostly because they make things messy(er). Not that eating with your hands is neat. 10 times out of 10 Owen looks like he was in a food fight after his finger-licking-good meal. But add a spoon to the equation and I’m pretty sure my clothes, my walls and my dog will pay the price. So I‘m fighting it. But lately Owen has literally been grabbing my fork out of my hand and feeding himself some chicken. I guess no hands dessert contests are out of the question and it’s time to teach him how to hold a fork? 

Get a Haircut

Owen has a mullet. Or maybe it’s a rat-tail. Or a little of both.  It’s basically a comb-over on top, with some wings on the sides, and a party in the back. But I just cannot get myself to cut it. It’s not that I’m opposed to toddler haircuts for any reason. I know he needs one. And bad. But it’s his baby boy hair. Once it gets cut, it’s gone. You can’t get those curly strands of innocence back. Plus, 90% of kid haircuts I see look like Lloyd from Dumb and Dumber.  

Comb-over, check. Wings, check. And I promise you, there is a Jew-fro in the back.

Censor Your Language

I curse. Often. I can’t help it. I’m known to be a bit of a pottymouth, which I’m generally OK with. I can turn it off when necessary (at work, interviews, around super conservative old people). But now that Owen has started mimicking everything I say or do, I’m in a bit of a pickle. I have this vision of Owen’s first real phrase being “MOM WHERE’S MY F-ING MILK?” I think it might be time to watch what I say around him. And since I’m ALWAYS around him, I guess I better just eliminate the F-bomb from my vocabulary. F*cking fabulous.

Take Swimming Lessons

Owen LOVES to swim. Well, he doesn’t know how to swim. But he loves water. He freaks out (in a good way) in the tub. He practically drinks pool water he splashes so much into his mouth. I’m fairly certain he would do a major cannonball into the deep end (and never come back up) if I let him. But the kid is only 16 months old. He just learned where his penis is. Part of me feels like it’s too soon to ask him to kick or hold his breath or launch face first into the arms of a swim teacher. The other part of me knows he’s ready, and the sooner he learns to swim the sooner I can stop worrying he’s about to drown anytime we’re within 20 feet of a body of water.

Get Rid of Old Toys

I’m not a hoarder. I swear. I am actually a neat freak. I tidy up incessantly. Everything, including Owen’s toys, have a place. His balls are in one bin, his blocks in another, and his musical toys in a third. And as he grows two things are happening in the toy department: 1) he gets A LOT of new toys (guilty, but he needs them, for his development!) and 2) he gets bored with old toys. So the new toys get lots of play and the old toys gather dust. Logic would say that I should retire his old toys, either put them in storage or donate them. Which I would do, except that every once in a while he’ll rediscover an old tambourine and fall deeply in love with it all over again. How can I get rid of something he might want to play with down the road? No, I can’t. I think I’ll just save EVERYTHING, just in case. (Crap, am I becoming a hoarder?)

Discipline

Owen happens to be a really well behaved, happy kid (I’m sure it has nothing to do with my mothering, and everything to do with an innate, laid-back personality). So there haven’t been many situations to date where he needs disciplining. He is a good sleeper, a good sharer and a really good eater. But he’s also super curious and getting really good at exploring those curiosities. Like today when he figured out how to use the ottoman as a step and climb up to our media console. I turned around just as he grabbed our Baccarat vase (a wedding present). I’m fairly certain I should have yelled, but instead I snapped a picture. It seemed like either a good time to scold him or an amazing photo opp. I opted for the latter. I’m just not ready to be mean mommy. And yes, I know that’s going to bite me in the a$$ later. 

He’s officially a climber… nothing is safe. Well, that’s just fan-freakin-tastic.

Have your own advice/thoughts/insights to share? Or have your own doubts and questions for the Poopsie community? Email us at poopsiecollective@gmail.com or post a comment here!

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!

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.

The Nudity Clause

Written by ERICA

The other day one of my fave flicks, Notting Hill, was on TV. I mean what’s not to love about Hugh Grant’s floppy hair and charmingly dorky demeanor? Anyway, there’s a scene when Julia Roberts’ character is explaining how nudity clauses work in acting contracts. “You may show the dent at the top of the artist’s buttocks, but neither cheek…” Apparently, actors are extremely stringent when it comes to their bodies being exposed. 

And this got me thinking… there are such strict rules of conduct when it comes to adult nudity, on film and in real life. True, these rules are not the same in all cities and they are certainly not respected in all areas, like say, South Beach. Basic fundamentals of appropriate attire just don’t count down here; fat people walk around in booty shorts, old ladies wear crocheted tops and some people don’t bother to wear anything at all. And they think it’s OK because they’re near the beach, or because it’s hot out, or because they have zero sympathy for the people around them. 

Anyway, point being that while many people choose to (unfortunately) ignore the rules of appropriate attire in public places, the rules exist nonetheless. But the thing is, the rules really only apply to adults. It seems to me they don’t really kick in until puberty. There don’t seem to be any guidelines when it comes to how (or where) we dress (or undress) our kids. 

And I’m not necessarily saying there should be, at least up to a certain age. I mean, these are babies we’re talking about. But lately I’ve been having this funny feeling that Owen is actually a lot older than I choose to believe. Like, I still have this urge to tell people he’s 4 months old and then I see him next to a 4-month-old and I nearly piss myself because he looks and acts like such a mature mini-human, far from a baby. And there are times when I let that mature mini-human walk around naked after a diaper change or pre-bath, grabbing his balls and screaming “MOM!” at the top of his tiny lungs. Is that OK? Are baby balls kosher when you have company over or you’re in a public park? I used to think nudity was OK, because nothing is cuter than a wrinkly, naked, baby butt. But maybe Owen is approaching the age when I need to teach him to cover up.

Can you say blackmail? But honestly, what’s cuter than a teeny tiny tushy?

And the more I think about it the more I think we need a nudity clause for kids. Some sort of mutually agreed upon passage that dictates when it is OK, and when it is unsuitable for a child to be in the buck. Because honestly there are a lot of situations lately when I’m just not certain if I’m dancing right along the line of cuteness or if I’m jumping way over the edge into inappropriate. 

For example, Owen’s new favorite trick is showing his belly button… “Owen, where’s your belly button?” and then he lifts his shirt up almost over his head and starts poking at his ambiguous innie/outie nubbin. It’s precious. When does that stop being cute? I mean if you asked me to show you my belly button I’d kick you in the crotch and say grab your own belly button, sicko. And if someone asked a 5 year old to do the same thing it would also be creepy. So when is it no longer OK to ask your child to undress in public?

Or at a park or playground when Owen decides to drop a deuce at the top of the slide and needs a quickie diaper change. Do I need to take him to the car? Or back home? Is it OK to do the deed on a park bench? I still do, but something about it feels weird. Suddenly I am a little embarrassed for Owen when I realize I’m wiping his a$$ in front of complete strangers. 

Nudey nap-time in France. OK in my book because we were on private property and he was only 6 months old. But now I’m not so sure that would fly…

And another example when this dilemma popped into my mind: at a public pool. We were swimming, and when we were done Owen was in desperate need of a dry diaper and clothes. Should I take him inside into a private changing area? I looked around and saw kids a few years older than Owen dropped trou right there, out in the open. I was trying to give Owen a little privacy but everywhere I looked baby balls were blowing in the wind. And so I did it too, I mean I’m not going to be the only idiot who schleps her soaking wet kid inside to change. But at a certain point that has to be a no-no, right? When? Because I really don’t want to be that mom who’s son is still walking around naked at the age of 15. 

Currently the only real consequence of Owen’s nudity (at home in particular) is that once in a while he decides to just let it all go and take a major piss while walking around the apartment. Thankfully he’s always avoided the rug and only hit the hardwood floor. And at first I laugh (unless the pee is on me), then I diaper up, then I clean up. But eventually there will be bigger consequences. Like say, judgment from anyone who witnesses the flashing. Or when Owen one day asks that dreaded question of why mommy doesn’t have that same dangly thing between her legs… 

But when does that all happen? How many more months of naked baby butt freedom do we have left? And can someone please help me write a nudity clause for kiddos? 

The Only Thing to Fear is Fear Itself: Keeping Your Phobias a Secret

Written by ERICA

I’m not the type of person to scare easily. At least, not when faced with things that logic deems scary. Events, experiences, threats and challenges that some people might be terrified of just don’t seem to frighten me. I’m comfortable with heights (we live on the 26th floor). I’m not freaked out by germs. I was never, not even for second, nervous about childbirth.  I’m not scared of blood, needles, flying or trying new foods. I may have no appetite for cow tongue or foie gras, but thanks to AJ’s encouragement over the years I’d say I’m pretty open to trying most cuisines. I don’t sit up at night fearing natural disasters or worrying about terrorism, and if AJ didn’t remind me that I’m a mother with a primary responsibility to be there (as in, physically there, alive and well) for my son, I’d happily go skydiving 5 minutes ago. Those things just don’t scare me.

Know what scares me? BIRDS. And SHARKS. And, generally speaking, anything living under water other than mermaids and the Bubble Guppies.

I’ll start with birds… they are DISGUSTING. They are dirty, ugly, disease-carrying, creepy flying objects that can lurk above you unknowingly and swoop down at any given moment to peck your eyes out. They have claws. They travel in packs. They are TERRIFYING. My fear started when I watched Hitchcock’s The Birds at way too young an age. I will literally walk an entire block out of my way to avoid a mass of pigeons and if there is a black crow anywhere in my horizon I freak. 

Here we are, all smiles at a place called PARROT JUNGLE. As in, a place where you pay to be surrounded by parrots. Amazing for kids, for moms with bird phobias, not so much. But, as it goes, I sucked it up for my kid.

Next up, sharks. I mean, this one is obvious…they eat people. They can open their death-trap mouths and chomp your leg off as if it were a boneless BBQ chicken wing. And instead of attacking from above, they swim below you, watching you flap around in the water and when they get a whiff of something tasty (blood, pee, laughter) they leap out of the water and BAM. You’re dead. This phobia shares a similar path to my bird history: I saw Jaws too young and now I basically have a panic attack if I’m in a body of water where I can’t see below me (including a fresh water lake, which I am aware makes absolutely no sense). And as for the rest of the underwater wildlife, I was stung by a jellyfish as a kid, and fish are slimy. The end.

I guess it’s not entirely surprising that I have strange fears in my adult life; apparently as a kid I had weird irrational fears too, such as ceiling fans, sand and lizards. I’d walk into restaurants as a child ducking for dear life if a fan was on, and when I was maybe 1 year old my mom plopped me on a towel in the middle of nothing but sand because she knew I couldn’t/wouldn’t go anywhere. Note to self: not a good idea unless your child is in the shade or basted in zinc.

Anyway, point being, I’ve always had strange things that scared me. Not normal things like public speaking, the dark, heights, illness or death. I’m scared of weird, illogical things that aren’t actually a direct threat in any way, but nonetheless, they FREAK ME OUT.

To date I’ve learned to deal with my fears and basically just avoid them at all costs. Except for the random times when I cave to AJ’s pressure and face my fears. Like when we were snorkeling at the Great Barrier Reef and even though there were sharks and invisible poisonous jellyfish that could actually give you a heart attack with one sting, I jumped (or was dragged kicking and screaming) into the water. Though that’s not the norm; I typically just go about my business in a bird and shark-free world, and it’s all well and good, but now I’m faced with a dilemma. How the hell do I raise a child and not pass on my own fears to him?

I don’t want Owen to be scared of birds. And so far he doesn’t seem to be, as he demonstrated when he happily threw his leftover eggs into a pigeon’s mouth at brunch. My instinct was to scream and run away when said pigeon flapped his herpes-carrying wings against my leg. But clearly I couldn’t sprint away from my child while he was giggling in his high chair. So I cringed internally, wiped my leg off immediately, took a deep breath, died a little inside, and moved on.

And then there’s the ocean. We live on the beach, literally, steps from the Atlantic. I know, poor me. It’s gorgeous and amazing and also stressful. I want Owen to love the ocean. I just don’t want to have to take him IN the ocean. But whenever I find myself staring at the waves, I take a breath, squeeze his chubby thighs tight and walk in to my knees. MAYBE my thighs, but only when the water is crystal clear. 

Post-swimming session. All alive and with all of our limbs intact. Sharks - 0, Nahmads - 3.

I’m trying REALLY hard to make sure my outward behavior doesn’t show how terrified I am in front of Owen. Because I know he’s at an age where he mimics everything AJ and I do, and where his mommy (he’s a real momma’s boy right now) is his rock. When he gets a tummy ache, mommy makes it better. When he’s scared, mommy is there to snuggle him. When he falls on his face and gets a bloody nose/mouth/lip/head, mommy is there to wipe it off and make him smile. So how could that same super-mommy also start to cry when a seagull approaches a 10-foot radius of her beach towel?

And so, every day I try to act a little bit more mature about my own phobias, in hopes that my maturity now will pay off big-time as Owen grows up and develops his own set of fears. It’s not always easy to sit among a flock of pigeons all fighting for Owen’s discarded lunch, but since when is motherhood ever easy? 

In Sickness and in Health… Survival Guide for a Sick Family

Written by ERICA

A while ago I admitted that I am a terrible patient. Ever since I was a kid and being sick meant skipping school (hey Jell-O, ginger ale and re-runs, how do you do?), I’ve hated being under the weather. In fairness, I don’t think anyone likes feeling like crap. Unless you have Münchausen syndrome, in which case you’ve got a whole lot of problems that span well beyond diarrhea. Anyway, it was a big personality flaw…the only thing I hated more than being sick was having to take care of other sick people. It wasn’t something my husband supported, it wasn’t something I was proud of, and it was certainly something I was worried about as I prepared for motherhood. 

But here I am, with 15 months of motherhood and 3.5 years of marriage under my belt, and I finally get the meaning of the whole “in sickness and in health…” part of our vows.

It began last Saturday night. AJ and I went out for an amazing celebratory/goodbye dinner with our friends who were heading back to their primary home in Italy. And as we tend to do when we have any (or no) excuse, we indulged. A lot. And about 10 shared dishes and one glass of wine in to our meal I started to feel a rumble down below. 

Thank god we managed to get home and I somehow poured myself into my pajamas before the real drama kicked in. After about 12 hours, zero sleep, nonstop puking and rhea-wouldn’t-wanna-be-ya, it was clear something was not OK. I assumed food poisoning but turns out our family would not be so lucky. Because 5 hours later AJ felt the thunder down under. And about 12 hours after that, Owen hopped on board. 

Owen, in his 3rd round of pajamas on day 2 of our family’s bout with the stomach bug. 

If you think having the stomach bug is bad, then try having the stomach bug, an alert gag reflex, and two boys under one roof puking in your lap. OK fine, AJ didn’t puke on me, he puked in the toilet. But Owen, on the other hand, literally puked ON, MY, LAP. 3 times. You’d think I’d learn after rounds 1 and 2 to move aside and let him hurl on the (easily cleanable) tile floor. But no. He was screaming, I was clutching him tight, and there we stood, half naked, covered in vomit, on his white rug, with the third member of team “Oops I (Almost) Crapped My Pants” in fetal position in the other room.

The next 36 hours that followed were not pretty. In fact, they were the most depressing, disgusting, disturbing hours our family has faced in a while, maybe ever. But somehow, they also bonded us all together in a way that only gastroenteritis can. We were in it together. You jump I jump. And now that we’ve come out the other side in one piece, albeit a few pounds lighter, I have a few tips to share that helped me stay sane during our dark days…

1) Remember, it will pass. 

As bad as being sick can feel at any given moment, it cannot and often does not last. So take deep breaths, get fresh air when you can, and take it one minute at a time.

2) It is just stuff. 

Owen puked all over his nice ivory rug. And unluckily for me, his last pre-puke meal was peach yogurt and berries. So his once-white rug is now orange. But when I had to choose between de-staining and comforting my son, I left the rug alone and instead relaxed on towels in the living room. Rugs are replaceable; being there for your family is priceless.

Looking slightly out of it (but still so damn sweet) and on a protective mat, preparing for the next round of puke. 

3) It’s OK to slow down.

Moms do not know how to take it easy. It’s not in our DNA. The second we pop out a kid we are programmed to work on overdrive all the time. But when you and your family get sick, it’s OK, if not necessary, to take it easy. Allow yourself to wear PJs all day (hell you’re probably going to get puked on anyway), embrace the all-day Friends marathon on TBS, leave the bed un-made. You can get back on schedule tomorrow.

4) And finally, ask for help. 

I’ve never been good at this, but when things get really bad, a mom cannot do it all. You need help. We had our doorman buy us Gatorade, our cleaning lady came to de-germ our apartment, AJ called his uncle (who’s a doctor) for advice, and our parents offered up extra hands and company. 

The Baby Nurse Chronicles

Written by ERICA

These days it seems as if everyone I know is pregnant. In reality it’s only about a small handful of friends, but it’s enough that I feel like I’ve been talking about childbirth, strollers, breastfeeding and, of course, poop fairly often. And I love doing it, because I remember at month 5 of my pregnancy (when I was having my nervous breakdown over baby gear), just how helpful it is to have friends who have been there and who are willing to share the dirty/embarrassing/honest details of their experiences. 

Which brings me to my most recent conversation… the age-old debate of whether or not you should get a baby nurse.

Let me start by explaining exactly what a baby nurse is, because apparently, to my dismay, baby nurses are not a very common practice outside of New York City Jews. A baby nurse is a woman, who you hire to live with you and care for you and your baby in the days/weeks/sometimes months following childbirth. The nurse typically sleeps in the baby’s nursery, handles nighttime feedings (if you’re not breastfeeding), does the baby’s laundry, cleans up after the baby, helps teach the new parents how to care for their child, and just generally acts as a support figure for the new (insanely exhausted and overwhelmed) mom.

Pre-baby I knew that I wanted a nurse… mostly because while I can (but don’t choose to) function on little to no sleep, I knew AJ would be a mess if he didn’t get his 8 hours, and quite frankly I didn’t want either of us to be miserable in the first few precious weeks of Owen’s life. I felt that a baby nurse was a luxury and if we could afford to make it happen, then we’d be forever grateful. What I didn’t know was how ridiculous the baby nurse hiring process would be. Finding a good nurse in Manhattan is more competitive than signing your fetus up for private school. We got a ton of recommendations from friends, but everyone was booked. Apparently most nurses book up like 9 months before you give birth which means we were about 2 months behind schedule. So we kept searching and in the end we had a list of like 30 potential nurses. We spoke to a lot of lovely women and we hired a nurse named Josephine (who we called, per her request, Baby Mama Jo). She seemed amazing on the phone and was really sweet during our first interview. When we popped Owen out a month early, we called her from the hospital and she packed her bags. It wasn’t until the four of us (me, AJ, Owen, and Baby Mama Jo) cozied up back at home that I realized we were going to have our hands and our apartment full.

Let me preface this next bit by saying that I know everyone is different, and our experience with a baby nurse is by no means indicative of how your experience might be. Most people I know adored their nurse and would gladly have her move-in for life. Our situation was a bit different…

Mama Jo was SUPER high maintenance. The girl was ballsy. She always seemed cranky and to have a huge puss on her face. She sat playing Farmville on her computer all the time and she literally watched Lifetime Movie Network 24 hours a day. And, you know what, it’s fine if that’s how she chose to spend her time while Owen slept, that’s not my problem. But what was my problem was that she often made me feel bad about my mothering. Like, how dare I ask her to change Owen’s diaper when I was paying her $230 a day? (Did I mention that these nurses make bank?) Any time I had friends over she would give dirty looks when we all shuffled into the baby’s room (also her room) to gawk at him. 

She also asked us to order her take-out 3 meals a day, every damn day. Truthfully, I offered, so maybe it was my fault. But I’d also offer to get any groceries she wanted and all she asked for was Oreos and Ritz Crackers. And then every day, she’d demand that we order her food for each meal. Which is not the end of the world, but she refused to look up menus and order for herself. By the end of her stay I felt like I was taking care of two babies, not one.

So clearly Mama Jo and I did’t really mesh. And based on these stories you might think that having a baby nurse is a terrible decision, a waste of money, an unnecessary source of stress and anxiety. 

But here’s the thing: as difficult as she was, Mama Jo taught me everything I needed to know. I was clueless when we got home with Owen. I’ll never forget when AJ and I looked at each other as we left the hospital and thought, “Wait, so, like, that’s it? We take this kid home now? No one is going to give us a test or come home with us?” We felt like we were stealing someone else’s baby and were in no way fit to be parents.

Ready to go home from the hospital… and with absolutely NO IDEA what we are supposed to do.

Mama Jo eased those concerns. She taught me how to handle diaper changes, bath time, feedings, she helped me pump, taught me to swaddle etc. It’s not rocket science, and somehow as a new mom you just know what to do. But it’s also scary because you’re super tired and overwhelmed. In a lot of ways I was really grateful to have Mama Jo around. The best part was at nighttime. At 10pm, we’d give Owen to her, and we’d watch TV, or go out, or do ANYTHING WE WANTED. And then we could sleep through the night until about 8am when I’d go in to get Owen for his morning feeding. We went out to dinner A LOT that month.  

Owen’s first bath with Baby Mama Jo. And yes, I blurred out his penis. Let the boy have a little privacy!

So in short (or not short at all)… I had our nurse for 5 weeks, I couldn’t stand her most of the time, but she was super helpful in teaching me what to do and allowing me to sleep. Having a nurse was a massive luxury in many ways, a burden in others, and when I get knocked up and have baby # 2, I will probably not get one. Although, ask me again when I’m actually about to be a mother of two and I might be singing a different tune.

Recipe: Rigatoni with Eggplant & Pine Nut Crunch

Written by ERICA

Source: Bon Appétit | March 2011

Moms face approximately 8 gazillion dilemmas on a daily basis…how to get that pesky booger out of your squirmy child’s nose, how to help your dog lose 5 lbs while your toddler throws cheese into the dog’s mouth at every meal, how to get the Dora the Explorer theme song out of your head, how to clean poop off your child’s balls when he’s cold (there, I said it, they shrink, the poop gets stuck, it’s gross, and it’s really difficult)…anyway, we’ve got enough on our plates. So considering all the difficult tasks we deal with, preparing dinner shouldn’t be one of them.

These days I only cook meals that I can make a lot of, with the intention of a certain toddler reaping the benefits of my efforts the next day (and the day after that, and the day after that…). And if I can dirty 3 pots/pans/bowls or less, major bonus. Cue my favorite family-friendly pasta dish, originally from Bon Appétit, with some minor adjustments from this lazy mama. It’s not exactly a quick dish to prepare, but it’s one of those great “leave it in the oven and chase your kid around the house while it bakes” kind of recipes. And the end result is the gift that keeps on giving if you’re into leftovers, which let’s be honest, you are.

Ingredients:

Nonstick vegetable oil spray

1 unpeeled large eggplant, cut into 1/2-inch cubes

2 medium yellow bell peppers, cut into 1/2-inch squares

2 cups grape tomatoes, cut in half lengthwise

** I add other veggies for added nutritional benefits/flavor, such as: broccoli, onions, zucchini, yellow squash** 

Garlic

Olive oil

2/3 cup (firmly packed) fresh basil leaves

1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese, divided

1/4 cup pine nuts

1 pound rigatoni (**I prefer to use whole wheat penne, ideally Barilla Plus because it’s loaded with protein, omega 3s and fiber**)

1 pound whole-milk mozzarella cheese, cut into 1/2-inch cubes

1 jar of tomato sauce (whatever sauce is your favorite, or whatever you’ve got in the pantry; if you like a lot of sauce, go for 1 1/2 jars)

Preparation:

- Preheat oven to 425°F. 

- Spray large rimmed baking sheet with nonstick spray; add the cubed eggplant, peppers, grape tomatoes (and any other vegetables you choose to use).  

- Using garlic press, squeeze 1 garlic clove onto vegetables. Or sprinkle with garlic powder, or use pre-minced garlic. 

- Drizzle vegetables with olive oil (enough to coat); toss. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Roast vegetables until tender, stirring often, 35 to 45 minutes.

- For Crunch Topping: Combine 2/3 cup basil, 1/2 cup Parmesan, pine nuts, and 1 garlic clove in mini processor. Blend until crumbly. Season topping with salt.

- Cook pasta in pot of boiling, salted water until just tender but still firm to bite; drain & return to pot. 

- Toss with roasted vegetables, tomato sauce, and 1/2 cup parmesan. 

- Transfer to 13 x 9 x 2-inch baking dish. Sprinkle with mozzarella & pine nut topping.

- Bake pasta until heated through, 25 to 35 minutes. Let stand 10 minutes and serve.

Drool-worthy and shockingly easy. Plus: a few extra meals baked in thanks to a busy mom’s savior, leftovers!