The Poopsie Collective

Mommy Intern Wanted

written by STEPHANIE

Just last night, while biting his nailbeds and anxiously responding to emails, my husband said, “I don’t have time anymore for everything. I need to hire an intern.” Which got me thinking that I need to hire an intern too! So, I hit up Craigslist and posted my first ad for a Mommy Intern. Think anyone will bite? 

While I know it requires a little extra effort, I encourage you to read the listing in its entirety by clicking here.

I Need a Vacation from Vacation

Written by STEPHANIE 

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

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

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

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

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

Giveaway: Kidville Brentwood Grand Opening

Poopsie is pleased to be offering a giveaway, courtesy of Kidville Brentwood:
One lucky winner will be awarded one FREE semester at Kidville! 

To enter, simply leave a comment below telling us which Kidville class you are most excited to check-out. Please include your email address. Entries will be accepted through the end of day Wednesday, May 30th. Winner will be drawn at random and notified on Thursday, May 31th.

**If you aren’t comfortable publicly posting your email address, you can leave your comment below AND send us at email at poopsiecollective@gmail.com
*For a winner beyond the LA Area, a gift card good at any Kidville nationwide will be awarded
**Valued at approximately $500 

written by STEPHANIE

The second child often gets the shorter end of the stick when it comes to their parents’ attention. Being a second child myself, I can attest that while there are far fewer photos of me as a baby than my older brother, I turned out just fine. At least, I think I did… Feeling a bit guilty that her son wasn’t getting the same exposure to kiddie classes as her first-born, the owner of the brand-spanking-new-still-smells-of-fresh-paint Kidville Brentwood, Christy Desai, sought out classes that she and her 2 year old son could enjoy together. She saw that her new hometown of Los Angeles was missing a Kidville and hoped someone might open one up so she could reap the benefits. Then she realized that “someone” was going to have to be her.

An Angeleno by way of New York City, by way of Kansas City, Christy happened upon Kidville when living on New York’s Upper West Side. Her daughter first attended Kidville U (KVU), Kidville’s preschool alternative, followed by birthday parties, and other classes. Christy loved the warm atmosphere and admits, “Kidville really set the bar” for her expectations from a children’s educational center. Even though she had a great job at the time, working as a Talent Coordinator for The View, she fantasized about spending her day in the Kidville environment. 

With Kidville Brentwood owner, Christy Desai

Upon moving to LA and falling in love with the easy, warm lifestyle, she recognized that Los Angeles moms were savvy and appreciated quality children’s activities. Kidville and LA would make a perfect pair. With Christy’s family behind her 1,000%, her long hours have been well worth it. Even Christy’s 8 year old daughter pitched in handmaking posters to help spread the word! 

Kidville Brentwood opened its doors this week, offering free trial classes for the week of May 14th. The first of two Grand Opening Events was held this past weekend, and my family and I checked it out. One word: Adorable! It’s sort of the one-stop shopping of children’s centers, offering a gym, art studio, classes, shopping and a hair salon for the kiddos. 

If you missed last weekend’s festivities, not to worry…

Grand Opening events are this coming weekend. Enjoy a free concert, and use of the gym, art studio and salon. 

- Saturday, May 19 noon-3pm, Rockin’ Railroad Concert @ 1pm
- Sunday, May 20 noon-3pm, Rockin’ Railroad Concert @ 1pm

Kidville Brentwood
11740 San Vicente Blvd, Ste. 107
Los Angeles, CA 90049
for more information, visit: http://www.kidville.com/brentwoodla

And photos from my family’s day of play at Kidville Brentwood…

This Was My Life Before You

written by STEPHANIE

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

The cast of GIRLS

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

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

2007 — Williamsburg, Brooklyn

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

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

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

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

Recipe: The Easiest Tomato Sauce in the World

written by STEPHANIE

3 ingredients and 5 minutes of active prep (45 minutes cooking time) are all you need to make the easiest tomato sauce in the world, courtesy of Smitten Kitchen. It’s a staple in our household because it’s so freakin’ easy and it freezes well for those last minute weeknight dinners when my husband and I look at each other and ask, “What are we going to eat tonight? Uhhh….???” I’ve made this recipe at friends’ houses and for family, and everyone has since made it a staple in their household too. 

Ingredients

28oz can San Marzano tomatoes, whole peeled 

5 T butter

1 medium onion, peeled and halved

Put all ingredients into a pot, simmer on low heat for 45 minutes. Do not break apart the onion, as you will remove it at the end of the cooking time. Stir occasionally and crush the tomatoes as you cook. 

Meanwhile, boil water and cook pasta according to the package. Drain. Top with sauce and parmesan, if desired. Sprinkle a nice, flakey salt on top like Maldon, if desired. 

To store in freezer, put into freezer proof container like ziplock bag or canning jars. I recommend freezing in smaller portions appropriate for 4 servings or less. 

Toddler Solutions: Snack Trays for Mealtime

written by STEPHANIE

You might recall from last week’s post that I have a finicky eater in my household. After  Activities for Toddlers: Sorting my daughter became obsessed with having her snack from the mini-muffin tin. As I was getting her lunch ready yesterday, she held up the tin and pointed to the food I was prepping. I obliged, filling each of the twelve spots with something bite sized, colorful, healthy and tasty. And you know what? She ate and had fun.

Since, each of her meals have been from the tray. Not sure how this will translate when we go out for a meal, but I’ll cross that tantrum when we get to it. 

It’s challenging to keep meals fun and interesting, while also imparting good manners and expectations. I try my best to avoid the pitfalls of convenience when they aren’t in her best interests, but some days she only eats yogurt drops (and not the homemade version!) and I have to accept that. I’m not sure if the muffin tins are setting her me up for a nightmare in the future, but for the time being I will indulge her.

I’d love to know what you do to keep your kids engaged with their meals, while still serving up healthy food and habits. Post your comments below.  

Sibling Rivalry: Some Things Never Mature

written by STEPHANIE

At Marlowe’s 18 month check-up last week, the pediatrician liberated me. She said, “It’s not up to you to get the food in her anymore, it’s only your responsibility to give her healthy options.” With that statement, the weight of those unending hours spent nursing, pumping, pureeing, planning, coaxing, tricking and bargaining was lifted from my shoulders. My eyes teared. It was such a sweet relief, and it was almost too much. As the mother of a preterm child, low birth weight isn’t a burden forgotten as they plot along on the charts. It’s a guilt, panic and fear that linger over, and potentially sour, every bite. It’s a constant struggle, but not a struggle that others are necessarily sensitive to, namely my family. With the birth of my child, followed shortly afterward by the birth of my nephew, sibling rivalry has found new ammunition in unexpected places.

It started innocently enough. My brother would call after each doctor’s appointment to report his son’s progress, which included height and weight typically around the 95th percentile. “Wow, that’s amazing,” I would muster, trying hard to allow my words to do their due diligence while my tone would fall flat, unimpressed by the kid’s apparent gigantism. I mean, my brother and his wife are both smallish people. Why would their child be SO BIG? Gigantism, while no laughing matter in reality, is quite clearly the only explanation. Or, the only one I could find.

I’d get off the phone feeling frustrated, outraged and humiliated. “What’s soooooooo great about being in the 95th percentile anyway?!” I’d shout at my husband. “If he was 30 years old and in the 95th percentile, would they be bragging? NO! Because then he’d be over 7 feet tall and obese.” I’d then look at my daughter, whose weight hovers around the 5th percentile, thoughtfully and delicately plucking one pea at a time from her plate, spitting out every third in disgust, as if poisonous. “Oh, just eat it already,” I would bark.        

Next in line was my mom. Why she felt the need to recount every gratuitous detail of my nephew’s feedings is beyond me. She delighted in his vigor and enthusiasm for consumption. “He just sucked that bottle right down! So I gave him another and he nearly finished that one too, can you believe it?” Ugh.

I didn’t think my dad would get on the bandwagon too, because I’m clearly his favorite child and everything I do is perfection in his eyes. I thought my child would fall under the category of my perfect doings. But during a visit “home”, while Marlowe played with her milk rather than drinking it, he helpfully asked, “Isn’t there some kind of Ensure for babies? You know, to bulk ‘em up?” If my eyes could shoot daggers, I’d be an orphan.

I can’t help feeling like I’ve fallen into an episode of “The Twilight Zone”. What the heck has happened to these people? 95th percentile means BIGGER than 95% of people the same age and gender. It doesn’t mean the norm, and it doesn’t translate to an A+. And can’t they see how hard I’m trying just to keep my kid on the charts? Can’t they find a shred of sympathy without condescending me? 

Nope, because this “issue” is mine and mine alone. It’s not my family’s, or my brother’s, or my daughter’s, or my nephew’s. Just mine. Sibling rivalry was going to find me, whether it was here or somewhere else. We grow-up, sure, but some things never mature. I’m also quite certain that the two cousins will make their own rivalries and competitions in places we don’t expect. 

*Post Script: I admonish my daughter when she puts her feet on the table, throws food on the floor, smacks me in the face, pulls the dog’s hair, and pinches her cousin’s ear, among many other unruly behaviors. I removed a photo which was part of the original post, at the request of my family. It was a photo of my daughter pinching her cousin’s ear, while he screamed. At the time the photo was taken, everyone present laughed and thought it was unfortunate but funny. This included, my family. In the caption I wrote that the look on my daughter’s face asked, “‘Like this, Mommy’, to which I responded, ‘Perfect, my sweet girl.’” It didn’t occur to me at the time that a reader might take the caption literally because it was overtly facetious. I am sorry to those who were offended by it.

The Best Laid Plans of Moms and Tots Often Go Astray

written by STEPHANIE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, I took a photo. 

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

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

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

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

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

2:30pm: Back in car.

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

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

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

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

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

Recipe: Thai Chicken Curry

written by STEPHANIE

I love asking friends for their weekly dinner go-to’s. It’s the best way to get new ideas for dinner solutions that are simple and yummy. This recipe came from my friend, Jacqui, and it has become a weekly staple. It makes a large batch with lots of leftovers, which I portion out for lunches and save in the freezer. Plus, it’s fool-proof! 

Ingredients:

- 1 red onion

- 1-2 cloves crushed garlic

- 2-3 bell peppers, any colors

- 2-3 zucchini diced or sliced approx 3/4 inch thick

- optional veggies: broccoli, potatoes, peas in the shoot, fresh green beans

- pinch of Cayenne pepper

- salt to taste

- optional spices to use as you like: curry, coriander, cumin, turmeric, paprika

- 2 jars of Trader Joe’s Thai Red Curry Sauce (I have also used Thai Green Curry Sauce, which was quite good but not as delicious as the red)

- 1 can coconut milk (TJ’s makes a low-fat version)

- 1 1/2 cups water

- Approx 1lb diced chicken breast

- rice or quinoa

Sautee the onions in olive oil over medium heat for a few minutes. Add garlic and sautee together a few minutes more. Do not brown. Add the veggies and spices, then stir well and sautee together until they begin to soften, about 5 minutes. Add the curry sauce and 1 1/2 cups of water, mix well. Add chicken and coconut milk (you can use 3/4 of the can or more, as you like). Simmer uncovered for about 10 minutes, or until the chicken is cooked through.

Serve over rice or quinoa, and enjoy!

Passover and The Four Sons: Which Would You Want?

written by STEPHANIE

For those of you who aren’t down with the Jew Crew, Passover started this weekend. I’m hardly devout, so forgive the vague explanation that follows… During Passover, there is a ceremonial dinner called a Seder. The order of the courses, the foods that are eaten, and the prayers and discussions between each course, follow a specific and sacred order, which by definition makes the event a Seder, Seder meaning “order”. Growing up, our Seders were boring, and long, and we were always hungry for hours waiting for the actual eating part of the meal to begin. I hated Passover. As an adult, however, I have had the opportunity to spend a few Seders with friends and I have to say, they have been a totally different experience than the Seders of my childhood. They are interesting and engaging and reflective and fun.

During the Seder, there is a story told of The Four Sons: one who is wicked, one who is wise, one who is simple, and one who does not know how to ask a question. The four sons ponder together the Exodus from Egypt. And we’re supposed to learn something from their pondering, which I’m sure (not to sound cynical or sacrilegious) is important. At Saturday’s Seder, our host posed this question back to all of us after the story of The Four Sons: What personality trait did you most wish for your child? 

Hmmm… good one, Mr. Host. 

There was a looooooong list of traits I wished upon my daughter, and I wished for them quite carefully. I wished that she would be curious and passionate, and have the confidence to follow her curiosities and passions. I wished that she would be kind, generous in spirit, and intelligent. My list goes on…

I loved being asked this question because it isn’t one we talk about much as parents. We should love our children and wish for them to be healthy, which of course we do. But aren’t there traits we all feel are important in life for success and happiness? And don’t we quietly hope our children will have them? And if you boiled that list down to just one, what would it be? What trait did you hope for your child above all other traits? 

Above all else, I hoped my daughter would be confident. I wanted her to know that she was loved, to never doubt it, to know deep within her being that she was capable of anything, and that this life was hers to live. From this confidence, I believed, would come her ability to explore the world, find her path, and follow it to her happiness. Part of this confidence will come from us, her parents. We will be the ones to build her a foundation of love. We will be the ones to ensure that her self value is unshakable. We will be the ones to gently push her forward. We will be the ones to listen so she knows her voice has merit. But there is a huge part of one’s confidence that is innate.

Already at the ripe old age of 18 months she is bossy, which is a manifestation of confidence. She is friendly, also a manifestation of confidence. She is clear and forthright, which are manifestations of confidence. As with most personality traits, if taken too far, they can be negative. I recognize that in wishing for a confident child I may also have wished for a brat, a boss, and a tiny tyrant. Some days, we walk a fine line. Those are the days that I am reminded of the role we continually to play in her development. Those days are the opportunities to mold this trait toward wonderful and away from terrible. Those are the days when I feel like a parent.

Now, as a mom, holidays mean something new. This Passover I saw that I can make my daughter’s experience with religion and tradition engaging. She might someday feel hungry and bored waiting to eat brisket, but she might also feel excited to tell everyone at the table her opinion of the story of The Four Sons. 

Homemade Frozen Yogurt Drops

written by STEPHANIE

My daughter LOVES yogurt drops. We call it: The Baby Crack. Pirate’s Booty also gets called The Baby Crack. As it turns out, Pirate’s Booty is also The Mom & Dad Crack. It’s so good! Anyway, out at breakfast one morning I spread some yogurt drops on the table to keep Marlowe quiet while we waited for our food, when the waitress passed and told me that she had seen tutorials for making yogurt drops on Pinterest. Since I love any excuse to have massive amounts of time sucked from my life, I logged onto Pinterest to investigate. A few hours later when I remember why I’d logged on in the first place, I typed in ‘yogurt drops’ and voila! There is was, simple as simple could be. So I gave it a try and you should too. SO easy and SO delicious and SO cheap!

Instructions:

- yogurt (any flavor)

- cookie sheet lined with parchment paper

- ziplock bag

- scissors

Scoop yogurt into ziplock bag and shake the yogurt down into one corner of the bag. With a scissor, cut a VERY small corner off the bag. Using the ziplock bag like a pastry bag, drop small dollops of the yogurt onto the cookie sheet. Continue in rows until you have enough. Pop them in the freezer for around 1 hour. Eat and enjoy!

Dinner Solutions: Easy Quiche Recipe

written by STEPHANIE

Bacon, mushroom and leek quiche.

Quiche has been in my repertoire for a long time. Beginning way back when I was a vegetarian, I made my first quiche for Thanksgiving as my turkey-substitute entree. Ever since, it has been a staple because it is simple, requires few ingredients, is ready to eat in under 45 minutes (start to finish), and makes EXCELLENT leftovers. This past weekend, I spruced up my tried-and-true recipe with one from my mom, and I have to say it was a HUGE hit! It will definitely be my new go-to quiche recipe.

Ingredients:

9 inch unbaked pie shell (I like the frozen ones found typically in the dessert aisle/freezer section)

3 eggs

1 1/2 cups cream

1/2 cup grated Gruyere cheese

1 T unsalted butter, melted but not hot

pinch white pepper

pinch nutmeg

salt to taste

filling: examples are sautéed mushrooms and leeks (drain liquid), sautéed asparagus cut into small pieces with shallots and butter, cooked spinach with dill, crumbled sweet Italian sausage with sun dried tomatoes, bacon, etc. 

Preheat oven to 375 degrees Farh. Beat together eggs and cream. Add all remaining ingredients (except filling) and stir until well combined. Pour filling into pie shell. Pour egg mixture over filling into pie shell. Bake until set, approximately 30 minutes. Let stand for 10 minutes or until egg mixture is firm. Serve.

*Double the recipe and add in another pie shell for easy meals for the week!

Simplify Series: Yoga Lessons are Life Lessons

written by STEPHANIE

My biggest challenge these days is finding balance. I obsess over not having enough time to do all the things I need and want to, lacking space in my life for myself, not feeling in-control of my time and my space as I once was, and I obsess most over my ever-changing roles as a woman, mother, wife, daughter, sister and friend. There never seems to be enough to go around, yet I liberally pile more onto my plate all the while. It’s quite the pickle I create for myself! After nursing a knee injury throughout the winter, I returned to my yoga practice last week and found that some of the balance I was seeking was waiting for me right there on my mat. 

Early in our Poopsie adventure, Brooke wrote a post titled ‘Why I Run’ and asked us what we do to stay sane. The question has stuck with me all these many months, because, at the time I didn’t have an answer. I wasn’t sane. I was still breastfeeding and there was a direct correlation between the quantity of breast milk feedings stored in the freezer and my mental stability. Looking back now, there were some dark days. But I am (mostly) sane now and I have yoga to thank for it. 

Yoga asks us to dedicate our practice. Sometimes I dedicate my practice to someone in my life who needs my extra energy. Sometimes I dedicate my practice to myself (of course!) and send my energy to my healing knee, achey back, foggy head, etc. This simple act of dedicating my practice, naming my intention, consciously creating and sending energy out into the world, puts my daily struggles into a different perspective. It doesn’t trivialize them, but it does put them into a larger context making them more manageable and less overwhelming. 

Yoga is infinite. No matter how many times I have done Downward Dog, there is still more for me to learn and explore. Somedays, a simple pose is the toughest. Somedays, a pose I have struggled with for months flows easily. How true this is in all aspects of life. Somedays, making coffee is taxing, while other days ticking off all the items on my to-do list is effortless. In yoga, there is no nailing a pose because there is always deeper. In life, we are always evolving and changing too. We are always becoming.

Yep, that’s me! Yeah, right. 

Yoga is present. Yoga doesn’t ask that we do poses perfectly, only that we do and continue doing. As a mother, I have had to let go of perfection, live in the moment, and accept things as they are at times. So long as I can embrace moments big and small with my daughter, it doesn’t matter that we are eating McDonald’s or watching our second episode of Sesame Street that day. Letting go of my expectations, whether it’s what I intended to accomplish today or how many words my daughter should be saying by now, living in the moment releases us from the judgement of the past and anxiety over the future.

Yoga asks us to breathe. As we contort ourselves into poses we wouldn’t have thought possible, then accept the challenge to go further in the pose, we are reminded to breathe and continue breathing. In the rest of life, if I can remember to find my breath in the moments when I feel like I might break, the tense spots ease, heavy spots lighten and moments become livable again.  

Yoga is personal. Looking around the room and comparing my practice to another’s is self-defeating. We don’t know what is going on inside another’s head and body. They may appear to be effortlessly in handstand, but we have no idea how they are struggling in that moment, nor do we know the many months or years of struggles that allowed them to get into the pose. I look around at other mothers and think they have it all figured out. They balance work, motherhood, friendships and family so effortlessly, and they still manage to read The New York Times! But, how can I possibly know what each woman overcomes to achieve all that she does? And why should I allow someone else’s accomplishments to diminish my own? We never really know what someone else is going through, so rather than projecting and comparing, I can turn my gaze inward instead and feel strong in myself. 

I’ve included these lessons in the Simplify Series because yoga gives my life a calm and clarity I am lost without. Making my practice a priority each week is a challenge in itself, but the payoff is immeasurable. It keeps me sane, grounded and feeling wonderful. And now, to quote Brooke, what do you do to stay sane?   

Positive Birth: In Defense of Natural Childbirth

written by STEPHANIE

*This has been a really difficult post for me to write. I’ve been working on it for a long time. I don’t tell the story of my daughter’s birth often, and when I do I keep it brief. Sometimes it’s because people’s reactions make me angry. They respond as if I’m crazy or superhuman for having a totally drug-free delivery. Sometimes it’s because I feel guilty that my experience was wonderful, when I know so many others’ weren’t. But mostly, it’s because I worry other women will find me smug and proud. That’s the toughest one to bare, because I am proud: I worked f*cking hard for a natural childbirth, and I’m proud of what I accomplished. But I don’t think I’m better than those who didn’t do it naturally.

I’m sharing my story here because there aren’t enough positive birth stories told in current American birthing culture. It breaks my heart when the horror stories are sensationalized and bragged about like medals of honor. I find nothing honorable in scaring the sh*t out of a mother-to-be.

I want every woman to trust that childbirth is natural. It is a normal, healthy function of a woman’s body. It isn’t an illness. It isn’t a disaster waiting to happen. It isn’t pathological. Trust yourself. Trust your body. Trust your baby. And get ready to fight for the birth you want.

********************************************************************

“You sneezed and a baby came out!” This is how my best friend describes my daughter’s birth. I understand why she thinks that it was on par with a mild allergic reaction. All she knows, and all she inquired about for that matter, were the main events:

My water broke early and without warning.

Labor lasted 7 hours.

I pushed three times, the baby came out.

There was no tearing, and no stitches needed.

It was awesome.

I don’t dismiss that a genetic predisposition toward “good” labor was a factor in my delivery. My mother had two quick, uncomplicated, all-natural deliveries. It was the 1970’s though, and that’s just what they did, along with cocaine and mustaches. She didn’t actively choose the natural route. It just happened. Neither growing up, nor during my pregnancy, did she ever try to persuade me toward natural birth. She never seemed to have an opinion on the subject. She had just done what she’d done. Period. My point is that I wasn’t raised as a hippie, or militant naturalist. I am not an all-natural kind of girl either. While I practice yoga, drive a Prius and recycle, I practically live on caffeine, prefer taking Vicodin to Advil for menstrual cramps, and have no problemo with cosmetic surgeries. 

But with my mom’s experiences in my mind, it never occurred to me that childbirth was scary, terrible, painful, awful, or any other related adjective. From the get-go, it struck me as being the most natural thing in the world, because, after all, it is the most natural thing in the world. Humans are here, and childbirth is how we stay here. But as my girlfriends began having babies, one after another, it seemed like everyone I knew was finding themselves one split second from tragedy, winding up with a cesarean section. Wanting to understand why c-sections were so rampant, I became sort of fixated on them. And so my obsessive research on how to avoid one began. 

I’m a little extreme, a little dramatic. After reading that strong thighs and hips were helpful during delivery, I started doing yoga and pilates every other day. After reading that the baby naturally falls into a good birthing position from long walks and hiking, I took up hiking and walked several miles, several times a week. After reading that gluten and sugar cause inflammation in the body, I decided to keep a special gluten-free and sugar-free diet, hoping my birth canal would remain un-inflammed. I took classes on self-hypnosis for childbirth, meditated every day, hired a doula, and chose a midwife over an obstetrician. I spent my entire pregnancy preparing for the delivery. In my case, it was 35 weeks of hard core, unrelenting, passionate training. 

Now that I’ve told you my baby was born at just 35 weeks, we come to an interesting place, and a big reason that I don’t often share my full story: Many women dismiss my entire experience because I didn’t carry full term. My baby was small, so I can’t know what it’s really like. 

I field that response too often. We’re so used to demonizing birth in our culture that some mothers try to find error in my hard work, preparation and the ultimate achievement of my goal. They’re looking for the reason that my experience was atypical and not to be trusted. I set out to have a natural childbirth. I worked my ass off for it. I struggled through a labor and delivery, just like everyone else. But when the birth stories come out and mine is shared, some prefer to discredit it. Instead, they want to one-up each other with the gory details of their 36 hour back labors, botched epidurals, and clotting issues. Why would we prefer to win the award for The Worst Labor & Delivery Ever instead of The Best? In my opinion, a terrible childbirth doesn’t make a more worthy mother.   

And my story easily could have gone another way. When I got to the hospital, the OB Resident told us that my water broke early because I probably had an infection. It’d be best to do a c-section. She told me the baby was probably in distress. It’d be best to do a c-section. She told me the baby was probably too small and at risk. It’d be best to do a c-section. While most people in my state of extreme vulnerability would have heard “do a c-section”, all I heard was “probably”. If any of those risks were real, rather than hypothetical, the OB Resident wouldn’t be discussing it with me. The OB him/herself would be taking me in for the c-section. No discussion. But if I had said, “Ok, let’s do a c-section,” off I’d have gone… 

Fear doesn’t serve us well though, and so I didn’t sit back fearing childbirth. Instead, I prepared for it for my entire pregnancy. I didn’t trust that my doctor and/or medication would do the heavy lifting for me in the final stretch. Instead, I trusted my body’s capability and my baby’s intuition. I stared it all down, head on, excited to experience what my body was capable of. Yes, excited. And I wasn’t disappointed. It was awesome! 

It is my belief that a woman’s mind is made for limitless purposes. A woman’s body, on the other hand, is made for just this one. Once your healthy baby is in your arms the final stretch of the journey becomes less important. But mine was a fantastic, inspiring, beautiful journey, start to finish, and I did it the way nature intended. The pregnancy and delivery were my first tests as a mother. I continue to fight for what I feel is right for my family everyday. To all the mothers reading this, WE ARE WARRIORS.  

For more information on the Nurse Midwife Group at UCLA, click here. 

For more information on finding a doula in your area, click here. 

For more information on hypnosis for childbirth, click here.

For more information on the subject of modern American birthing culture, watch The Business of Being Born. 

Is Playtime an Early Lesson on Supply and Demand?

written by STEPHANIE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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