tiny bubbles

I have spent a fair amount of time thinking about the benefits of time travel; nothing unhealthy, I'm not drafting plans to build my own machine in some secret bunker underneath my apartment but I won't lie, it's crossed my mind.  Mostly when I'm reminded that I fractured my cheekbone falling out of a hot tub or when I think about all of the years I spent thinking that pickles were a vegetable all their own and grew underground, similar to a potato. 

Other times I'd like to relive lifes more precious, not so embarrassing, moments like when St. Nick brought Rinn his first bottle of bubble bath and I got this face. I hope he's this excited when someday he gets underwear in his stocking, just like his dad. 

tis the season

As a kid, Christmas was the most excellent of holidays; there were presents and cookies and days off of school and of course, the late night holiday parties thrown by your parents which resulted in family trips to the ER the following morning because dad tore his ACL dancing his wildly drunk ass off in the basement. Yeah, excellent…

As an adult, Christmas is exhausting.  I’m not sure I realized as a child that someone has to actually bake those cookies and buy those presents. And days off?  Let’s be serious, the last time I had a real day off was before Rinn learned that he can walk the entire length of the apartment simply by staying in close proximity to and gripping the walls, resembling a tiny Spiderman or someone who has just thrown themselves at a Velcro wall.     

Bah humbug.

Good, now that I got that out of my system I can move forward with wishing all of you the happiest of holidays and best wishes in the New Year. My resolutions include the obvious love more and eat less but more importantly, I’m vowing to pull myself out of this creative funk and blog more frequently.   If you’re looking for me, I can probably be found sitting dangerously close to a light box trying to ward off the winter blues.  

Our holiday card, courtesy of the always wonderful Now It's Personal Photography. 

on the move

A week ago I had a baby who was relatively stationary; with his only source of transportation being a painfully slow rolling maneuver. This had its benefits, since it made it possible for me to leave him unattended for small periods of time; allowing me to do things like change a load of laundry, microwave a Lean Cuisine or whip up a batch of meth in my bath tub.

On the same note, I was incredibly eager for him to start crawling. You see, I was kind of over having to carry him all over the place; carting a baby around on your hip is similar to toting around a 25 pound sack of potatoes, a sack of potatoes that wiggles and pulls your hair. I thought if he would just learn to crawl he could then follow me from room to room; comparable to having a lost puppy, without that mess involving him chewing on my shoes.

I grossly miscalculated. See: the power of free will.

He’s not so much interested in being my shadow as he is exploring every square inch of our apartment and making it obvious that I need to do a substantially better job at vacuuming.  Rinn tries on a daily basis to eat my slippers while they're still on my feet, why wouldn't he be interested in putting in his mouth the Pizzeria Combo that's been taking refuge under our couch since we moved in over two months ago?

until college

I make an effort to change Rinn’s diaper in the middle of the night. That's a lie. I make an effort to tell my husband to change Rinn’s diaper in the middle of the night.  He works second shift, so really it’s the only practical option.  I don’t do this because I suffer from that pesky mom guilt, I do this because of normal person guilt, the kind that comes with allowing someone to snooze away while soaking in their own piss.    

On a New Years Eve a number of years ago, I might have drank my own weight in moonshine and I might have maybe wet the bed. Not my proudest moment, but now I'm aware that it's not great waking up damp and stinking of urine; so I try not to let him experience that, at least not until college.

The wildest part, he will sleep straight through someone reaching into his crib and disrobing him in the middle of the night but he's up and howling if he hear's my toe clicking in or around his room.  Explanations welcome. 

the care bear prophecy

At some point in my early years I was given a handmade Care Bear, the Bedtime Bear to be specific.  In my opinion, the aunt that bestowed this gift upon me might have also greatly impacted my passion for naps.  I like them lengthy, and I like them often. I sometimes think that if she had given me the Love-A-Lot Bear I wouldn’t be such a judgmental bitch but where is the fun in that. 

Through what I can only describe as some sort of miraculous phenomenon, I still have this bear.  If hoarders are at one end of the spectrum, then I’m on the polar opposite; everything in my possession gets thrown out, given away or auctioned off on eBay.  This happens mostly because I hate packing things and then subsequently moving them.  I’m on my fourth mattress in six years because I always just leave them behind. Hey, grab that bag of stuffed animals and those 38 pairs of shoes I’ve worn all of one time but go ahead and leave the bed? 

Taking this small memento of my past and making it part of my future was just too great an opportunity to pass up.  Also, how freaking cute are these pictures?

Happiest of Halloweens to you!

the great mitten caper

Like most people, I have a travel coffee mug.  Unlike most people, mine has been repurposed as a travel booze cup.  Sure I’ve put coffee in it on occasion but mostly it’s used to bring mixers into unsuspecting places like: homecoming football games, the movie theatre and on celebratory occasions, work.  In a past life I would just use water bottles but that came to an abrupt halt when I mistook a spiked bottle for run-of-the-mill H2O and guzzled vodka water on my way into work one morning.  Nothing quite like getting the dry heaves for twenty minutes to convince you to spend a few extra bucks on a more distinguishable cup.  

Not surprisingly, my cup and I have had very few outings together since my son has come into the picture.  Mostly because I no longer go anywhere and a little because people would probably frown upon me caring for my child in a constant state of intoxication.  People can be so weird.

So when it came time to take Rinn to the pumpkin farm, the travel mug stayed behind.  And it’s a good thing too because carting around pumpkins after consuming a hot tottie can be a little challenging; speaking from experience of course. Not to mention that I ended up having to fight off a goat who snatched Rinn’s brand new mitten thru the fence and tried to eat it.  I am not above kicking some farm animal ass if they come between me and clothes but should I have been forced to choose between holding onto my cup or chasing down that mitten, I can promise you that I would’ve been ordering a new pair when we got home all the while secretly hoping that goat choked on the stolen goods and got what he deserved.

Weeks later and with this memory freshly emblazoned on my brain but knowing that the chances of us encountering a thieving beast while trick or treating were slim to none; I filled my cup with wine for the occasion, to the brim. And to hell with it, if we do stumble across the path some bat shit crazy wombat whose sole purpose in life is to eat my hat, well he can have it.  Hats aren’t a good look on me anyway. 

Rinn's first trip to the pumpkin farm and my husband pretending he enjoys eating my hair.

Pumpkin proud.

The great mitten caper.

Robbery in progress.

no, you stfu

The news is depressing. But I refuse to live a world and not have a clue as to what’s going on outside my front door, that’s just irresponsible. So I watch a watered down version, read: Good Morning America. I mostly watch it for the “deals and steals” segment and Josh Elliot and his adorable grin but occasionally I learn things.  Like the fact that Julie Bowen has an uncomfortable crush on Stephen Colbert, she’s aware he’s a persona, yes? 

Anyway, GMA recently informed me of the riotously funny and extremely controversial blog: STFU,Parents.  For those of you who aren’t fluent in leetspeak, STFU loosely translates to “shut the fuck up,” ok so it literally translates to shut the fuck up but that’s no matter.  STFU, Parents is an internet platform for an annoyed 30-something year old by the name of Blair Koenig, to ridicule parents who overshare in the realm of social media (aptly called “over-sharenting.”)  From what I gather, blog readers can submit examples of oversharenting they find via their newsfeed (i.e. status updates about bowel movements, moms who refer to their babies butthole as a “chocolate starfish,” minute-by-minute labor details, etc.) and Blair than provides hilarious commentary.  I’m guessing she might have something to say about the little write-up detailing my first encounter with a baby boner.

The flack that this blog has caught is extraordinary; headlines read “Snarky Blogger Targets Proud Parents” and “Meet the (childless) woman behind vicious baby blog that has the mommy set up in arms” and up in arms is right, some mommies are trying to pursue legal action.  Unfortunately for them, they are idiots.  Ms. Koenig did not break into their home to steal top-secret photos of your children or force you at gunpoint to post a status about your pregnancy pains.  You elected to publish your word vomit in a social network, deal with it.  As a self-proclaimed mommy-blogger I think people expect me to defend mothers the world over against such cruelty but quite simply, I don’t give a shit. 

While I’ve never uploaded pictures of my son’s excrement, and my tweets are usually about how much I hate my hair, I’m still guilty of over-sharenting. See: my blog, duh.  I’m sure there a few people out there that would rather remove their own eyeballs with a melon baller than see another picture of my baby but that’s a two-way street asshole. Do you really think I am interested in the fact that you plucked your nose hairs, wrapped your nephew’s birthday gift and are now updating your Facebook status from the toilet? Absolutely not. And the gym check-ins, come on. You guys do realize that you can run on a treadmill and not advertise it to the world, yes?

My conclusion: your updates, photos, check-ins, tweets, etc. are always being judged and ridiculed, mine included (probably more than others) whether it’s from the privacy of someone’s home as they roll their eyes at your burning narcissism or in a very public and humiliating way.  Ms. Koenig chose the latter and to her I say, “ku-fucking-dos.”

we all scream

I’m not a fan of Rachel Bilson, so I was totally fine with her becoming completely irrelevant after The O.C. wrapped its final season.  Then she became Karl Lagerfeld’s pet project and the face of Magnum Ice Cream and suddenly she has her own show on The C.W.  Why can’t I be Lagerfield’s pet; we both consider diet Coke to be a sort of life blood and I admire him for making clean-sheet-day every day. Bilson, that whore.

I vowed to stop eating those wonderful ice cream treats in protest, but seriously, have you ever had the white chocolate ones? They make me weak in the knees.  So Rinn and I watch Hart of Dixie only to scoff at Bilson while indulging in the very thing that probably initiated her comeback. Meh, as long as I have my dessert. 

of mice and young men

I try to make exercise a part of my daily regimen. Sometimes those attempts are laughable at best; I’m referring to the fact that I consider“rigorous vacuuming” to be physical activity and on off days I prance around in front of my television to the Dancing With the Stars: Latin Cardio Dance DVD. What a joke. I only bought it because Maksim Chmerkovskiy is a fine piece and I thought if I concentrated hard enough it would be like he were giving me one-on-one lessons in my living room but he wears this creepy black tank top the whole time and it’s extremely off putting.

Most days I knock out a few push-ups and either dance around my living room in a recital fashion till I’m on the verge of collapse or I hit the bike path for a run. Ok so it’s a jog. Fine, you got me, it’s a brisk walk with short intermittent bursts of running which I almost always regret.  The goal is to sweat enough that when I get home I can eat a pot pie and not feel guilty afterwards.

On my most recent run/jog/brisk walk adventure I was making my way down the bike path when I spotted what appeared to be a 6-year-old boy alone on a bicycle without training wheels nailing some pretty solid figure-eight maneuvers.  Initially I was impressed; then slightly concerned because he’s all by himself on a trail which has been rumored to have men exposing themselves and attempted sexual assaults. As I get closer I start mentally rehearsing some lines that inquire about the whereabouts of his parents but don’t make me out to be the hypothetical predator that I’m trying to protect him from.  And as I get closer I see him jump off his bike and hover uncomfortably close to the pavement.  I’m now close enough to see what it is that he’s so intent on protecting from view.

Dead mice.

Two of them.

A 6-year-old alone on the bike path is a little disconcerting but a 6-year-old on the bike path playing with dead mice registers at about a 9 on the what-the-f@ck scale. So what do I do in response; break into one of those short bursts of running I described earlier.  I say nothing.  I don’t look back. My flight instinct kicked in and I wanted to put as much distance between myself and the rodent carcasses as possible.  Immediately I was replaying, in my head, the episode of Dr. Oz featuring the young girl who contracted bubonic plague from a half-eaten, decayed squirrel and nearly died. There was that and the fact that I’m almost positive I read somewhere that children who kill and maim animals will allegedly evolve into serial killers. In my mind I was about to either contract the black death or become the target of a future Ed Gein and my nipples would one day be a mere two on a belt of many.  I am nothing if not dramatic.

I would feel guilty roughly a half mile down the road; I mean, I have no proof that this boy actually killed those mice and it’s more likely that he just happened upon them when performing his stellar bike tricks and deemed it necessary to give them a proper burial. Enjoying the company of animal corpses is probably one of those things that I can look forward to when Rinn is that age; here I thought I would avoid this when we rehomed our cats.  I had just eased my panic when I see him again! This time, standing in what I have to assume is his driveway staring intently with his little eyes as I ran past. “IMPOSSIBLE, he should’ve been behind me!” “Did he just draw his finger across his throat?” 

Definitely serial killer. So much for walking the bike path,guess I’ll be taking a few more lessons from Maksim this week. 

Tweets: @RebeccaRinn

Instagrams: hotmessmommy

sick day

I woke up this morning a mouth breather.  Apparently “mouth breather” is now used as an insult in verbal altercations, similar to calling someone a moron; so I should clarify that I did not in fact wake up a moron but rather, I woke up seriously congested. But really? Dude, you’re such a mouth breather. Who comes up with this stuff? Damn you kids.

First thing I do upon realizing that I’m sick is decide whether I’m still capable of shopping since my mom and I had a date to peruse Macy’s for winter coats.  I stretched my old coats to their limits by forcing the zipper the entire time I was pregnant and now my parka has a permanent stomach bubble and will have to be retired.  The last time that I felt this close to my demise I had just been diagnosed with bronchitis but headed to the mall anyway convinced that retail therapy was the most logical remedy.  Logical because I was high on codeine cough syrup; not logical because I would buy no less than 12 of the same Banana Republic tank top and later, be hospitalized with pneumonia.  With that in mind, I called my mom to cancel.

Her response: “Oh, that’s too bad. You and Rinn have a pajama day and get some rest.”

I breathed a sigh of relief (through my mouth,) folded to my mothers’ words and settled in for a sick day; which I then realized is frighteningly similar to every other day. Now, nothing about being a stay-at-home mom is glamorous. Most days I shower and do my hair just to put on my fourth pair of yoga pants in a week and spend the day rolling around on the floor prompting my son to crawl. This is all a far fetch from the days when I would run around town in a shirt I had mistaken for a dress and thigh highs; attending magazine launch parties and judging cocktail competitions.  I knew these things would be referred to as “a past life” when I got pregnant but I wasn’t aware that the only difference between an average day and a sick day would be some Sudafed and awkwardly huffing air through my mouth. 

Has my life really become one perpetual sick day? Maybe tomorrow I'll try putting on real pants. 

thank you congress

Like most ex-boyfriends would, mine will tell you I’m "crazy." One watched me jump out of a moving vehicle because he wouldn’t share his cheeseburger. I lit another’s shoes on fire when he got too drunk to walk me home after a night of bartending.  And then there was the boyfriend who watched me simultaneously break both of my feet when I jumped off a two-story balcony after a night of heavy drinking thinking I was going to cannonball into a pool.  I missed the pool.

As you can see, this is totally out of the “my girl be trippin’” realm. 

I’m going to take this moment to issue an open apology to all of them.  You see, this was before I was properly diagnosed with bipolar disorder II and subsequently sought treatment.  Apparently there are variations of this mental illness, of which, I have the one that doesn’t reach full psychotic or manic episodes.  I have a feeling that the ex whom I tried to run down with my car would beg to differ on that, but I’m going to trust the professionals.  

While I tend to make light of the impossible situations I find myself in, mental illness is absolutely no joke.  My promiscuous tendencies and inability to control various impulses led to a very confused adolescent/young adult who only learned to cope through the abuse of drugs and alcohol, which in every instance worsened my already erratic and risky behavior.  It was during my pregnancy and forced sobriety that I was finally able to come to terms with my condition and begin the search for a treatment plan that would best work for me and my new family.

I share this information with you, not to frighten you or reinforce the plethora of inaccurate and hurtful representations of the mentally ill but to raise your awareness; to abolish the stigma surrounding maladies such as depression (postpartum or otherwise,) borderline personality disorder, schizophrenia, or bipolar disorder.  

Therapy and medication has largely helped in controlling my cycling between hypomanic and significantly depressive episodes but there are still instances in which my behavior raises questions or is misunderstood.  I’ve always been hesitant to share this part of myself with those around me but therein lies the problem with mental illness; it lacks the very necessary open and unashamed conversation that would help society to better comprehend the daily struggles faced by not only those who suffer from mental illnesses but their families as well. Should I have continued to stay quiet about my disease then I am not doing my part to eliminate the social stigma surrounding the “crazy,” the “psychotic”, or the “insane.”  If I can help shift society’s views by exposing my battle with bipolar disorder yet demonstrate my ability to function within the parameters of a parent, a wife, a daughter, a friend, then perhaps others needn’t feel the need be embarrassed about mental illness.

Next week, Oct. 7^th-13^th, is Mental Illness Awareness Week. This awareness week was established by the U.S. Congress in 1990 in recognition of the National Alliance on Mental Illness’ efforts to raise mental illness awareness.  Visit NAMI.org to learn more about the organization and how you can help support their mission. 

shop till you drop

Rinn and I are used to staying at home. Yoga pants. Puff grain snacks. Daytime television. You get the picture.  Anything above and beyond diaper changes and walking to and from the refrigerator is considered an outing. So when we decided to do some extensive shopping and then attend a meeting of the minds (also known as book club) all within the same afternoon overwhelmed wouldn't even begin to describe our state when we returned home. I sat down to collect myself and nurse some blisters and well, Rinn jumped himself into a nap. 

busta says it best

It’s hard to believe that one year ago today my husband and I were married in one of the most charming shotgun weddings I’ve seen to date.  We opted for close friends and family and a ceremony on board a yacht in the middle of a lake in Branson, Missouri (this ensured that neither of us could make a run for it without literally jumping ship.) My husband will tell you that it was the second best day of his life, the first being the day our son was born (cue awes); while I have a very different perspective.  I was five and a half months pregnant, sober and wearing a dress that made me look the Michelin tire man (you know the one, the character that looks like he was constructed solely of marshmallows and spit.) Because being as big as the yacht itself isn’t bad enough, let’s add a sinus infection and a double ear infection just for shits. I would rather hurl myself in front of a bus carrying nuclear weapons and covered in poison then repeat that day. Let’s just be clear; I hated my wedding, I love my husband.

This is obvious when I tell you I was very adamant about selecting our own vows.  Not writing them, God no. Mine would’ve echoed this blog and my husband probably would’ve said something about my “phat ass.”  I wasn’t willing to take that risk but I did want something beyond that “lawfully wedded” business.  And it’s a good fucking thing I did because part of the full service wedding package was that they provided a local officiate and check out the prize we got:

Ready for her close up:

Okay so she was incredibly sweet but how do you trust a woman in a white cowboy hat and excessive rouge to preside over something as sacred as your wedding vows?  You don’t, you let her speak her piece and then send her back to the wax museum she was on loan from.

So how does a couple celebrate 365 days together?  Drink a year-old bottle of Missouri wine that we received as a wedding present out of a travel coffee mug and bump and grind like we're auditioning for a role in a rap video till 1am, that's how.   We were so inebriated that each time I tried to "drop it like it's hot" I would just sit down on the bar floor and my husband spent a lot of time staring at the ground so he wouldn't fall over.  Basically, it was a fairly accurate reenactment of our first few years as a couple.   

Because of this, I feel as though only one song is totally expressive of our love and adoration for each other. Here's to you lover, cause I'm your chick, and I'm the shit.

-

an audience

A new semester has started and with it, my return to the business of teaching dance.  Not to be confused with “dancing at night”, which is what my husband tells his co-workers I do.  I’m not entirely sure that he is aware of the implications that go along with that statement but I’m positive I’ll hear about it at their annual Christmas party.  This means an evening of crude jokes about pole dancing and me not actually being Nic’s wife but rather, a paid escort.  Awesome, can’t wait.  My consolation prize, two free drink tickets. 

I teach for just over three hours, one night a week which, it seems, is just enough time to spark separation anxiety in my infant. This means that I am no longer afforded the luxury of peeing without an audience.  You would think, as a woman, this isn’t a huge deal; considering on any given night out, us ladies are using the bathroom as a herd. But I can assure you, taking a leak with my seven-month-old son watching is a completely different, and more awkward experience, probably because I’m sober (most of the time.)

The staring doesn’t help either.

rinn wants new toys

My husband is on the floor playing with our son this morning and he says to me “Rinn wants new toys; he’s over these.” Suddenly he’s the baby whisperer, when just moments ago he called me into the living room asking why Rinn’s smile has transformed into this scrunched up expression where he throws his head back and squishes up his face. Its days like these that I find myself rolling my eyes so frequently I’m thankful that the age-old adage “if you keep making that face, it will stay like that forever” is just a harmless lie all mothers tell their children to get them to behave within the parameters of acceptable social behavior.

The truth: we need more baby toys about as much as we need a pet gorilla that throws hand grenades.  I probably look like a real butthead not wanting to buy my baby new toys but seriously, it’s not as if Rinn is sitting around with his chin in his hand, checking the time because his play things now bore him. 

It’s simple, his tastes are evolving.  You throw all of his bath toys in the tub and he’d rather play with the cup we use to dump water on his head. Present him with a stuffed animal and he goes straight for the tag.  And try to get him to sit through an episode of Sesame Street and he throws a temper tantrum because you won’t let him put the remote in his mouth. I’ve never seen him so delighted as when I gave him a pot and some plastic serving spoons.  I’m not so sure he’s in dire need of new baby toys as much as he just really wants to explore the things he sees his dad and I handling.  

Okay so maybe my theory only explains the bath cup and the TV remote since it’s not as if my husband and I are running around the house sucking on the tags of our bed sheets and sweaters and things.  Things definitely get weird around here (see yesterday’s post about casserole, strange, and I'm sorry) and there have been instances where a padded room might have been helpful but we aren’t known for putting things in our mouths that don’t belong there.  I have to assume the tag fixation is pretty common amongst the little ones since someone out there took it upon themselves to design entire toys around it, see:

Not that I would actually spend money on something like that, not when Rinn is equally, if not more happy with the tags on bath towels and blankets. Our new toy problem is easily resolved by making sure the tagged things that already exist around the house are fairly clean, and by introducing Rinn to the tupperware cabinet. Oh the possibilities, the free possibilities.

taco bake

So I’m not fond of cooking, we’ve gone over that.  I just don’t see the point in making something from scratch when someone has already put in the blood, sweat and tears and made it available in the freezer section of my local grocery store.  I’m not saying there aren’t days where I catch myself watching an episode of The Chew and suddenly I’m throwing together a spinach and feta quiche’ but believe you me, those days are few, far between and usually the result of one of my manic episodes.  I am 100% pro-microwave and not completely against making a casserole out of several things whose origins are of a box and I am absolutely for sharing simple recipes that even the kitchen-challenged, like myself, can throw together with success.

Here I give you my infamous Taco Bake.  It started as a recipe I found on the back of a macaroni carton, a carton I soon lost and so it has evolved into my own creation, basically whatever of the recipe I could actually remember.  It’s totally easy and delicious (so don’t even ask about the calories per serving.)

Ingredients

1 lb. ground beef

1 box Velveeta Macaroni and Cheese

1 packet taco seasoning

1 cup sour cream

1 bag shredded cheese (I use the mexi-blend)

Tortilla chips

Salsa/Sour cream (to top)

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.  Prepare Velveeta per instructions on box. Prepare meat as deemed on taco seasoning packet. Combine sour cream and Velveeta. Layer ingredients in 9X13 casserole dish (Velveeta, taco meat, shredded cheese, Velveeta, shredded cheese.) Bake for roughly 12-15 minutes. Top with crushed chips and bake for about 5 minutes longer. Serve with sour cream and/or salsa.

It doesn't hurt to have an adorable helper.

peekaboo

Rinn is a big fan of peekaboo (what baby isn’t) but apparently, he was totally over waiting around for me to play because he figured out a way to make me disappear and reappear all by himself.   

Keep up the good work my son, you’re making this parenting thing a breeze.

(P.S. I wish the quality were better but this video was taken with what I'm pretty sure is the first Blackberry ever.  I am cursed with being behind the technological times.)

redemption

My wedding pictures were a disaster. So bad that I’m not even willing to provide you with examples to demonstrate how repulsive they really were.  The photographer is not totally to blame, I suppose I could’ve tried NOT to be in my second trimester when we were hitched but seriously, why then would you put me in the forefront of every damn picture. I’m wearing white and I’m huge, let’s just add insult to injury by making sure I dwarf everyone else in the photo by having them hide behind me.  I’m still tempted to mail her a pipe bomb.

Damn it, I guess this is something you need to see to believe.

Seriously. What. The. Hell.

Roughly a dozen pictures made it out of that day alive (including this one,) the rest will never see the light of day and to the guests: I’m making my rounds and destroying any candid’s you may have shot.  I will not rest until they are all vanquished.  Following the wedding I would get Facebook notifications saying so-and-so “tagged you in a photo”; these sent me into a depressive tailspin and my husband had to lock up the Drano and a number of other cleaning products that are poisonous when ingested.  

Because of this seriously damaging experience, I was hesitant to commit to newborn photography for obvious reasons, the most prominent being swelling.  I couldn’t even force my feet into Ugg boots when leaving the hospital and had to wear my mom’s house shoes for almost two weeks.  Obviously they were pretty stylish house shoes but they were still house shoes.

I had nothing to worry about.  Our photographer at Now It’s PersonalPhotography is a postpartum miracle worker.  We got to wear black and I even caught a two-hour nap on a futon in the back of the studio while she captured some of the cutest pictures I’ve ever seen.  And as 2012 customers we are eligible for a complimentary Christmas card session so I would start holding your breath for some darling holiday shots.

Still, a family portrait where I didn’t have to squeeze myself into two pairs of spanx and blend into the background would be nice; so we staged some Americana/Summer in the Hamptons/Ralph Lauren editorial photos over Labor Day weekend (courtesy of Moments Photography by Jamie Brill) and included Rinn’s Papa and Lolo (my parents.)  I could’ve used a spray tan and it’s clear now that my husband shouldn’t wear shorts but they turned out fabulous and I just had to share.

Thank you to both photographers for capturing incredible and timeless pictures.  And to our wedding photographer, if you’re watching, we need to talk. 

mutant

I love my son but giving birth has really done a number on my body. Things that go beyond sad boobies and jiggly spots.  Things like hormone driven rashes. I stopped asking if my body was going to catch a break a long time ago; right around the time that I used an over the counter yeast infection treatment which ended with me being rushed to the emergency room because my vagina had swollen shut.  You think child birth hurts; well having your lady business do the exact opposite and almost swallow itself is no walk in the park either.

So in the weeks following child birth these bumps emerged on the backs of my arms and the tops of my thighs leaving me to look like a freshly plucked chicken. Painless and harmless I was told. Yeah, until you’re wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt in 82 degree heat because you’re skin looks like Katy Perry’s chin before she started using Proactiv. Painless my ass.

WebMD told me I had Keratosis Pilaris and that it would clear up eventually as long as I moisturized and exfoliated everyday.  What am I? Livestock? I’ve been on a strict exfoliate and moisturize regimen since I accidently watched Tales of the Crypt as a preteen.  No damn skin condition I’ve ever heard of just up and disappears with normal maintenance and as a matter of fact, the bumps were starting to spread.  I would’ve called that nurse’s hotline for additional advice but we all know how that worked out the last time, so I paid a visit to our family doctor.

She prescribed a steroid cream and told me to lay off shaving for a week: medically sanctioned hairy legs were definitely a treatment plan I could live with. But then there was the steroid paste, really the last place you want to be is in front of a line of people and opposite a pharmacist as she hands you four tubes of ointment and exclaims “apply to the affected area twice-a-day.” 

The crowd’s judgment was obvious and overpowering, or I’m really paranoid. Either way, I found it necessary to respond in a louder than necessary tone, “I have bumps.”  Yep, because that makes everything better. 

And because living with the shame of that moment for the rest of my life isn’t bad enough, the side effects from this so-called cream are burning, irritation, itching and thinning of the skin.  Hey, let’s take these bumps which are only cosmetically damaging, and slather them in an ointment which is going to make you want to tear thru your own skin.  And “thinning”? What does that even mean? How will I know my skin has thinned? Will I become transparent?

I used the steroid for two weeks and as far as I can tell my skin is as thick as it was 14 days ago (wipes brow in relief.) My husband would tell you that the cream has improved my condition but that’s only because I’ve trained him well. Do I look fat in these pants? No, you’re so skinny.  Is she prettier than me? Not a chance, you’re the prettiest lady I’ve ever seen.  How cute would I look with Miley Cyrus’ haircut?  You wouldn’t. It’d be gross and I’d leave you.  We still have work to do.  In reality, I would look like a rockstar with Miley’s new do and some of the minor bumps on my legs are now red welts.  

Rinn is really lucky he’s cute; it easier to forget that I’ve gone mutant. 

the little drummer boy

The Biebs better watch his back. There's a new boy drummer in town.

a dance recital

Part of my daily routine is letting Rinn play on the floor with a bunch of plastic farm animals while I attempt to put together blog posts and lesson plans for my dance classes.  Oh don’t give me that, babies need time to themselves too and it’s not like I’m one of those “free-range parent” wack jobs you’ve seen on GMA who is letting their 4-year-old ride solo on the New York subway system.  I don’t know which is worse, her or that lady from Time Magazine who will undoubtedly be breast feeding her son while he preps for the SAT’s.  Two words: happy medium, find it.

I hit shuffle on iTunes and go to work, or at least I make a very valiant effort to. Unfortunately I suffer from what I’ve affectionately dubbed as “bass syndrome” (like the fish) characterized by first, being distracted by, and then following, any and all shiny objects; doctors call it ADHD, but what do they know?  This applies to more than just shiny objects obviously and when shuffle has its shit together, more often than not, this time turns into an impromptu dance recital.  Nothing fancy, just a few excellent jams (usually from the 90’s) and my killer moves. Rinn digs it.  Or at least I think he does, I mean he’s too young to have one of those “you look soooooo stupid” malicious laughs, right?

Fast forward forty-or-so minutes: I’ve accomplished nothing and I’m so exhausted from hopping around like a fart in a mitten that Rinn and I have to lie down for a nap.  Just another day in my life.

Today’s Rinn-Approved Recital Mix:

1.      Wannabe – Spicegirls

2.      Run Away – The Real McCoy

3.      I love you always forever – Donna Lewis

4.      I only wanna be with you – Hootie & TheBlowfish

5.      Gonna make you sweat – C+C Music Factory

6.      Mambo No. 5 – Lou Bega

7.      Miami – Will Smith

8.      Mr. Vain – Culture Beat

9.      Steal My Sunshine – Len

10.       No Scrubs - TLC

baby bikinis

My foray into motherhood has been eye-opening to say the least.  It’s an occupation that doesn’t come with an instruction manual, all of your training is on-the-job and you’re taking your cues from a tiny person who shits their pants.  With these rules in play, I’m going to assume that no mother on the planet really knows what she is doing and those that do are only pretending. That’s right, in the realm of parenting we are all on an equal playing field. You. Me. Even Snooki.

So when I read an article about Jessica Simpson facing some backlash because she publicly released pictures of her four-month-old daughter in a two-piece bikini I was yo-yoing between my heart breaking for her and wanting to pummel the righteous retard who thought a knit bikini on an infant was “sexualization.”  What kind of name is Claude anyway? I bet your parents are related.  

I like to think that we are all just trying to do good by our children and while I’m not so naïve to think that there aren’t monsters out there (hello, I’ve seen Toddlers In Tiaras) I hardly doubt that J. Simp is one of them.  The only person “compromising the sanctity of [baby Maxwell’s] early years” is the British idiot who felt it necessary to make her a media pawn in their own prudish agenda. Take this as your cue to go back to being irrelevant. 

Good day. 

babysitter

Us Weekly‏@usweekly

Rihanna offered to babysit Snooki's son Lorenzo. http://usm.ag/PHXTgf  Would you let her take care of your child for a night?


Rihanna, 

I realize that your tweet was an offer to watch Lorenzo but I'm looking for sitter for my eight-month-old son, Rinn, on Wednesday evenings while I attend book club meetings and Thursday evenings while I teach dance classes. This is an unpaid position but if it's any incentive, I'll agree to use your songs during my modern and jazz classes. I have zilch for celebrity status but my kid's cute and he digs your music. Not so much your new haircut, but you two will have plenty of time to discuss that during your twice-weekly hang-out sessions.

See, totally cute. 

Please forward me your resume' as soon as possible and Rinn can't wait to hear from you. 

Yours Truly,
Rebecca and Rinn