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.)
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.
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.
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.)
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 ofMoments 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.
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 hotlinefor 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.
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.
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.
Rihanna
offered to babysit Snooki's son Lorenzo.http://usm.ag/PHXTgfWould 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
Word on the street is that babies should be cut off from the
bottle around the 14th month mark.
The street being a cashier at Wal-mart; when you have a baby in your
cart, everyone thinks they’re qualified to dish out parenting advice. I find its best to listen, nod your head in
agreement, and say “I definitely HAVE to try that.” Then call your mom when you get to the car
and tell her this world is full of crackpots and you’re seriously considering
homeschooling.
In this case, the Wal-Mart lady was right but she made it
sound as if the bottle was baby crack and transitioning Rinn would be worse
than when I had to give up soft cheeses while pregnant. Don’t get between me
and my feta. I’ll admit that I thought
she might be an all-knowing prophetic baby gypsy when Rinn was given his first
sippy cup since the crying and screaming that ensued was similar to what I
imagine would happen if someone were to accidently unlock the gates to hell.
Turns out that sippy cup was a piece of shit and you needed the suction power
of a Dyson to get anything out of it. Sippy cup number two went over much
better since it would appear that Rinn just wants food in his mouth, how it
arrives there makes absolutely no difference to him.
Rinn’s typical lunch includes some multi-grain baby oatmeal,
equal portions of pureed fruit and vegetable and a finger food; usually the
baby version of Cheeto’s, which he doesn’t mind sharing. All store bought. There is not a chance in
hell you’ll find me jumping on the bandwagon of that make-your-own-baby-food
trend, gross. And I have much better things to do with my time like watch 80
episodes of Prison Break on Netflix or drink three Red Bulls and try on
everything in my closet (which is how I track my weight loss.)
Post-lunch he gets a sippy cup of apple juice and water. I HATE
the sippy cup.
He will drink the cup, but at his own leisure and only
between episodes of waving it around like it’s caught on fire. I’m not sure how much juice is actually
making it into his mouth however, because the end result looks something like
this:
The shirt I get, but the back of your head Rinn? Really?
It’s like the time I was out with friends and one of them managed to throw up on their own back and then tried to blame it on the cab driver. If I had the time, I’d run
the necessary experiments to explain this little enigma but alas, someone needs
a bath (and I need to get back to Prison Break.) And for those of you in the market for a sippy cup avoid the Nuk Learner Cup (pictured below) at all costs, unless of course you enjoy tantrums, then by all means, be my guest.
We had substantially better fortune with the Playtex First Sipster (pictured below,) and the name is exponentially cooler.
I don’t cook. Well I
do cook, I just don’t enjoy it. I’m
really not fond of cleaning either so how it came to be that I’m a stay-at-home
mom confuses some people, mostly my own mother (who knows that I consider the
shower to be clean because we use body wash in it) and my husband. He asks me “what did you do all day?” and I distract
him with the fact that I bought Taquitos.
My husband is an airhead.
It can be infuriating at times, like when he double-paid our
cable bill because he skipped the part that states “click once” and then spent
the whole day blaming the internet when he didn’t have money to go golfing and
then there was the time he couldn’t quite keep up when a conversation
transitioned from seeing Tom Petty in concert to discussing a friends’ job
resignation and he said “so wait, Tom Petty quit his job?”
Then he will say “decompose” when he really means
“decompress” and his absentmindedness is suddenly a riot. Anyway, it was when I picked up some
individually wrapped chicken cordon bleu’s that I hesitated for a moment; the
instructions were to cook in a traditional oven considering the chicken inside
was raw, but would my husband really adhere to these directions or would I find
myself making a late night trip to the ER somewhere in the near future.
I should be in the business of fortune telling because wouldn’t you know it, he confused one with some sort of Hot
Pocket and in the microwave it went. Not
only is he an airhead but now I’m quite convinced he can’t read. He would spend the whole night and a better
part of the next day convinced he was dying and asking if death by raw chicken
was a painful way to go. I don’t know
for sure, but I bet it’s less agonizing than listening to your husband whine
about it.
I’m not big on thinking things through. Organization, for
the most part, is overrated and planning? What is that word? I don’t know
it. I could wear holes in the floor with
how frequently I’m retracing my steps because I’m unable to remember one thing
or another, usually I’ve forgotten to put on pants, and I definitely did not
have a birth plan. My only instruction
was to not let my husband anywhere near the business end of things, unless they
wanted to add his resuscitation to that day’s itinerary. He had no desire to see it and I spent way
too much time braiding my hair and putting on fake eyelashes that morning for
him to be looking at anything but my beautiful face.
This disregard for strategy also plays in a big role in my blog
posts. Obviously I didn’t put much thought into the repercussions in writing
about Rinn’s unmentionables; I suppose it’s a wait-and-see how that will play
out for him later in life. Also, it
wasn’t but moments after I posted “yogurt cake” that I realized I provided the
recipe and only speculations about how I managed to mess it up. That afternoon I used Twitter for something
useful (instead of shameless self-promotion and pestering celebrities about
their haircuts) and contacted the author of
Bringing Up Bébé, Pamela Druckerman, to get some insider tips.
She confirmed my suspicions about the mixing (don’t overdo
it) and that WHOLE MILK YOGURT is crucial. I bought Greek. My bad for thinking yogurt is yogurt. For round two, I couldn’t find a single yogurt
that said “whole milk” so I ended up buying just regular plain yogurt (not
light or low-fat because let’s face it, making diet cakes are an exercise in
futility) and since no one in their right minds eats regular plain yogurt
(because it tastes like old, wet cardboard) I was unable to find it in the 6
oz. single serve containers. So what did
I do, buy the family sized plain yogurt AND two individual Yoplait Red Velvet
Cake yogurts for measuring purposes, which I consumed on the way home because
shopping for the elusive whole milk yogurt left me famished and close to
exhaustion.
Fast forward: the cake turned out wonderfully turning my B-
into a solid A+, combine that with my B for patience (I lost points when I
couldn’t wait and inhaled yogurt treats on my way home), and then throw in a
couple extra credit points for my problem solving skills and I’ve earned myself
a much deserved A.
At one point I described to you, my dearest followers, my bitterness towards packing. Since then, I've come across some insanely accurate youtube footage of what I look like when prepping shit for transport, straight down to the bottle of Wild Turkey in video two. These are provided to you by a ridiculously talented blogger, Jenna Marbles. The girl is a genius. What's strange is that I seem to be a pretty solid cross between the two clips. We can probably chalk that up to me being a gemini and that dual personality thing. I just wish they would stop warring and get along already. Sit back, enjoy and imagine Rinn's cute little mug perched on the bed somewhere and you get a more accurate picture.
Babies spit up, this I knew.I mean they do it in the movies so that must be a direct reflection of
real life, right? What I didn’t know is to what extreme Rinn would take
this.If regurgitating your food was
cool then Lindsay Lohan would still be relevant and Rinn would be requested for
guest appearances on Live with Michael and Kelly or this Anderson Cooper
fellow’s new show, which is terrible by the way. It’s not too late to give Nate
Berkus his job back; at least he taught me how to throw a proper garden party
and could wear the hell out of a cardigan, just saying.
In the beginning, Rinn’s spitting up was cause for concern. Breast milk (boob or bottle,) soy formula,
regular formula, gentle formula, you name it, it wasn’t staying down and we all
know the dangers of bulimia, a gorgeous figure. I’m kidding, eating disorders
are no joke. I would grow less paranoid
when he would consistently weigh in above the 89th percentile. Obviously the kid is getting all the
nutrients he needs or his weight gain wouldn’t be on par with that of a
defensive lineman.
Now I just have to worry about him ruining all of his fancy
baby clothes with his incessant spewing.
Baby vomit comes up white, no surprise there since white is the color of
formula and that’s how it goes in but for some reason unbeknownst to me (clearly
I’m not a scientist) it dries a putrid yellow.
And it stains. If you find yourself
trying to remove a spit up stain from a Ralph Lauren one piece you’re better
off pouring yourself a huge glass of wine and setting the damn thing on fire.
It’s only use now is kindling to keep you warm during those long Wisconsin
winters. The wine is just for
comfort. Trust me, once you’ve ruined
enough $40 onesies, you’ll need it. Valium, while less accessible for those of
us who aren’t pharmacists, will do in a pinch.
Enter: bibs. If you thought buying seemingly normal baby
clothes was tough, try finding a baby bib without the slogan “if mommy says no,
ask grandma” or “professional mess maker.” Rinn and I are still getting to know
each other but I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t say anything that stupid. There’s
also a DIY option out there where you can craft bibs out of old graphic tshirts, but I’m a new
mom not Martha-freakin’-Stewart. I’ve
resolved to spend a few extra dollars on some socially acceptable bibs (usually
solid colors) and leave it to my mother to pick up some really heinous ones at
rummage sales (embroidered with ducks and dinosaurs), which will never leave
the house OR be seen by company. All
bibs, embarrassing or not, are removed for sleeping (there’s that choking
hazard everyone is always talking about) and certain photo ops. I have a few snapshots where I’ve forgotten
to take Rinn’s bib off and someday I’ll have to answer for that.
This all seems incredibly neurotic and exhausting now that I
think about it. And especially ironic coming
from the girl who before-baby consistently drank too much Rumplemintz and subsequently
threw up all over herself. Karma, you bitch you.
Pictured: a 48-hour supply of bibs.
If we suddenly come into money (lottery, surprise inheritance, or otherwise) I'm hiring a laundress. Enough is enough.
My son is pretty adamant about not wearing shoes. He scrunches up his
toes like he is balling his fists and whines while I beg and plead with him,
promising to buy him a pony should he ever want one and ensuring that his
curfew is up for negotiation when the time comes. Obviously, for me this is
completely soul crushing. Doesn’t he understand that shoes complete the outfit?
The only pair we can both agree on are tan moccasins, mostly because
they’re big enough to stretch over his curled feet. We returned from an outing the other day and
I found this in the backseat. He had taken a shoe off just to cuddle it.
At the age of fifteen I broke the big toe on my left
foot. It’s not the only bone I’ve broke
but it’s the only one that’s relevant to this story. I was sitting around in my Tommy Hilfiger
overalls, eating a bag of Chex Mix, watching Dawson’s Creek and waiting for my idiot boyfriend to come over so
we could make out. Don’t fret or shield
your eyes, it doesn’t go any farther than that.
Actually he would dump me less than a month later because “[I] never
touched [his] penis.” Touché’, I would dump me too.
When he arrived I put the Chex Mix on the coffee table to go
answer the door, forgetting that our asshole dog thought people-food within
reach was fair game. This is the same
mutt that once snatched a whole box of chocolates off the counter, was subsequently
force-fed hydrogen peroxide and then proceeded to vomit black sludge all over
the carpeted stairs. He also humped everything incessantly. Why he was still
around I have no idea.
When I returned, that mongrel’s snout was all up in the Chex
Mix bag. He must have startled because
he would then seize the whole bag in his teeth and lead me on a chase around
the living room, leaving behind a trail of Chex Mix and my dignity. It only
came to an end when I made a misstep and stubbed my toe on the coffee table.
Correction, slammed; slammed my toe into the coffee table. Thirteen years later
and my toe still clicks. All the time. Literally every step I take. Click.
Pause. Click. Pause. Click. Pause. Click. It’s like I’m permanently wearing one
flip-flop. Dashed are any dreams I had
of being a cat burglar.
I also have allergies.
The combination of these two ailments has thwarted every
attempt I’ve ever made to check on Rinn while he is sleeping without waking
him. This is the same kid who put
himself to bed during karaoke in a beer tent at a local festival, yet I have to
half-hobble like the hunchback into his room each night or my cursed clicking toe
will alert him to my presence. And then
like clockwork, as I’m peering into his crib to ensure he’s still breathing and
all that good-mommy stuff, I have to sneeze. I’m screwed. They come on quickly and I am
completely and utterly incapable of keeping them quiet. My sneezes are so loud they often startle
even me, so here I am half-hobble running for the door so I don’t commit the
cardinal sin of parenting, “never wake a sleeping baby.” I never make it and my lame attempt at muffling
the inevitable sneeze makes it worse and what escapes is almost a roar, maybe a
grunt, that causes my sinuses to explode. Somewhere in there I’ve also
abandoned the hobble so now my toe is clicking on top of my grunting roar. And as quickly as this whole ridiculous
circus started, it’s over. I turn around to face Rinn’s crib knowing all to
well the visual I’ll be greeted with. Rinn
rolled over on his side, smiling, his eyes saying “hey mom, when did you get
here, wanna play?”
Fuck, I need some Zyrtec.
Sleeping Rinn.
Please note that the blanket pictured here is my baby blanket. Yes, I'm a 28-year-old married woman with a child of my own and I still sleep with my baby blanket. A recent episode of Dr. Oz said it's a completely normal comforting mechanism so I'm going with it. What might not be so normal is that my infant son and I are currently warring over said blankie. He won't sleep without it and neither will I so we've found ourselves in a stalemate were we both lay in bed, crying, unable to sleep. He really should find his own, this is getting ridiculous.
There are a lot of things that women who’ve had babies don’t
always share with those who haven’t. It really isn’t until you get pregnant
that all these mommies seem to surface and are like “oh hey, most woman crap
themselves during labor” or “I would be more worried about tearing.” And someone should definitely tell you that a
quick trip to the store will suddenly take elaborate planning and probably an
afternoon in its entirety. Also that you’ll
spend a lot of time in fast food drive-thru’s ordering only a diet coke because
you’re much too lazy to haul that heavy-ass car seat in the gas station to get
your own.. These nuggets of knowledge should be made into PSA’s and aired
during any and all afternoon television programming aimed at preteens and
teenagers, ESPECIALLY the one about pooping with a minimum audience of four. Watch those teen pregnancy rates drop faster
than your postpartum boobies.
Here’s one for you that I had to find out on my own, no
thanks to all those motorboat mouth moms out there. Ready for it; baby boys get erections. There I said it, someone had to; it’s high
time I made everyone here as uncomfortable as I was when I called our health
insurance company’s nurse hotline in the wee hours of the morning. As a grown woman you would think I could
muster up the courage to use clinical terms such as penis and erection when
describing what I thought might be a life-threatening condition, but no, I used
the word “dingy” (rhymes with Chingy, master of such rap hits as Right Thurr and Holidae Inn) and “all hard and stuff.” This was only after I called and lost my
nerve, hanging up, not once, but twice. Knowing that I sounded like an idiot, I
tried assuring the nurse on the other end that while I was an excellent prank
caller at one point in my life, this was not an episode of John Quinones’ What Would You Do? and to please not
hang up on me. I’m ashamed to say I’m
pretty sure I quoted parts of Lady Antebellum’s Need You Now.
Somewhere between calling my son’s penis a nickname that is
also slang for a life boat and crooning “It’s quarter after one, I’m all alone
and I need you now” the nurse informed me that his “condition” (as I kept calling it) was
completely normal. Something about increased blood flow and a properly
functioning nervous system. Well there’s a relief; now I just have to worry
about him trying to grab his junk during diaper changes and getting poop all
over his hands; hands that will inevitably go straight into his mouth. I’m here
to confirm that the fascination men have with their own genitals starts at an
alarmingly young age. According to some
studies/google searches, the next step is an increased interest in comparing
their own genitals with that of another male’s genitals. Fantastic. Really looking forward to that.
Can't. Wait.
Also, I did attempt to get a copy of the actual telephone
recording but the woman on the other end was less than pleased telling me “this
hotline is not a joke” and something about demanding respect. I’m pretty sure
they’ve now blocked my number and I’m guessing the legal order to adhere to a
restraining order is in the mail. Probably safer that I just turn to WebMd,
much less judgmental.
Rinn loves the camera. More so, Rinn loves seeing himself on
the camera. In Rinn’s perfect world he
would bounce all day in his jumper while simultaneously watching videos of
himself bouncing in his jumper. All the while, formula would be dispensed into
his mouth via one of those bottles you find in a hamster cage. With that being
said, he was incredibly excited to record his first confessional (as shown by
his shrieking laughter for the first 15 or so seconds) simply because he would
have even more footage to watch at a later date.
I’m not fluent in baby but my best translation is as follows:
(Hysterical laughter over getting to hold the camera himself.)
“I’m cute. Look what I can do with my tongue. LOOOOOOK AAAATTTT MMMMYYYY TOOONNGGGGUEEEE! Mom, you’re pretty. No, like seriously, you’re really pretty. ”
(At a loss for words because he is obviously taken aback by my beauty.)
“I had green beans for lunch. Look at my tongue again!”
(Unintelligible.)
“It might be time for a diaper change. Sorry.”
(And that’s a wrap.)
Like I said, not 100% clear but I’m pretty sure that’s what he said.
We are a sweaty
people. The first time I met my husband he had pit stains that stretched from
his waist to his elbows. (I think it goes without saying that this wasn't one
of those love-at-first-sight situations.) During the summer months I stash a
stick of antiperspirant in my purse. In my car. In my gym bag. In the waist
band of my jeans. Okay so maybe not in my waistband but I’ve seriously looked
into getting Botox injections to slow my sweat glands but something feels very
weird about having them stick needles in my armpits. Rinn, well he inherited
his dad's eyes and my crooked toes but it would appear he got both sets of sweat
genes because the kid is in a constant state of dampness.
Needless to say, we
were all happy with the fall temperatures today.
Fifteen months ago I thought I would have the luxury of
mentally preparing myself for pregnancy. Instead I had simultaneous anxiety and
heart attacks with a side of massive coronary after urinating on a half-dozen
pregnancy tests at the behest of my husband, then boyfriend. He had brought to
my attention a few days prior, over a round of Jager shots, that he hadn’t
heard the trite “I’m going to cut you” (just one of the many signs that I was
PMSing) in what seemed like longer than usual.
I’m pretty sure my response was “don’t be silly. Barkeep, another shot,
one for me and one for my unborn child.” I would toast us all night long. 48
hours later I was in a state of panic and incessantly apologizing to my
gestating fetus “I’m sorry little guy, mommy was only kidding. Fuck, that was
bad. Shit, I really shouldn’t swear at you. Damn it I said shit. Fuck, this is
hard. Oh my god we’re doomed.”
We went public soon after.
There were only so many excuses I could give as to why I was no longer
going out. “Sorry not tonight, on antibiotics.” “Oooh bad timing, I just
started a cleanse and I can’t have alcohol till phase two.” “I found Jesus.” People have a funny way of jumping straight to
the end result when you announce you’re with child, skipping all together the
38 or so weeks it takes to cook the bun in the oven. “Do you have names picked
out?” “Do you want an epidural?” “When can I babysit?” The whole time I’m
thinking “please, if there is a God, do not let me get fat.”
I might need a lesson in prayer because that one went
completely unanswered and I gained 52 pounds. I exercised pretty consistently,
taught ballet classes until my 36th week and only gave into my
craving for root beer (of which I opted for diet.) My lone blunder was in the final days before
my due date and involved two dozen doughnuts.
I’m not proud and I don’t want to talk about it.
Prior to pregnancy my body survived solely on cigarettes,
Red Bull, vodka, Red Bull and vodkas, and the occasional meal, usually Taco
Bell or ramen noodles. Alcohol and I
broke up in one of those “it’s not you, it’s me” scenarios and I quit smoking
the moment I took my first test, not even partaking in a final “this is it”
smoke break. I started taking prenatal vitamins (ok so they were Flintstone
chewables but my stomach is not that of an alligator and the real ones made me
want to die) and my meals started to resemble real food. I have to assume that my legendary weight
gain was a consequence of my body struggling to digest real sustenance. Add 24 glazed breakfast pastries, and boom,
disaster.
Whatever, this is why the designers at Victoria’s Secret
created foldover leggings in a size fat. Bless their souls.
I suppose it’s no big secret that I ballooned during my
pregnancy, but a woman’s weight (especially the gain) isn’t something you
openly discuss; quite literally I was the elephant in the room. Unless of
course you’re an asshole, then you might say something like “your ass is
getting fat” to a girl in her 34th week. And if you’re feeling
particularly uncouth then you’ll say “your ass is getting fat” to a girl in her
34th week WHILE AT HER BABY SHOWER. No more invites for her and frankly, I hope
that one day she finds herself with a double chin and cankles. I’m not bitter, I swear but excuse me for a
moment while I take a few deep breaths and meditate in my place of zen (read:
walk-in closet.)
Moving on. I bring this all up because they were discussing
the idea of “momshells” on Good Morning America. A momshell being a mother and a bombshell more so defined as
someone who bounces back and loses their baby-weight in “no-time flat.” The woman who claims responsibility for this
phenomenon, and who I’d like to punch in the mouth, is an editor of US Weekly
and after almost six-years of pushing this “Frankenmom” ideal, suddenly feels
that that the everyday woman is under an “unhealthy [amount of] pressure” to immediately slim
down postpartum. Well kudos lady, you do have a soul. I would like to think we
all realize that these so-called celeb momshells are cheats and have an epic force
working behind them; personal trainer, holistic chef, stylist, shaman, even
that weird infomercial guy with the ponytail if they so choose. All luxuries we mere mortals are not privy to,
all luxuries that greatly enhance the speed of shedding pounds.
I’ll be honest and admit that I was both shocked and
discouraged when I stepped on the scale roughly three weeks after Rinn was born
and it reflected that I would have a lot more work to do. Thank you Victoria
Beckham for giving me unrealistic hope; first, as a Spice Girl when I thought
making it big in my own all-girl group would actually happen and again, when
you had not one, but FOUR babies and it still takes you all of 48 minutes to shrink
back into your prebaby pants and monstrous platforms. I’m just going to go cry
into my chocolate fudge Pop-Tart.
I’m more on track with Jessica Simpson or Hilary Duff. You know, a real woman with a real body and
real weight gain. I ended up losing all my weight but it took me almost five
months and still, things jiggle that didn’t jiggle before and my boobs are
totally sad; which I’m told is permanent unless I go under the knife (I haven’t
totally ruled that out as an option yet.) So J. Simp, girl, if you’re
listening, hang in there. Get yourself a BabyJogger and keep on keepin’
on.
My workout buddy in what I have deemed to be the BEST jogging stroller on the market. You grab a handle in the seat area and the thing folds up like a frickin' handbag. Just make sure to remove your baby first (seriously, it's in the instruction manual as an imperative step.)
You can watch this whole video but it's all pretty standard stroller crap till about 57 seconds, then the magic really happens. It's a real voilà moment. When the salesman at Buy Buy Baby dropped this bomb, I had to take a seat.
