Order in the court

While pregnant, I became obsessed with comparing the size of my gestating fetus with obscure vegetables and fueled this fascination by registering with a good half dozen baby websites. As a result, I would receive a handful of weekly emails detailing the weird and almost disturbing things going on in my womb. In retrospect, I could have lived without knowing that my unborn son would consume his own fecal matter until birth but pregnant ladies be cray.

Much to my chagrin, I still receive some of these weekly updates. Mostly it's crap about your baby discovering it's own feet and a whole lot of notifications about what your baby should be putting in it's mouth and how it should get there. Case in point, somewhere around the eight-month mark Rinn should've been grasping food between his thumb and forefinger in an effort to feed himself. For him, getting sustenance to his mouth was not the problem but rather than doing it in the dainty fashion as described in these ridiculously imposing newsletters, he was stuffing his pie hole using his entire fist. We were able to thwart this gluttonous behavior by distributing his cheerios individually rather than dumping a mound of snacks on his tray.

Now we're at the point in Rinn's development where it's suggested he start using utensils as a vehicle for sustenance. So far, his spoon serves only as a gavel so I'm betting he will be the kid at dinner on prom night calling the forks on the table "dinglehopper's" and ordering chicken tenders because his mommy always cut his steak for him.

"Help Me" or "Hump Me".

For starters, I'm coming to you live from Arkansas.  Yeah, that happened.  We've only been here a few weeks so for me to pass judgment this early in the game would be unfair and unjust, but, between you and me, all of those jokes you hear about bad teeth and double-wide's...well let's just say they aren't too far off base. 

Rinn seems to be adjusting just fine.  He appears to have plenty of pleasant conversations with the locals.  I say "appears" because his speech consists solely of incoherent babbling other than the words "hi" and "mom" and I catch about every 5th word of the southern accent.  Basically, when the girl at the grocery checkout tries to make small chat, Rinn and I look eerily similar; smiles, eager nods and polite laughter.  Rinn has no qualms about this but I walk away confused as to whether she wanted to "help me" or "hump me."

One oberservation that I can speak on is that Arkansas is overrun with the elderly and every damn one of them has an opinion about child rearing. The cost of living here is ridiculously inexpensive so it's no wonder that it's a mecca for geriatric retiree's looking for a small slice of land to park their gigantic RV and consequently dole out unsolicited advice to the younger generation found toting around small children. I really should be more receptive to their wisdom considering that whole respect-your-elders thing  but its hard to decipher which are actually wise in the ways of the world and which left their wits somewhere in the late 60's. I want to take you seriously but then you try telling me that by giving my son soy milk, I'm all but guaranteeing that he become one of those "homosexuals" and I start to look around to see if you've been separated from a group being led by a person donning white scrubs and carrying an empty straitjacket.  

If you ignore that, and the fact that my dad and husband unknowingly slaughtered one of the most revered snakes of the state by clobbering it with a pickax in the driveway, I'd say we're doing an alright job of adjusting to our new culture.  

I may have been absent from the blogging world, 

But I've always kept up on the Twitter machine so follow me: @RebeccaRinn

one.

To my dearest Rinn,

Happy of happiest birthdays to you, my bug!

The past year has been absolutely incredible.  Every smile, every laugh, every precious moment spent with you has been, quite simply, a miracle.  I'm choosing, of course, to overlook last week when you made my nose bleed by trying to go "night night" on my face, but I suppose if I had to choose someone to break my nose, it would be you my tiny, fluffy head. 

And while on this day you will be showered with presents from all the people in your life who love you, I can't help but think that I'll be the one receiving the best gift of all. Because of you, I now have the capacity to feel boundless and unconditional love. My heart grew in that moment when I first saw you and it hasn't stopped; it continues to swell with love and adoration even still.  

I love you, my little nugget. Today, and every day after, is yours.  Happy Birthday!

Forever yours,

Mama 
Your biggest fan.

predator

Since the day Rinn figured out he could make noise, he has been making this warbling, chirpy sound by way of rolling his tongue.  Initially it resembled that infamous "click" used by the Predator to communicate and I was constantly terrified of my own infant.  Now that Rinn understands the range of his voice it's slightly less intimidating, which I think he figured out when I stopped recoiling in fear as he approached.  To maintain his dominance he now slaps aggressively and has ridiculously accurate aim when throwing blocks and television remotes.  

Combine the warble with the click consonants he must've picked up on his travels to South Africa and he's well on his way to creating his own language.  

Arkanite? Arkanian? Arkansawyer?

There are very few things that I enjoy about Wisconsin weather, mostly because humidity does absolutely nothing for my hair and, let's face it, wind chills could be administered as corporal punishment. Still, I thought it best to be fair and allow Rinn the opportunity to make up his own mind regarding our cold and unreasonable temperatures, so following the season's first winter storm we bundled up and braved the outdoors. 

He was unimpressed.

He gave me the same look I get from teenage girls when I ask them if they like Justin Bieber. Either it's "Like seriously, of course I do and I can't believe you even had to ask" or "No, I hate him and now I hate you by association."

Eventually there were tears and we went inside.  No sweat off my back and it just confirms that we made the right choice when we decided to move to Arkansas. Say what? Yes, I said "move" and "Arkansas" in the same sentence.  No, I did not just bump my head.  My parents were living in Branson, MO when I found out I was pregnant and in an effort to play a bigger role in their grandson's life, returned to Wisconsin.  As it turns out, they are more attuned to Southern living and as a person who once went almost three years without a real winter, I too find sunshine more agreeable than snowdrifts. Dance is a universal language allowing me to teach almost anywhere and I'm almost positive they have the internet in Arkansas, so blog readers, fret not, I'll continue to post.  

Also, Rinn will inevitably use "all y'all" in casual conversation and seriously, how adorable is that?

And if anyone is wandering, I've since had my roots done.  

The jig is up, I'm not a natural blonde.

Sledding: fail.

"It's cold and there are wolves after me."

Papa saves the day.

In case you can't get enough: follow us on Twitter @RebeccaRinn 

and Instagram @hotmessmommy

mind eraser

In the adult world there are these things called shot races.  The challenge is to drink your booze the quickest or end up paying for the round. In some cultures (i.e. dive bars) it's custom to put your empty glass on your head when finished to make sure a loser is accurately established. 

Bar tabs can get expensive so Rinn and I've gotten a jump start on his training.

mimick this you damn monkey

Somewhere in the three days it took us to celebrate Christmas, my house was transitioned from only seemingly mad to Peewee's Playhouse. If it makes noise and/or moves, Rinn had the pleasure of unwrapping it and introducing it to his toy chest. I'm going to go out on a limb here and make the assumption that everyone read the post in which I whine, obnoxiously and in great detail, about having to buy baby toys.  

As it turns out, the toys of today are capable of great and unimaginable things. Rinn walked away with a mechanical cat that turns corners and avoids table legs and a partially stuffed turtle whose back displays a handful of major constellations on the walls and ceilings of his room.  When I think about the fact that I was once infatuated by a stuffed dog whose velcroed tummy opened up to expose up to five puppies and Rinn pretty much got a robot kitten, I felt a little jilted. I have to assume my parents felt similar pangs of jealousy over the debut of Teddy Ruxpin.

Another one of Rinn's miracle toys would be the Mimicking Monkey. Seemingly harmless, it's a plush primate that can hang on the side of his crib and play a lullaby or a recording of monkey's horsing around in the jungle; which, if we are honest, a baby at play kind of sounds like a tiny chimp raising hell in the rain forest anyway.  The Mimicking Monkey is also capable of recording a personal message, which can be played back over the lullaby providing what's supposed to be a soothing and familiar environment at bedtime.  Emphasis on "supposed to be."

I had just finished changing another diaper and as a result, had broken a sweat and found myself in state of extreme frustration.  With Rinn weighing in at around 26 pounds these days, a diaper change looks eerily like that scene from Over The Top where Sylvester Stallone arm wrestles that really hairy guy, except neither of us has a beard. The task is so difficult, I often do a legitimate victory lap around the apartment while Rinn sulks in the corner. Apparently he had grown tired of his losing record because while I was jogging thru the kitchen chanting "Eye of the Tiger" he took it upon himself to empty his dresser drawers, or at least the ones he can reach.  I should note that I try not to make a habit out of swearing at my son and it's something I've been working on but I'm human, and I have a dirtier mouth than a sailor who is leaving their post to become a prostitute. In any event, my victorious lyrics turned to "Damn it Rinn, your bibs are [expletive] everywhere!"

BEEP.

I had been set up. Either it was cruel coincidence or Rinn had just staged his first covert operation because he had managed to record me cussing at him in a very exuberant manner using that now villainous monkey. Just to be sure, I clicked the play button.  There it is, my voice immortalized, dropping the F bomb on a loop in unison with a tranquil tune. Perfect. Doesn't he know that only the police are legally allowed to record audio without a persons' consent?

Panic ensued and the monkey now plays "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, delete, delete, DELETE!" 

 Rinn opening his first pair of annual Christmas jammies. 

 

One of the many toys that moves and makes noise.

Rinn and his Bitty Baby.