freaky friday

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. 

And even more excited about fall fashion.

(Rinn: shirt, hand-me-down babyGAP; vest, thrifted; jeans, Levi’s; shoes, Sperry Topsider. Me: sweater, H&M; tank, H&M; leggings, Express; flats, Lucky Brand; earrings/ring, gift shop in Branson, MO.) 

the thick of it

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 36^th 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 34^th week. And if you’re feeling particularly uncouth then you’ll say “your ass is getting fat” to a girl in her 34^th 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.

Buy it here:

labor of love

Labor Day 2012

South Beach, Port Washington, WI

My only labor is that of love, but who says that can’t be celebrated with a day at the beach. Rinn played with sand for very first time and amazingly, wasn’t tempted to put handfuls of it in his mouth.  He also drooled enough to make his own pool and would spend very little time in the actual lake. My husband and I learned that egg salad sandwiches do NOT make for a great picnic lunch at the beach and that when focusing on not forgetting to pack anything Rinn-related, we forgot to put on swimsuits ourselves. Ah duh. 

On a more serious note:

“Always kiss your children good night; even if they’re already asleep.”

–H. Jackson Brown Jr. 

Posting our celebratory Labor Day pictures seems insensitive in the light of the drowning of local teenager, Tyler Buczek.  Rescue boats were still combing the waters as Rinn played in the sand but in that moment I was just so happy to be blessed with such a beautiful baby boy.

The Buczek’s loss has struck a very sensitive nerve within myself. 10 years ago this October my little sister was killed in a tragic accident; she too was a freshman, having only a taste high school, when the vehicle she was riding in collided with a semi-trailer truck due to immense fog.  These two horrible tragedies have nothing in common other than that both victims were at such a tender age and had much more to live for.  I didn’t know Tyler and I don’t know his family but what I do know is their pain. I have watched my parents live the last decade in mourning, as you never quite recover from the loss of a child. Now, I am a parent myself and I finally understand the indescribable love that mothers and fathers have for their children. 

I pray for them, and for every parent. 

yogurt cake

It’s no secret that the French are a superior people. They don’t gain weight. They speak the language of love. They invented the modern “haute couture.” And now, of all things, they are being applauded on their parenting philosophy. 

I read Bringing Up Bébé (by Pamela Druckerman) when Rinn was only a few weeks old and threw out every other parenting book with his dirty diapers. It’s less of a manual and more of an American journalist’s insight into the world of French parenting. I have since adopted the French philosophy with amazing results.  Rinn has slept through the night since 3 weeks old, he eats four times a day (8am, noon, 4pm and 8pm) and at only seven months, is capable of entertaining himself  thru an adult meal with minimal interruption.

Believe you me, there are parts of the book that had me in a fit of jealous rage; such as their free government-subsidized day cares and preschools, the fact that French mothers receive a minimum of four months paid maternity leave and the national insurance covers the cost for vaginal and abdominal physical therapy postpartum; of which, the United States’ equivalent is sending new mommies home with a plastic bag full of ice diapers.  Gee whiz, remind me to write the hospital a generous thank you for frozen underwear.

If that isn’t enough, higher education is funded by the state (yep, that’s right, French parents aren’t bothered with saving for college) and the “state even helps pay for some tummy tucks, usually when the mother’s belly hangs below her pubis, or when it’s inhibiting her sex life.”  (Bringing Up Bébé, 185.) That alone is reason enough to consider an international relocation.  If they start handing out free diapers I plan to call up Rosetta Stone, order the entire French language on CD-ROM, and move my whole family to France for the complimentary cosmetic surgery and I’ll spend any college tuition we’ve managed to save on baguettes and Dom Pérignon.  Oh to hell with it, we’re going even if the only French I know I learned from the Moulin Rouge soundtrack.   We will make do.

Other lessons the French engage in are baking projects.  Almost from birth, children assist in making what the French call gâteau au yaourt, or simply yogurt cake.  “Baking is the perfect lesson in patience” says Bringing Up Bébé.  How, in my right mind, could I pass that up? Plus I like cake, so sue me. The recipe seemed simple enough; using the empty yogurt containers to measure a number of the other ingredients. With that said, Rinn and I proceeded to make the recipe below; with caution of course, I still have the tendency to botch a box of Stove Top stuffing so I am pretty apprehensive when it comes to adventures in the kitchen.  At this point, Rinn simply watches but sitting idly by as I put together an entire cake is a feat most infants don’t manage, so I can only assume we are on the right track. 

My finished product resembled a pound cake which concerns me since the dessert description uses the words “light” and “not-to-sweet.” I think the key is strictly adhering to the part about “mix[ing] gently” and not over mixing.  I cheated and used my hand mixer, so very American of me, damn it.  I probably didn’t set the best example for patience either when I can’t even take the time to A.) follow simple directions and B.) stir the ingredients by hand. 

I get an F for the “lesson in patience” and a solid B- for the actual cake (this part I’m assuming since the cake was actually eaten) so that averages to what, a D+?  Meh, at least I passed. 

Not so much interested in making yourself unnecessarily jealous of the French but want to try your hand at gâteau au yaourt? I've provided the recipe below. Godspeed, or as the french would say "bonne chance." 

Rinn can't even enjoy the cake yet (no teeth); he's just ridiculously excited to supervise (or he just crapped his pants. That also makes him ridiculously excited.)

RECIPE

Ingredients

2 six-once containers plain whole-milk yogurt

(don’t throw away the empty containers, you’ll use them to measure the other ingredients)

2 eggs

2 containers sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

Just under 1 container vegetable oil

4 containers flour

1 ½ teaspoons baking powder

Créme fraîche and powdered sugar (optional)

Preheat oven to 375.

Use vegetable oil to grease a 9-inch round cake pan or loaf pan.

Gently combine the yogurt, eggs, sugar, vanilla, and oil. In a separate bowl, mix the flour and baking powder. Add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients; mix gently until ingredients are just combined (don’t overmix). You can add 2 containers frozen berries, a container of chocolate chips, or any flavoring you like. Bake for 35 minutes, then five minutes more if the cake doesn’t pass the knife test. It should be almost crispy on the outside, but springy on the inside. Let it cool. Serve with powdered sugar or crème fraîche.

sticky

"Even when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to be sticky."

-Fran Lebowitz

center for kids who can't read good

Rinn has a bedtime routine. It includes a bottle, a bath, a story and then he puts himself to sleep while listening to classical music and cuddling this hideous stuffed bear head that has a blanket for a body. The classical music thing is his choice, not mine.  I assume that since I taught ballet classes until I was 36 weeks pregnant, he finds those sounds the most comforting or let’s be honest, you could snort a pack of No-Doz and eat crack rock and that stuff would still put you to sleep. 

This may all seem fairly traditional, and for the most part you’re right.  Unless you’re one of those people who only bathe their children every couple of days in which case you’re thinking “A bath everyday? This woman has lost her damn mind.” To which I respond, babies are dirty; they sit around all day spitting up on themselves and crapping in their pants. Neither of which I do, and I still try to commit to daily showers.  Plus Rinn likes tub time and who am I to take that away from him?

  

Rinn also likes reading, well the act of reading; okay so maybe he only likes grabbing at the pages of books and trying like hell to crumple them in his tiny fists.  Give this kid the coupon section of the newspaper and he’s as happy as if he were in a barrel full of boobies.  Still, I enjoy our story time.  

Here’s where things get a little unconventional.  We got through his entire book collection in the first couple of weeks and let’s be honest, how many times can you read “Runaway Bunny” without snapping and screaming “damn it you little rabbit, quit you’re shit and go home with mother rabbit before she gets grey hair, or hare.” (I’m glad I could fit that little zing in there.)  So, while I still have the liberty of picking out our bedtime stories, I use this time to catch up on my own reading. We’ve covered everything from Great Expectations to US Weekly. We closely followed Snooki’s pregnancy and Summer fashion trends. Other nights I would introduce him to the works of Wally Lamb or Janet Finch.  Rinn’s even listened as I read articles from Parenting on how to tackle the upcoming and inevitable tantrums after which, he looked up me with those big green, sometimes blue, eyes as if to say “don’t worry mommy, I’ll never refuse to eat my vegetables or call you a poopyhead.” He also asked that I save a “My MIL is my BFF” editorial so that one day he can properly prepare his future wife. He is so thoughtful. 

Rinn and I caught reading marie claire. 

Side note: I was not a huge Miley Cyrus fan prior to this issue, but after reading the interview I've decided we are soulmates. Miley, call me, let's get lunch.

bump to baby: 7 months young.

Rinn is 7-months-old today and to commemorate the occasion I strapped him to my chest to mimic those final days of pregnancy.  He nearly brought me to my knees as I tried to navigate the apartment stairs, but at 20 pounds and some-odd ounces, he weighs just a fraction of the weight that I gained during pregnancy. I now see it as a miracle that I packed on 50 pounds and lived to tell about it.

Happy Partial-Birthday Rinn!

Mommy loves you!

 (Even if it felt like my butthole turned inside out trying to bring you into this world.)