yogurt cake: follow up

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.

Cheers! (or as the French would say Santè!)

move it, move it: follow up

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. 

barf, and for once, not mine

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 89^th 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. 

oh my god, shoes.

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.

My heart melted. There is hope for us yet. 

hush little baby

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. 

still blushing

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's Confessional

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.