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Slow Down

I know I’m getting older. My arthritis riddled joints do a solid job of reminding me every morning when I struggle to get out of bed and spend the next 45 minutes limping around like a pirate with a peg leg and possible scoliosis.  And if by midday I’ve managed to forget that I’m no spring chicken there’s always some schmuck who comments on my shoes that I purchased back in the ancient age of 2006 with “oh my gawwwd, I was in 7th grade.” Cool. I know you’re kind, you’re probably the same girl who would tell someone their ass is getting fat when they’re 36 weeks pregnant.  No one likes you.

Bitter is not my best look.

This really isn’t about me anyhow. The other person getting older?  Rinn.  

As of today, I’m the proud new owner of a 4-year-old.  At the risk of sounding cliche, it happens in an instant.  One day, in a fit of nervous excitement, you’re toting home the tiniest of helpless humans and the next, that same human is a pocket-sized person is giving you grief about your sandwich cutting technique while aiding in the unloading of the dishwasher.  (What? Sorting the silverware is just awful and there’s no such thing as a free lunch.)

As a parent, your child will never outgrow being your “baby”.  Just ask my dad, his favorite past-time, regardless of my protests, is reminding me that I’m still his baby. My body tells me in 76 and my parents coddle me as if I were 5.  It’s all very confusing. But it was in the moment that I snapped the photo below when I realized there isn’t a lot of baby left in my own child. He looks damn near grown and I quickly kicked myself for wishing he’d gain that extra pound so I could get him into a booster seat and I could put the days of wrestling with a racing harness behind me. I probably would’ve wept in that moment but he immediately shouted that he was "very sorry" because he "might’ve just pooped a little in [his] pants."

With that said:

To My Dearest Rinn,

You can slow down now.  

Sure, the prospect of growing up sounds enticing (no one is going to tear you away from “farming” for 15 minutes and force you to try and poop) but it also comes with car payments, heartbreak and you’ll spend entirely too much time yelling “REPRESENTATIVE” in various accents and inflections at an automated customer service message.

You still love basketball, soccer and running bases because it’s pure unsullied fun and those brown sugar Pop-Tarts and Wendy’s french fries that I’ve allowed you to sustain yourself on won’t go straight to your thighs.  

More importantly, and ultimately selfish on my behalf, I just adore that you consistently tell me “mom, you’re my best friend” and mean it.  Granted, I used to chalk it up to being your only friend because, let’s face it, you didn’t get out much (remember when you thought the trick-or-treaters were your “friends” and cried yourself to sleep because you wanted them to come back and play?)  But now, you go to school and dance class and have a basketball team so I take great pride in knowing I’m still at the top of that list.  Someday I’ll have to enforce a curfew or you’ll be less than keen on helping me unload the dishwasher; and it’s guaranteed I’ll disapprove of a future girlfriend; I won’t be your best friend anymore. It’ll be some kid down the street named Cletus who I’ll spend much of your teen years being weirdly jealous of because he’s the reason I dropped a few rungs on the friendship ladder.  

So again, slow down.  Let us enjoy these days where it’s still hilarious that you mispronounce pumpkin as a certain f-word and I know your whereabouts each night without having to draft a text message (which you will undoubtedly ignore.)  

I love you Rinn and welcome to 4!

With love,

Mom

“Your Best Friend”

Who is parenting who?

“Don’t forget to bring these to put in the toilets.”

Said my toddler as he shoved a handful of tampons in my face.

Maybe there’s a chapter in one of those parenting books that instructs you what to do with your inquisitive toddler when it’s just the two of you amidst a TJ Maxx raid and menstruation is about to ruin a perfectly good pair of underwear (that you finally managed to put on forward-facing and right-side-out) but that would’ve required me actually opening one.

What to Expect When You’re Expecting served as a coaster and those informative pamphlets from my OB might’ve been used to level a wonky end table. The day I found out I was pregnant I scanned a quick paragraph about hemorrhaging from ectopic pregnancies and decided that I prefer the element of surprise.  

But seriously, the method I’ve adopted means commandeering the handicap stall and taking care of my lady business while Rinn plays this fun game where he pretends to unlock and open the door while emceeing my toilet business and making awkward comments about the difference between the male and female anatomy.  

“How do you pee without a penis?”

“You’re sitting down, are you pooping?”

“I WAAAANNNNNAAAA SEEEE!”

What’s the alternative?  Instruct him to wait outside the stall while I swap out plugs and hope that he doesn’t take this as an opportunity to try out a new family like he does every Summer at the public pool or chat up some stranger about The Lion Guard and show them his “tiger claws?”  Seems like the fast track to an abduction and I don’t have near the skill set of Liam Neeson.  

So I have a son who is acutely aware of the menstrual cycle and the tools necessary to surf the crimson wave; his future girlfriend will thank me when he doesn’t have a tantrum about grabbing her a box of Playtex Supers from CVS.

the fur child

I suck at blogging.

Hilarity is still a frequent occurrence in my day-to-day affairs and I still err on the side of funny, or so they tell me, but I’m busy.  The works-6-days-a-week, chases-a-toddler-from-preschool-to-dance-to-basketball, has-a-relationship-of-the-romantic-variety, carries-13-credits kind of busy.  I poop at the grocery store more then I poop at home and in the throes of tourist season I spend more time bathing my horse then I do my own child. Find the time to document my absurd life in more than 140 characters? Laughable.

Those infrequent spare moments are usually spent napping in 20 minute increments, supervising the construction of a Paw Patrol puzzle or looking at pictures of clothes I’ll never own and baby animals on Pinterest.  With that said, let me introduce you to the newest member of the band, Tui (rhymes with “chewy.”)

Because the most logical thing to do when you’re already overextended is to throw a furry hand grenade at your life.  In his defense, he’s a good dog.  Okay, he’s not a bad dog.  I’ll reserve the adjective “good” for when he stops trying to devour all of Rinn’s stuffed animals with the same fervor that I consume a bottle of pinot.  Put Rinn and Tui together however, and well, you know the chaotic scene from Kindergarten Cop where it’s Arnold’s first day as a substitute teacher and all the children are behaving like wild animals; wild animals with fingerpaints and the ability to throw anything that isn’t nailed down?  It’s that, tenfold. There’s nipping and defensive headlocks, barking and shrill screams of delight and/or terror, pinching and clawing and one of them has always just farted so the entire scene smells like our septic system needs to be flushed.

I scream, they cry, everyone goes to timeout while I google “tubal ligation” and “where to buy animal tranquilizers” for me and the dog, but mostly for me.

will the real rebecca please stand up

I never considered my life to be all that bizarre but the expressions on someone's face when I casually mention that I accidentally smashed my SUV into the broad side of a house trying to thwart off a spider that just belayed from my sun visor tell me that perhaps my existence is slightly more colorful than most.  It should be noted that the house belonged to an ex boyfriend and I had literally just finished telling him that I needed space, permanently. "Hey I don't really care to see your face anymore" but let me drive my car into your living space so that we can drag this out through uncomfortably forced interactions supervised by insurance adjusters.  Like I said, colorful.

The most recent development in my curious existence is that I'm a victim of identity theft. Started as completely basic stuff; some concerning credit alerts and obscene charges to my debit card, one of which was a donation to the American Red Cross.  Want to feel like an asshole?  File a dispute with a nonprofit humanitarian organization. I was only mildly inconvenienced and irritated until Netflix cancelled my membership due to non-payment. I suppose that's what happens when the card used to foot the bill has been compromised.  Go right ahead and send someone $160 worth of flowers from ftd.com at my expense and acquire a car loan using my social, be my guest, but DO NOT come between me and my Californication marathon or things will get ugly. I need my Marcy fix or I come completely unhinged.

Things didn't necessarily get ugly but they did go all Outer Limits when the alleged thief began texting a friend of mine posing as me.  Have I blown your mind yet?  

"Sexy mom"? Gross. Who in their right mind would possibly talk about themselves in a such a manner? I can handle the financial mess this person has left me in but don't impersonate me and then make me sound like such a vapid twat.  

Obviously I called the number only to get an automated message, no surprise really but I did receive a "Hi" text in response.  Fake-me messaging real-me. Cue theme from The Twilight Zone.  In short I told them to go live their own life, mine isn't for the taking; and I might have called them a psychopathic crack pot and threw in the knife emoji for good measure.  

snow day

Raising a child in Arkansas comes with it's own set of challenges; like having to dose the young one with prescribed flouride because the water in these parts remains untreated and knowing that the phrases "get me some" and "y'all" stand a strong chance of creeping their way into the bambino's vocabulary, and not in the clever "I'm particularly good at accents" way but in the way that leaves him sounding alarmingly uneducated.  

And then there's the fact even the faintest whisper of snow causes the entire state to close up shop.  Schools close for days at a time, I'm released from work early and Wal-Mart sells out of cat food and bread. You know, because nothing encourages you to eat a half a dozen sandwiches like a dusting of powder and on the off chance you're marooned for an extended period of time, the last thing you need to be bothered with is your cat making a serious run for the meat on your face. 

Sure I poke fun, but there was a time last winter where we were sequestered to our home for nearly six days. Snow removal isn't exactly Arkansas' forte. There simply aren't enough household activities to distract the terrible-twos for almost a week and I ran out of wine, gravely contemplating the effects of drinking rubbing alcohol. 

A lesson was learned, the hard way.  Now when the weatherman calls for snow I have a stockpile of wine and episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on hand to keep us both entertained and sane while the public works department is busy schooling itself in plowing.

if peacocks could dance

It's no secret that I teach dance.  Mostly contemporary classes, a little ballet, jazz on occasion and tap if the class is of the beginner variety or times are desperate.  My tap repertoire consists only of dancing along to Al Gilbert records and ceased when, at the age of 11, I was called upon to perform a tap solo to what I'm pretty sure was "Santa Baby" dressed in a sassy Ms. Claus outfit.  Think Mean Girls rendition of "Jingle Bell Rock" replacing their whore boots with white character heels outfitted with taps. I'm sure it was a little less seductive but definitely just as ridiculous.  

Being a dance educator comes with it's fair share of luxuries; I wear what could easily pass as pajamas to work, there's an abnormal amount of rolling around on the floor and Rinn gets complimentary preschool dance lessons. Let's not forget that what I do fills me with such elation that it seems hardly fair that I get paid to do so.  Doing what you love is a blessing, being able to do it in sweatpants, well, quite simply, there are no words.

There may come a time when Rinn complains about being carted off to a 10am dance class, whines about having to sit through hours of rehearsal or objects to spending his weekends surrounded by screaming girls in fake eyelashes who survive solely on rhinestones and aerosol hairspray; but if we're in agreement with the studies claiming a babies awareness of sound and movement commence early in the womb, he's probably predisposed to this life considering I taught well into my 35th week of pregnancy. It probably doesn't hurt that all this involves him being gushed over by 30-some-odd young ladies.   

Just as male peacocks use their brilliant feathers to attract a harem of hens, my son unabashedly uses impromptu song and dance routines to woo women of all ages.  Am I concerned that my 3-year-old already experiences impaired judgement when it comes to the fairer sex?  Absolutely.  But at least his courtship is kind of hilarious.