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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. 

musketeers pee in their pants

This may come as a surprise to most of you but this blog didn't exactly pay the bills.  To give you some perspective, I could probably afford the sales tax on a pack of gum with what I raked in writing this ridiculous thing.  Perhaps if I published a post more than once every 18 months I could swing a multipack. The point being, writing is a hobby; dance, whether it's teaching it or doing it, was always what kept the creditors at bay. 

However, it was brought to my attention on a recent getaway to my motherland that there are a few fans out there jonesing for a dose of "Hot Mess Mommy."  Also I lost a pair of used underwear somewhere between Target and my front door today and thought to myself "everyone in the online world MUST hear about this" so I'm throwing caution to the wind and staging a comeback.  

Underwear has always been kind of a struggle for me.  One day it's inside out, the next it's backwards and then there was the time that I took it off mid-outing with a former boyfriend in a horribly lame Basic Instinct rendition. Whoever decidedly stole my coat that evening ended up with an awkward bonus in the pocket.  Today's loss was substantially less sexy in that I just couldn't be bothered to put them back on after taking them off to tan. 

Don't judge, life is hard sometimes.

It would appear that my son is on par to have similar struggles considering he is freshly three and has yet to wear a pair because, boys and girls, we have yet to master potty training.  I have one of those strange children that finds using public toilets fascinating but when at home can't take a break from terrorizing the house with a foam pirate sword pretending to be a member of The Three Musketeers long enough to take a leak. 

After a few infuriating months I've succumbed to a more laissez-faire approach hoping that all those people who preach "one day it will just click" have a clue. I really don't want to someday be buying adult diapers for the both of us (which I'll undoubtedly put on backwards and inside out)

"Underwear be damned!"

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.

tiny bubbles

I have spent a fair amount of time thinking about the benefits of time travel; nothing unhealthy, I'm not drafting plans to build my own machine in some secret bunker underneath my apartment but I won't lie, it's crossed my mind.  Mostly when I'm reminded that I fractured my cheekbone falling out of a hot tub or when I think about all of the years I spent thinking that pickles were a vegetable all their own and grew underground, similar to a potato. 

Other times I'd like to relive lifes more precious, not so embarrassing, moments like when St. Nick brought Rinn his first bottle of bubble bath and I got this face. I hope he's this excited when someday he gets underwear in his stocking, just like his dad. 

tis the season

As a kid, Christmas was the most excellent of holidays; there were presents and cookies and days off of school and of course, the late night holiday parties thrown by your parents which resulted in family trips to the ER the following morning because dad tore his ACL dancing his wildly drunk ass off in the basement. Yeah, excellent…

As an adult, Christmas is exhausting.  I’m not sure I realized as a child that someone has to actually bake those cookies and buy those presents. And days off?  Let’s be serious, the last time I had a real day off was before Rinn learned that he can walk the entire length of the apartment simply by staying in close proximity to and gripping the walls, resembling a tiny Spiderman or someone who has just thrown themselves at a Velcro wall.     

Bah humbug.

Good, now that I got that out of my system I can move forward with wishing all of you the happiest of holidays and best wishes in the New Year. My resolutions include the obvious love more and eat less but more importantly, I’m vowing to pull myself out of this creative funk and blog more frequently.   If you’re looking for me, I can probably be found sitting dangerously close to a light box trying to ward off the winter blues.  

Our holiday card, courtesy of the always wonderful Now It's Personal Photography. 

on the move

A week ago I had a baby who was relatively stationary; with his only source of transportation being a painfully slow rolling maneuver. This had its benefits, since it made it possible for me to leave him unattended for small periods of time; allowing me to do things like change a load of laundry, microwave a Lean Cuisine or whip up a batch of meth in my bath tub.

On the same note, I was incredibly eager for him to start crawling. You see, I was kind of over having to carry him all over the place; carting a baby around on your hip is similar to toting around a 25 pound sack of potatoes, a sack of potatoes that wiggles and pulls your hair. I thought if he would just learn to crawl he could then follow me from room to room; comparable to having a lost puppy, without that mess involving him chewing on my shoes.

I grossly miscalculated. See: the power of free will.

He’s not so much interested in being my shadow as he is exploring every square inch of our apartment and making it obvious that I need to do a substantially better job at vacuuming.  Rinn tries on a daily basis to eat my slippers while they're still on my feet, why wouldn't he be interested in putting in his mouth the Pizzeria Combo that's been taking refuge under our couch since we moved in over two months ago?

until college

I make an effort to change Rinn’s diaper in the middle of the night. That's a lie. I make an effort to tell my husband to change Rinn’s diaper in the middle of the night.  He works second shift, so really it’s the only practical option.  I don’t do this because I suffer from that pesky mom guilt, I do this because of normal person guilt, the kind that comes with allowing someone to snooze away while soaking in their own piss.    

On a New Years Eve a number of years ago, I might have drank my own weight in moonshine and I might have maybe wet the bed. Not my proudest moment, but now I'm aware that it's not great waking up damp and stinking of urine; so I try not to let him experience that, at least not until college.

The wildest part, he will sleep straight through someone reaching into his crib and disrobing him in the middle of the night but he's up and howling if he hear's my toe clicking in or around his room.  Explanations welcome. 

the care bear prophecy

At some point in my early years I was given a handmade Care Bear, the Bedtime Bear to be specific.  In my opinion, the aunt that bestowed this gift upon me might have also greatly impacted my passion for naps.  I like them lengthy, and I like them often. I sometimes think that if she had given me the Love-A-Lot Bear I wouldn’t be such a judgmental bitch but where is the fun in that. 

Through what I can only describe as some sort of miraculous phenomenon, I still have this bear.  If hoarders are at one end of the spectrum, then I’m on the polar opposite; everything in my possession gets thrown out, given away or auctioned off on eBay.  This happens mostly because I hate packing things and then subsequently moving them.  I’m on my fourth mattress in six years because I always just leave them behind. Hey, grab that bag of stuffed animals and those 38 pairs of shoes I’ve worn all of one time but go ahead and leave the bed? 

Taking this small memento of my past and making it part of my future was just too great an opportunity to pass up.  Also, how freaking cute are these pictures?

Happiest of Halloweens to you!