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

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!

the great mitten caper

Like most people, I have a travel coffee mug.  Unlike most people, mine has been repurposed as a travel booze cup.  Sure I’ve put coffee in it on occasion but mostly it’s used to bring mixers into unsuspecting places like: homecoming football games, the movie theatre and on celebratory occasions, work.  In a past life I would just use water bottles but that came to an abrupt halt when I mistook a spiked bottle for run-of-the-mill H2O and guzzled vodka water on my way into work one morning.  Nothing quite like getting the dry heaves for twenty minutes to convince you to spend a few extra bucks on a more distinguishable cup.  

Not surprisingly, my cup and I have had very few outings together since my son has come into the picture.  Mostly because I no longer go anywhere and a little because people would probably frown upon me caring for my child in a constant state of intoxication.  People can be so weird.

So when it came time to take Rinn to the pumpkin farm, the travel mug stayed behind.  And it’s a good thing too because carting around pumpkins after consuming a hot tottie can be a little challenging; speaking from experience of course. Not to mention that I ended up having to fight off a goat who snatched Rinn’s brand new mitten thru the fence and tried to eat it.  I am not above kicking some farm animal ass if they come between me and clothes but should I have been forced to choose between holding onto my cup or chasing down that mitten, I can promise you that I would’ve been ordering a new pair when we got home all the while secretly hoping that goat choked on the stolen goods and got what he deserved.

Weeks later and with this memory freshly emblazoned on my brain but knowing that the chances of us encountering a thieving beast while trick or treating were slim to none; I filled my cup with wine for the occasion, to the brim. And to hell with it, if we do stumble across the path some bat shit crazy wombat whose sole purpose in life is to eat my hat, well he can have it.  Hats aren’t a good look on me anyway. 

Rinn's first trip to the pumpkin farm and my husband pretending he enjoys eating my hair.

Pumpkin proud.

The great mitten caper.

Robbery in progress.

we all scream

I’m not a fan of Rachel Bilson, so I was totally fine with her becoming completely irrelevant after The O.C. wrapped its final season.  Then she became Karl Lagerfeld’s pet project and the face of Magnum Ice Cream and suddenly she has her own show on The C.W.  Why can’t I be Lagerfield’s pet; we both consider diet Coke to be a sort of life blood and I admire him for making clean-sheet-day every day. Bilson, that whore.

I vowed to stop eating those wonderful ice cream treats in protest, but seriously, have you ever had the white chocolate ones? They make me weak in the knees.  So Rinn and I watch Hart of Dixie only to scoff at Bilson while indulging in the very thing that probably initiated her comeback. Meh, as long as I have my dessert. 

rinn wants new toys

My husband is on the floor playing with our son this morning and he says to me “Rinn wants new toys; he’s over these.” Suddenly he’s the baby whisperer, when just moments ago he called me into the living room asking why Rinn’s smile has transformed into this scrunched up expression where he throws his head back and squishes up his face. Its days like these that I find myself rolling my eyes so frequently I’m thankful that the age-old adage “if you keep making that face, it will stay like that forever” is just a harmless lie all mothers tell their children to get them to behave within the parameters of acceptable social behavior.

The truth: we need more baby toys about as much as we need a pet gorilla that throws hand grenades.  I probably look like a real butthead not wanting to buy my baby new toys but seriously, it’s not as if Rinn is sitting around with his chin in his hand, checking the time because his play things now bore him. 

It’s simple, his tastes are evolving.  You throw all of his bath toys in the tub and he’d rather play with the cup we use to dump water on his head. Present him with a stuffed animal and he goes straight for the tag.  And try to get him to sit through an episode of Sesame Street and he throws a temper tantrum because you won’t let him put the remote in his mouth. I’ve never seen him so delighted as when I gave him a pot and some plastic serving spoons.  I’m not so sure he’s in dire need of new baby toys as much as he just really wants to explore the things he sees his dad and I handling.  

Okay so maybe my theory only explains the bath cup and the TV remote since it’s not as if my husband and I are running around the house sucking on the tags of our bed sheets and sweaters and things.  Things definitely get weird around here (see yesterday’s post about casserole, strange, and I'm sorry) and there have been instances where a padded room might have been helpful but we aren’t known for putting things in our mouths that don’t belong there.  I have to assume the tag fixation is pretty common amongst the little ones since someone out there took it upon themselves to design entire toys around it, see:

Not that I would actually spend money on something like that, not when Rinn is equally, if not more happy with the tags on bath towels and blankets. Our new toy problem is easily resolved by making sure the tagged things that already exist around the house are fairly clean, and by introducing Rinn to the tupperware cabinet. Oh the possibilities, the free possibilities.

peekaboo

Rinn is a big fan of peekaboo (what baby isn’t) but apparently, he was totally over waiting around for me to play because he figured out a way to make me disappear and reappear all by himself.   

Keep up the good work my son, you’re making this parenting thing a breeze.

(P.S. I wish the quality were better but this video was taken with what I'm pretty sure is the first Blackberry ever.  I am cursed with being behind the technological times.)

the little drummer boy

The Biebs better watch his back. There's a new boy drummer in town.

a dance recital

Part of my daily routine is letting Rinn play on the floor with a bunch of plastic farm animals while I attempt to put together blog posts and lesson plans for my dance classes.  Oh don’t give me that, babies need time to themselves too and it’s not like I’m one of those “free-range parent” wack jobs you’ve seen on GMA who is letting their 4-year-old ride solo on the New York subway system.  I don’t know which is worse, her or that lady from Time Magazine who will undoubtedly be breast feeding her son while he preps for the SAT’s.  Two words: happy medium, find it.

I hit shuffle on iTunes and go to work, or at least I make a very valiant effort to. Unfortunately I suffer from what I’ve affectionately dubbed as “bass syndrome” (like the fish) characterized by first, being distracted by, and then following, any and all shiny objects; doctors call it ADHD, but what do they know?  This applies to more than just shiny objects obviously and when shuffle has its shit together, more often than not, this time turns into an impromptu dance recital.  Nothing fancy, just a few excellent jams (usually from the 90’s) and my killer moves. Rinn digs it.  Or at least I think he does, I mean he’s too young to have one of those “you look soooooo stupid” malicious laughs, right?

Fast forward forty-or-so minutes: I’ve accomplished nothing and I’m so exhausted from hopping around like a fart in a mitten that Rinn and I have to lie down for a nap.  Just another day in my life.

Today’s Rinn-Approved Recital Mix:

1.      Wannabe – Spicegirls

2.      Run Away – The Real McCoy

3.      I love you always forever – Donna Lewis

4.      I only wanna be with you – Hootie & TheBlowfish

5.      Gonna make you sweat – C+C Music Factory

6.      Mambo No. 5 – Lou Bega

7.      Miami – Will Smith

8.      Mr. Vain – Culture Beat

9.      Steal My Sunshine – Len

10.       No Scrubs - TLC

babysitter

Us Weekly‏@usweekly

Rihanna offered to babysit Snooki's son Lorenzo. http://usm.ag/PHXTgf  Would you let her take care of your child for a night?


Rihanna, 

I realize that your tweet was an offer to watch Lorenzo but I'm looking for sitter for my eight-month-old son, Rinn, on Wednesday evenings while I attend book club meetings and Thursday evenings while I teach dance classes. This is an unpaid position but if it's any incentive, I'll agree to use your songs during my modern and jazz classes. I have zilch for celebrity status but my kid's cute and he digs your music. Not so much your new haircut, but you two will have plenty of time to discuss that during your twice-weekly hang-out sessions.

See, totally cute. 

Please forward me your resume' as soon as possible and Rinn can't wait to hear from you. 

Yours Truly,
Rebecca and Rinn

sippy cup

Word on the street is that babies should be cut off from the bottle around the 14^th month mark.  The street being a cashier at Wal-mart; when you have a baby in your cart, everyone thinks they’re qualified to dish out parenting advice.  I find its best to listen, nod your head in agreement, and say “I definitely HAVE to try that.”  Then call your mom when you get to the car and tell her this world is full of crackpots and you’re seriously considering homeschooling.

In this case, the Wal-Mart lady was right but she made it sound as if the bottle was baby crack and transitioning Rinn would be worse than when I had to give up soft cheeses while pregnant. Don’t get between me and my feta.  I’ll admit that I thought she might be an all-knowing prophetic baby gypsy when Rinn was given his first sippy cup since the crying and screaming that ensued was similar to what I imagine would happen if someone were to accidently unlock the gates to hell. Turns out that sippy cup was a piece of shit and you needed the suction power of a Dyson to get anything out of it. Sippy cup number two went over much better since it would appear that Rinn just wants food in his mouth, how it arrives there makes absolutely no difference to him.  

Rinn’s typical lunch includes some multi-grain baby oatmeal, equal portions of pureed fruit and vegetable and a finger food; usually the baby version of Cheeto’s, which he doesn’t mind sharing.  All store bought. There is not a chance in hell you’ll find me jumping on the bandwagon of that make-your-own-baby-food trend, gross. And I have much better things to do with my time like watch 80 episodes of Prison Break on Netflix or drink three Red Bulls and try on everything in my closet (which is how I track my weight loss.)

Post-lunch he gets a sippy cup of apple juice and water. I HATE the sippy cup.

He will drink the cup, but at his own leisure and only between episodes of waving it around like it’s caught on fire.  I’m not sure how much juice is actually making it into his mouth however, because the end result looks something like this:

The shirt I get, but the back of your head Rinn? Really? It’s like the time I was out with friends and one of them managed to throw up on their own back and then tried to blame it on the cab driver.  If I had the time, I’d run the necessary experiments to explain this little enigma but alas, someone needs a bath (and I need to get back to Prison Break.)  

And for those of you in the market for a sippy cup avoid the Nuk Learner Cup (pictured below) at all costs, unless of course you enjoy tantrums, then by all means, be my guest. 

We had substantially better fortune with the Playtex First Sipster (pictured below,) and the name is exponentially cooler.

tracksuits

Chas, Ari and Uzi Tenenbaum

U.S. Women's Olympic Gymnastics Team 2012

RUN DMC

Rinn and I.

(In our tracksuits, we keep good company.)