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.

I must be dreaming

I’m obsessed with decoding my dreams.  If someone was to check my Blackberry first thing in the morning, they would discover that my search history is ridden with dream dictionary sites, a few of which I’ve taken the time to bookmark.  I rarely read my horoscope unless I come across it when perusing Elle; instead I rely totally on my subconscious to show me my fate. So as you can see, this simply isn’t something that can just wait till morning. 

Last night I had a dream that Rinn (in his current state) walked up to me, removed his diaper and pissed all over me.   The kid won’t even crawl yet so of course I found myself desperately groping for my phone in the middle of the night.  DreamMoods.com said the following:

“To dream that someone is urinating on you means that you are feeling the emotional burden of this person.”

Way to tell it like it is DeamMoods.com. But I love Rinn’s emotional burden so if we can find a different way for my subconscious to convey this message to me rather than by way of a golden shower from my baby, it would be greatly appreciated.

P.S. I should mention that sometimes I overdo it on my medication (you know, you take your pill in the morning, forget, so you accidently take a second with dinner.) In those instances I just accept that my dreams are wild hallucinations. I enjoy the ride and try not to read too much into it. 

If my dream is life changing I'll tweet: @RebeccaRinn

blues baby

In my mind, Rinn is the new face of Ray-Ban. In reality, I am crafty with photoshop and a picture of Rinn wearing his Ray-Ban Junior Wayfarers. 

(Disclaimer: Let’s just assume that whatever needs to be printed here so that I don’t get sued by Ray-Ban or any of its affiliates over the use of their logo and their “Never Hide” ad campaign is actually printed here.  I’m a stay-at-home mom with too much time on her hands and an imagination that runs a bit wild sometimes and I’m pretty sure this falls under the Fair Use doctorine. Let’s not get legal.)

I Tweet: @RebeccaRinn

Look as cool as Rinn:

Pilot

UrbanDictionary.com defines “Hot Mess” as the following:

“When one’s thoughts or appearances are in a state of pitiful disarray but they maintain an undeniable attractiveness or beauty.” 

While I would beg to differ with the “beauty” part, the rest of the definition appears to be spot on with my current state of affairs.  Add the term “mommy” and things enter a whole new realm of crazy.

Most of you remember my former blog “Someone Put Rum In My Milkshake”, which I abandoned shortly after finding out I was pregnant and having every ounce of wit zapped from my body, an occurrence I felt was a direct correlation with sobriety. Turns out, it was less that I was sober and more that I was pregnant.  Even if I hadn’t become the size of your average two bedroom apartment, pregnancy was never going to be a good look on me. Rather than feeling as though I was growing a mini-me deep within my abdominal cavity, I felt like I was growing rage in its purest form.  As it turns out there was a baby in there and I discovered that my fetus, not rage, was fueled by unhealthy cravings for doughnuts and A&W Root Beer.  

My hostility subsided shortly after our son entered this world; unless you’re my husband, then I stood over your side of the bed holding a pillow just inches above your sleeping face, convincing myself that I had NOT really seen enough episodes of CSI and Law & Order to pull off the perfect murder because you didn’t put your dirty plate in the dishwasher. Postpartum depression wasn’t my thing but postpartum psychosis targeting the one person who allowed me to have our tiny blessing, wasn’t beyond my capabilities. Still, I wasn’t quite convinced picking up where drunk-Rebecca left off was in the best interest of my present offspring.  With real life changes come virtual life changes, enter “Hot Mess Mommy” aka www.hotmessandmom.blogspot.com. The actual domain hotmessmommy.com was already taken by a woman, who at first glance, advocates feeding your child homemade sunbutter (whatever the bleep that is) and zucchini bread.  Seriously?  You can’t be much of any kind of mess if you’re handcrafting your own nutritious version of what appears to be Nutella.  The other option, hotmessmommy.blogspot.com hasn’t updated her blog since 2009.  Shame on her, there should be a law against wasting precious worldwide web resources.  I have real, thoughtful contributions to make to this world via the internet but had to sacrifice my ideal blog name because some “20-something…fabulous, fun, fearless female” (gag) decided to waste everyone’s time at some point back in April of 2009.  I curse you. Fear not however, there are other options, such as hotmessmommy.GOV.  With the implications that my blog is government sanctioned, people will have no choice but to pay attention.

In reality, this blog came to fruition because on an evening where I thought I was mastering the art of multitasking by eating cold, leftover beef stroganoff while reading Rinn his bedtime story as he sat cuddled in my lap, I accidently dropped a spoonful of said stroganoff on his head. What happened next was horrifying, hilarious and an obvious lapse in judgment; I licked his head clean. Literally stuck my tongue out of my mouth and licked day-old entrée off my 6-month-old baby’s bean. Disturbing and primitive, I couldn’t help but feel an increasing desire to share my self-deprecating tale.  After I got over the repulsion of the series of events that just occurred (and gave Rinn a bath); I couldn’t help but toy with the idea that perhaps, while they are no longer raucous accounts of my drunken debauchery, I just might still have tales to tell. Here’s hoping that my journey into first-time motherhood continues to take weird turns and that you all are along for the ride. 

Follow me on the Twitter machine: @RebeccaRinn