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.)

raw chicken

I don’t cook.  Well I do cook, I just don’t enjoy it.  I’m really not fond of cleaning either so how it came to be that I’m a stay-at-home mom confuses some people, mostly my own mother (who knows that I consider the shower to be clean because we use body wash in it) and my husband.  He asks me “what did you do all day?” and I distract him with the fact that I bought Taquitos. 

My husband is an airhead. 

It can be infuriating at times, like when he double-paid our cable bill because he skipped the part that states “click once” and then spent the whole day blaming the internet when he didn’t have money to go golfing and then there was the time he couldn’t quite keep up when a conversation transitioned from seeing Tom Petty in concert to discussing a friends’ job resignation and he said “so wait, Tom Petty quit his job?”

Then he will say “decompose” when he really means “decompress” and his absentmindedness is suddenly a riot.  Anyway, it was when I picked up some individually wrapped chicken cordon bleu’s that I hesitated for a moment; the instructions were to cook in a traditional oven considering the chicken inside was raw, but would my husband really adhere to these directions or would I find myself making a late night trip to the ER somewhere in the near future.

I should be in the business of fortune telling because wouldn’t you know it, he confused one with some sort of Hot Pocket and in the microwave it went.  Not only is he an airhead but now I’m quite convinced he can’t read.  He would spend the whole night and a better part of the next day convinced he was dying and asking if death by raw chicken was a painful way to go.  I don’t know for sure, but I bet it’s less agonizing than listening to your husband whine about it.

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.