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.

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