Lets just all agree right off the top here that *sometimes* I can be a raging lunatic. I get very worked up over things that other, more sane mothers might not bat an eyelash over. Well batten down those hatches people because Halloween not only brings out my inner lunatic, it lets it run around naked in my front yard.

Halloween, in my warped mind, means I should be UBERmom and MAKE my children unique and personal costumes. Of course, I am the farthest thing from crafty any one mother can be. So, in my right mind I do what many, many mothers do and go BUY Halloween costumes. I bought the kids their’s weeks ago and they’ve been hanging in our hall closet since. But with the happy candy eating holiday approaching, those store bought fiasco’s are calling me.

“You SUCK Queen…we are SO GENERIC!”

“If you were a REAL mom you’d make your kids something that wasn’t so FLAME RETARDANT”

“Neee Ner nee Ner nee Ner…Your kids will look like EVERY OTHER KID in Suburban Los Angeles!!!”””

Putting aside the obvious concerns that inanimate objects are speaking to me, what the hell is my problem, here? Why is this such a HUGE issue for me? Is it because my mother made our costumes? Back in the day when they had those sewing patterns and machiney thingies? Do they still have those? Or that I am worried I’m not creative enough to come up with anything like my mother did? There is a photo in one of my many junk drawers around here with my brother dressed as a tourist (Hawaiian shirt, zinc on the nose, camera around the neck) and me as some sort of space alien. I’m actually wearing an old dance class costume leotard thing with some tin foil wrapped around cardboard cut out thing my mother made. Complete with headband sporting homemade alien antennas. Now why can’t I do THAT????? Because I SUCK. That’s why.

This little paranoia of mine closely resembles another one of my little quirks the Kaiser will one day institutionalize me for. I’m obsessed with learning to make cool cupcakes. Because, in my mind, my kids will always have that Mom that made the cool cupcakes and sent them to their class on their birthday…instead of generic store bought cupcakes. I’ve actually been practicing making cool cupcakes since the Count was old enough to eat them. That’s how crazy I am. This photo is from the time I was practicing Froggie Cupcakes. We’ve also make Elmo, Cookie Monster, even Zoe. See. I’m not lying.

So as I sit here this morning, and agonize over the Bob the Builder piece of crap in the closet. And the ballerina fairy flimsy little outfit next to it, I’ll do my best to stay sane. I’ll remind myself they will look adorable in ANYTHING. And I’ll promise not to try and sew anything before Monday. Maybe. We’ll see. I’m not crazy…Institution!!!

7 things I want to do before I die:

1) Write a book
2)FINISH my degree
3) Get a dog
4)Pose nude
5)Live on an island
6)Run for public office
7)Buy my husband’s family land

7 things I cannot do:
1)Math
2)Argue
3)roll my tongue
4)drive a stick
5)play a musical instrument
6)paint my own toe nails
7)bake

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex:
1)sense of humor
2)ability to not be an idiot
3)height
4)eyes
5)ass
6)hair
7)lips

7 things I say most often:
1)NO!
2)Come here. I said come here.
3)SHUT UP.
4)OH MY GOD.
5)I love you
6)What should we have for dinner/lunch/breakfast?
7)I don’t know.

7 celebrity crushes:
1)LL Cool J
2)Mathew McConaughey
3)Steve Yzerman
4)Johnny Depp
5)Angelina Jolie
6)Jared Leto
7)Keanu Reeves

7 people I want to do this(sorry if you did it already, just ignore me): (for those who don’t blog, in my comments)
1)Ms. Mamma
2)Tammy
3)Dread Pirate Robert
4)The Diaper Pail
5)Stranded in Suburbia
6)Tomorrow is Another Day
7)Dak-Ind

“Daddy…wanna be a chipmunk?”
“Umm. Sure, How?”
“Eat chips.”

“There is a bra on Elmo’s head.”

“The Smurf record is NOT for throwing.”

“You’re in your thinking chair because you head-butted your sister.”
“No. My butt is DOWN HERE, Mamma.”

“Because we took our infant and toddler to a German restaurant to eat wieners and watch an old guy in lederhosen play guitar and do the chicken dance.”

Its simply unthinkable to me that anyone could not love this sweet little Peanut face on the left. That you just wouldn’t want to squeeze her and slobber on her and tickle her because her laugh is so hysterical and her smile is so infectious. Except I don’t have to go far to find someone who loathes my little Princess. With every fiber of his being, the Count wishes his sister gone. Banished. Sent to the woods to live with some dwarves and a poison apple. The jealousy around here has gotten down right nasty. And as a mother, I’m at my wits end.

Count Waffles the Terrible will not tolerate being anywhere near his sister. She’s not allowed to touch anything. She’s not allowed to crawl toward him or his things. She’s not even allowed to speak. Lately, when Princess Peanut gives out a little hello in the form of a “aaahhhgggaaaaaaaa!” to her brother, the Count screams back, angrily, in her face. He’s taken to pushing her. He’s taken to knocking her over while she, still unsteady, stands clinging to the ottoman or stairs. He’s even taken to hitting her. All of this means he’s in trouble. A lot. A lot A lot. And I just can’t take it anymore. Outside of issues with his sister, he’s the sweetest child on earth. He’s the quiet, shy one. I swear. Really.

I’ve tried giving him more one on one attention. I’ve tried reasoning with him. I’ve tried every trick in the book, including bribery (i.e. play nice with your sister and there’s a cookie in it for you) and manipulation. Nothing doing. I even harbored hope that with Nana’s recent visit and all the gifts she would bring and extra hands to go around he’d be happy to have his baby sister around. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Silly Queen. Nana got Princess a baby doll. Nana got the Count a Thomas game. The Count took his Thomas game and screamed bloody murder over his sister’s joy at the doll. Nana was supposed to be my savior for the week. Instead, the sibling issue was worsened.

Of course its only natural for a mother to want her children to love one another. But its all the more heartbreaking for me because my little baby Peanut so, so, so, so, soooooooooooo wants her brother. She beams if he even comes near her. She squeals with delight if he happens to accidentally smile at her. All she wants is his love. And I’ll be damned if he doesn’t seem to know this and use it against her. That Bonnie Rait song “I can’t make you love me” keeps going through my head. Its awful.

So I’ll continue to try and give those extra hugs and kisses and special time to the Count. And he’ll continue to be sent to the thinking chair for cracking his sister over the head with god knows what. And maybe, when they are much, much older, I’ll catch them hug at Christmas or something and be reminded how they went through this “phase” in their early years.

Or maybe I’ll just prepare now for the endless “she’s touching me!” and “Mom…make him stop!” and “Tell her to get off the phone now!” and “He won’t share the blocks!” and so on. And so on. And so on.

I’m really very sure this is how so many Moms end up on valium and bloody mary’s all day. I wish I were kidding.

The Count came home from nursery school recently with one of those book flyers. You know what I mean because YOU came home from school with them as a child. We all did. Anyway the Kaiser and I actually got him a few things because its pretty cheap (6 books for $20 for our order) and he can always use more books. Not to mention if I read Clifford’s Happy Easter or the Cat in the Hat one more time I just might explode.

So I’m turning in the little form at school and another Mom says (lets call her “just woke up” Mom, since we all have names at the school) “OH MY GOD! Are those due today?????” And she flies into a panic. Tracking down the director of the place to see if they are due today ( I told her they were due tomorrow, but who’s gunna believe “Tattoo Mom,” right?) and asks every other adult she can find. “Just woke Up” Mom finds out that they are, in fact, due tomorrow so she announces she will make a special trip over to the school (our kids only go two days a week) to drop off her order form. So why the freak out and big fuss, you ask??? I asked my friend (and fellow nursery school Mom) who said, very matter of factually “They make a big deal when the orders come in and the hand them out. You don’t want your kid to be the only one in class who gets nothing.” So now I’m picturing the Count waiting for his named to be called as they hand out shiney new books and him NOT getting one while everyone else opens their little packages. Devastation. Turns out my friend has been ordering for all her kids for years, even if its a 99-cent book, so they never have to feel left out.

This sucks. Do I now have to order something every single time??? I’m screwed, aren’t I?

Karma came and kicked me in the ass today. Last night, I had begun a post complaining about my mother. HRH Queen Mother has been in town since Saturday and she was beginning to drive me crazy with her “do you want me to wash those rugs for you? they are filthy!” and her “maybe you need to buy your children warmer clothes” comments. Then it happened. Karma. My COMEUPPANCE. Whatever.

I’m sick. I’m sick as a freaking dog. Things are oozing out me from all over. I couldn’t lift my head 4 hours ago. I certainly couldn’t care for myself or my children. In walks the Queen Mother.

“Its like your body said it was ok to get sick, because I’m here. Go lay down.”

I just came downstairs from a mid morning nap/pukefest to find my whole house clean. Children happily playing, rugs washed, AND my favorite sick drink VERNORS, waiting for me. How does she do that??

Such is the way of Mothers, though. They seem to pull it all together when the rest of the house has fallen apart. I hope I was that way a few weeks ago during my kids Royal Snotfest. I hope.

So I’m now erasing last night’s post. And I’m going to go lay on the couch and cuddle with my kids and my Mommy. I’m such a wuss. And today, I don’t care who knows it.

My son is using my Duran Duran “Seven and the Ragged Tiger” LP as a train track.