Picked up the Count from school today only to discover I’ve been labeled “Tattoo Mom” by the teachers. TATTOO MOM. Let that sink in a sec. I guess that’s better than Stripper Mom. Or Church Going Looking Mom. Or Generic Soccer Mom. Or Fatt Ass Mom.
Turns out they were referring to my battle with a temporary tattoo of a dinosaur that wouldn’t leave. I guess one of the teachers thought it was real. Because, you know, apparently I look like the type of person that tattoos cartoon-like dinosaurs on my flabby upper arm. Nevermind the nursery school teachers are obviously gossiping about the mothers (oh, come on…like you wouldn’t? bravo you) but I guess we’re getting labels as well. How very Seinfeld. And yes, I do have tattoos…but other than the temporary kids dino, the teachers will never see them.

He carries my big, overstuffed, hot pink diaper bag AND has conversations like this with me on a daily basis…
Queen to Kaiser
“How was the Count’s bath? He seemed to enjoy the squirting dinosaur?!”

“Ooooh yeah. Anything that squirts water out of its mouth that he can use to try and squirt water INTO his penis…is good.”

While watching the end of the Angels Yankees game (may the Evil Empire rot in hell, by the way) the Kaiser begins to sing…kinda…
“Vlad Vlad Vlad the Impaler!”

“Huh?”

“It’s a Gwar song. You know, for Vladimir Guerrero.”

HSRZQ
interjection
Definitions: expressing disapproval: used to express contempt, disbelief, disgust, or disappointment ( informal )
[Early 20th century. Partly
The Queen’s example: I say “HSRZQ!” to this new study crapping on all my parenting beliefs.

Temporary tattoos (the dinosaur variety) last exactly 3 weeks and 3 days on an adult arm (the Mom variety).

When your husband says “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you” to your toddler for the first time, you may be simultaneously impressed and kinda creeped out.

A rash decision to get bangs is ALWAYS a bad idea.

Toddlers eating all their meals under the kitchen table isn’t so bad, so long as they eat.

Bragging to friends and family that no, your baby has not bit your nipple with her new teeth is a surefire was to end up with a bitemark on your nipple.

And finally…your children will always behave like angels for their father when you, filled with guilt, steal away for a few hours on the weekend because you’re going crazy.

See you after my midterms!

“He’s Testing us!” “He’s testing us!” I can’t seem to stop thinking about FOOTLOOSE today. Hang on. Hang on. Hear me out.

Count Waffles the Terrible is truly living up to his name. And he’s making the Queen Google “animals that eat their young.” (Not surprisingly I found more articles on parenting than I did actual Discovery channel type stuff)

Exhibit A: That is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on my floor. A vast improvement from yesterday when it was smeared all over the television.

Exhibit B: “Count honey, please stop playing with your broccoli.”
“No Mamma…I want to do this…(makes a throwing gesture)”
“Don’t you dare. Now sit down and use your fork.”
“I don’t want too. (shakes broccoli so little broccoli thingies go everywhere)”
“I said NO. Now you’re making me crazy. Don’t shake your broccoli.”
“I wanna make you crazy Mamma. (Gets off chair, runs around kitchen shaking his broccoli)”

Exhibit C: As I sat down to type this my brother walked in the office to inform me the Count was squirting nasal spray onto the television. You know, where I left him to watch Thomas the freaking Tank Engine while I made myself a drink because I couldn’t take another minute of his Royal badness and retreated to play on the Internet for a few minutes to gather myself.

Exhibit D: I just walked back into the living room to check on the aforementioned squirting and he threw his hands and arm over his eyes. A sure sign he’s been rotten.

Its off to the chair. And he’ll be damn lucky if its not off with his head before the day is out.

My son has taken to calling me “Mamma.” He gets it from his West Virginian father, who to this day when he’s really revved up, has an accent. Unfortunately, no matter how cute they are when they say Mamma, it makes me fell like a very large, very old, black woman or a very skinny, very trailer trash, white woman. I’m not sure which. But either way, I’ve never been crazy about it. Maybe because I’m not southern. Sure, I pretend to be very Scarlett O’Hara…but really I’m as Midwest as they come. Beer drinking, bowling, fish-fry on a Friday night kinda gal. Yes, California living for 6 years now has softened my Canadian accent ( I am from Detroit, eh) and the only time I drink Molson these days is when the Kaiser brings it home as a joke. But my roots are my roots and I’m a “Mumma” NOT a “Mamma.”

What with hockey starting this week and my son’s preference for “Mamma” AND a Detroit-area wedding invitation I got in the mail recently, I’ve been a little homesick. I hesitate to call Michigan home, seeing as I haven’t lived there for 10 years now. But that hand shaped state has been on my mind a lot lately. And its got me wondering where home is for our transient society. Because I’m feeling a lot like a nomad lately.

Not many people live in the communities they were born and raised in anymore. Families are scattered. The Queen Mother is coming in from Florida next week. The Kaiser’s parents are still in WV. Grandfathers are in Kansas City. Brothers are in Germany. I guess home really is where the heart is…but half my heart is in Detroit.

I wonder what the Princess and Count will think of Michigan? Will they see it as they 7th circle of hell, like their father describes? Will they be as fond of the people, and FOOD, and communities as I am? Or will they simply see it as that odd place MAMMA makes us visit once every few years? Where everyone smokes and drinks and hunts and eats and eats and eats.

So as my son yells “Mamma! Mamma!” from the other room right now (the kid has a knack for timing), I think I’ll go call my Dad. We need to pick apart last night’s Red Wing game anyway. And while I’m at it I’ll put him on the phone with the Count…and have him say “Mumma” and “ha-aaaah-key” to him for awhile. Just in case.

Please. Please. Please. Let us out. We promise not to pass our snot on to the next family. Just please, for the love of God, let us out.

I know. I know. You are right. This would have never of happened to your brother. And while I won’t necessarily concede we missed one of your milestones, I will agree that it did lack a certain amount of fanfare.

You got your first tooth. Its beautiful. Its sharp. Its a glorious tooth and I apologize for not making a bigger deal of its arrival.

Now I’m not going to try and justify myself to you, I am, after all, the Queen. But the kingdom was extremely preoccupied with the Royal Snotfest still consuming this monarchy. You, yourself, are still infested with this evil invader the idiots at the pediatrician’s office are calling a “cold.” They obviously don’t understand its MY children that are infected, or else they wouldn’t treat me like every other neurotic mother in town calling to see what is to be done with this sleep-depriving, tissue consuming, demon of a virus.

I’m sure you are wondering what all of this has to do with the lack of celebration, as it were, for the new pearly white in your mouth. Afterall, had it been the Count’s first chomper, there’d be a parade, you’d argue. True enough my dear. True enough. Admittedly the Kaiser and I bestowed many a kudo for your sibling’s first milestones. And yes, they are documented at nauseum.

But I know you. And you are obviously above such typical parental accolades. You have held your head high (and without support) since birth. You have been talking to us for months. Crawling for weeks. And you are pulling up, standing, and nearly cruising–all before your brother had begun to sit. You’re special, my dear. And you’ve known it well before we figured it out, and certainly never needed us to point it out.

So please do not mistake the “second child” parental nonchalance as favoritism. We just know its a tiny tooth. And we’re saving our Princess Parade for the really big milestones. I’ll start planning the party for your first period now.

The Queen