Throughout history, monarchs realized the value and necessity of rewarding gallantry in battle and loyal service, often by awarding gifts of land or money, or some sort of title or sign of merit as a mark of distinction. This was particularly the case when the first sovereign of a new dynasty succeeded to or took the throne and therefore needed to ensure that their supporters’ loyalty was rewarded. – Monarchy Today.

In that spirit, I, Queen of Spain, declare open the first ever “Order of St. Anne” competition. “Annie,” as I commonly refer to her, is the patron Saint of mothers, pregnancy, housewives…and less notably, lace makers, Detroit, cabinetmakers, and miners.

Your challenge is to post one photo on your blog depicting your most “Mommylicious,” “Mommyfabulous,” “Yummy Mummy,” “Housewife,” “Fertile,” or (for the nonMom) “CountRock” moment. Once your post is published, let me know in the comments of this post along with a link. I will review all entries and choose a winner for this month. December’s winner will receive one t-shirt (in their choice of style and size) from the Queen Store. And a special link on the Queen’s sidebar for the remainder of December.

Now, don’t make me get all PriceWaterhouseCoopers on your ass with rules. You get the idea. Play fair. Post one photo. One entry per blog. And I get to pick the winner. I am the Queen. I will pick one entry for whatever reason I see fit. That blog will be named “Annie’s Knight” for the month, and featured here on the Queen and her Royal Family in the sidebar for December. Friends and relatives can play. I’m the Queen, I do what I want. Nonbloggers can e-mail me at QueenofSpainblog@yahoo.com and we can work to publish your entry or find you a blog to post on.

All entries must be posted by midnight Saturday, December 3rd, 2005. I will announce the winner December 5th, 2005.

Now, go make me want to Knight you…

Princess Peanut is 8-months old on Wednesday. And despite my pleadings with her to slow down, she’s very close to taking her first steps. I can prove it. I have video. Go ahead. Go click that highlighted part. I’ll wait….

So now that you’re back…WHAT THE HELL???? What am I going to do? I just now, 8-months later, felt like I was starting to get a handle on this two kid world.

I was just starting to actually be able to keep the house clean. And get dinner cooked, instead of ordered.

I was just learning to balance the whole –paying attention to one while occupying the other- thing. But the real kick in the ass is that I just was starting to feel like I might actually be good at this mother thing.

I get the feeling this new world of two kids running will send me into another tailspin that includes piles of dirty laundry, lego imprints on the bottom of my feet, and too many trips to get Happy Meals instead of healthy meals at the stove.

I need family, in particular some grandparents, to move their asses to California so I can get a little assistance here. Houseboy still holds her like she’s a bomb. So he’s no help.

The Kaiser just began another “crunch time” at work. Which means 12 hour days, 7 days a week for about 2 weeks. The holidays, and the gaggles of grandparents it will bring, really can’t come soon enough.

Gotta love the super expensive cape.

And the new “Yummy Mummy” design is up at the Queen Shop! Its selling like hot cakes (especially the thongs) so get yours NOW!

Not a day goes by around here that I don’t add a brand new bruise to my leg. Or arm. Or head. Or breast. I realize these children don’t intentionally mean to maim me. But, here we are.

Last night I was lying in bed with the Count. It was a lazy Sunday. And he had taken a long nap. So bedtime began later than usual. And the usual bedtime routine turned into utter silliness. We ended up giggling and talking until nearly 11pm. I know. I know. He’s only two and a half and he should not be up this late. But it was just one of those nights where the clock really didn’t seem to matter.

As we lay there playing our game of what clothes go on toes (turns out, only socks and shoes go on toes…and if you suggest that maybe pants or hats go on toes, you can send a toddler into hysterical fits of laughter) I made the mistake of getting him a little too riled up. This meant that when I suggested underwear might look nice on his big toe, he shook his head “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” and I shook my head “YYYYEEEEEEESSSSSSSS!” And our two heads collided somewhere in the middle.

Cue the cartoon birds with stars around their heads circling my head. Cue the screaming/crying/sobbing toddler holding his head. Once we both regained our composure and dusted off the cobwebs we decided we needed matching band aids. It seemed only right.

Granted this was one of the more extreme accidents around these parts. But I really am not kidding when I say these children hurt me all time. The Princess plays this fun game where she rips half my hair out. Its a “Mommy I love you so much I want to hold you as tightly as possible and pull you with me while I crawl,” thing. I find my hair in her poop. I find my hair cutting the circulation off her little sausage fingers. She sucks on the ends of my hair and then yanks on it, you know, to make sure its still there, I guess.

Princess Peanut also thinks its hilarious to bite my nipples. Well, when she first clamps down and I yelp, she quivers that lower lip of hers and pouts like she’s shocked and devastated she may have hurt Mommy. The remorse lasts about a second before she changes her mind and thinks its hysterical. A big, two-bottom-teeth, grin creeps over her face and she laughs. To add insult to the injury, she then fakes like she’s going to do it again by reaching out for another lick, only to pull back and smile, millimeters from the target.

Then there is the climbing on Mommy wounds. And the jumping out of the carseat onto Mommy bruises. Oh, and my favorite, the “I’m holding you so very tight I actually leave a mark” injury.

I guess this black and blue body of mine just means I am truly loved.

THE QUEEN STORE IS OPEN FOR BUSINESS! The Kaiser went crazy and we hope you like it.

I hate shopping. I haaaaate shopping. I’m not going. And you can’t make me.

The Princess’s first Thanksgiving. And the Count’s first Thanksgiving two whole years ago. Wow. Time does fly.


Mostly I’m thankful for these two turkeys. But I’m also very thankful the doctor called. And I don’t have cancer. Whew. Now let’s eat!

**** The Kaiser’s edits to this post are in bold italics***
I’ve been wanting to blog about this for a long time. You know, long- as in I’ve only been blogging for 3 months now- long…but you get the idea. I stopped myself a couple of times because I was a little afraid of being randomly discovered by, lets just call them the Others.
The Others are the “other” half of my family. My husbands half. And its only half of his half. Thanksgiving makes me think of them more than any other holiday, because, well, they get a little nutty on Thanksgiving.
I need to give you some back ground before I really get going.
The Kaiser’s family thinks I’m ethnic. I’m a (or was) blonde, white, Polish Catholic girl from the burbs of Detroit. But, none the less, they think I’m ethnic. Its the Polish thing. But I’m no more Polish than any of the rest of you mutt Americans are Irish or German or whatever. And its the Catholic thing. Even though I’m no longer a practicing Catholic and have more issues with the church than I can count on one hand. I’m Catholic.
Well, I found out quickly that they don’t grow many Catholics (or African Americans for that matter) in the hills of West Virginia. I learned not to call the Kaiser’s church stuff “mass” because I got the stink eye. There is also this whole thing about “supper” and “dinner” and how they are not the same. And “hollers” and “fixin’s”–you get the idea. And I also learned that we were entering into a “mixed” marriage. Hellooooo waaay back machine. And that was only the beginning.
Some of the Kaiser’s relatives did not attend our wedding. There would be alcohol and dancing. Some of those that were nice enough to make the trip excused themselves after dinner. Baby Jesus hates dancing. But he really, really hates drunken break dancing and fish swallowing (I could do an entire post on the wedding, but I’ll stick to family right now) and my Polish Catholic Polka, beer drinking family. Kevin Bacon did not have it this hard with John Lithgow. BUT despite my grandfather once yelling “TAX ALL THE CHURCHES!” infront of the Others, everyone played nice and it was a fun time.
Anyway. The first Thanksgiving after we were married (which would have made it Thanksgiving 4 years ago or so) the newlyweds traveled to West Virginia. I kept asking questions about what we’d eat and where it would be and who would be there and what I could do. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
“Wait. Thanksgiving isn’t at someone’s house?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand. So its at a hall?”
“Sort of.”
“So its at a separate room of a church?”
“Sort of. You’ll see.”
After driving through what can only be called NOTHING for about an hour, we turned a few corners and there was this building. In the middle of NOTHING. Apparently people lived nearby. But I really don’t remember any houses.
The place was decorated with everything you would imagine. Crepe paper turkeys on the table. Streamers. Leaves. Pumpkins. Etc. There was a buffet table of food. And about, oh 40-60 friends and relatives. Mostly relatives. I think.
Now, in my family, Thanksgiving involves beer, turkey, and football. For the Others, it involves a whole lot of praying in a circle. And many, many recitals by some very talented kids and their violins (violins? VIOLINS? They’re called “fiddles”. Sheesh) and stuff. All songs about baby Jesus. And then more circle praying. And then more songs about Jesus. And then more circle praying. And then some separate circle praying while holding hands. And then more Jesus songs. I’ve never heard so many renditions of 3-year-olds singing Jesus Loves Me. All of this would have been much more amusing and a lot less uncomfortable if I had a drink. Or three. But unless we smuggle a flask…this is as dry as it comes.
Oh, yeah there were also some very specific prayers about being thankful for those who have come from “far away” and how they will hopefully “find Jesus in their hearts” someday soon. Newlyweds. Were looking at you.
This was not Thanksgiving. This was a tent revival. In rural West Virginia. And my blonde, feminist, liberal, Los Angeles Ass was smack dab in the middle.
Fast forward to today. And I can’t help but think we can’t go to that Thanksgiving. With our kids. Ever. Its his side of the family’s big reunion every year (No it’s not, that’s the 4th of July. Doy). BUT, even the Kaiser’s mother has said its become more of a revival than a Thanksgiving. And she’s not real comfortable there.
I’m picturing Count Waffles wanting to join the rest of the kids. But right now he sings “Buffalo Bob Only Ate Baked Beans.” We don’t say grace. So the whole circle praying thing would be nothing more than a big Duck Duck Goose game. And I have no doubt in my mind he’d say “OH MY GOD” more than once. He said it last night putting toys away (thank you Mom).
My military chaplain brother-in-law, his wife, and their two kids fit right in. Their halo’s shine in the WV sun. They’ll be up there belting out Jesus Loves Me with the rest of them.
My kids will stick out. And I mean STICK OUT. Not the day to put Princess Peanut in her “Women belong in the House…and the Senate” t-shirt. Or to pass on the Count’s “anarchy in the pre-k” onesie to whatever relative is having her 5th kid soon.
I know I’m horrible for thinking this…but I don’t really want my kids to have to go there. And stick out. I’d rather we just visited this side at a different time of year. Or should we just go one year and cross our fingers the Count doesn’t drop an F bomb during circle prayer #3?
I’m all for exposing them to different things…but I think they’ll get enough of that on any given trip to West Virginia.
Thanksgiving and the Others is just really extreme.