Ok, I’ll go ahead and end the suspense.

Thank you to everyone who submitted their version of “love” for this month’s Order of St. Anne fun. I really enjoyed every single one of them.

And I really had a hard time picking a winner.

There were so many cute photos of Dad’s with babies and men vacuuming and kids, kids, kids. Eating ice cream. Sleeping side by side. Couples in love. Good stuff. All of it.

I looked them over. And over. And over.

And I kept coming back to one entry.

Not, really, because it was the best photo in the bunch (although it’s totally super cute).

And not, really, because of the story that went with it (although it’s a good one).

I kept going back to it, because it wasn’t the usual commenter on this blog that submitted it.

It was her husband.

Think about that for a second.

Her HUSBAND knew she read this blog, and went and entered her in the contest.

Does your husband read the blogs you read? Does he care enough to download and submit an entry to a contest for you, without even telling you???

THAT IS LOVE.

THAT is what this was about.

Arise, Launch Exhaust. You are Annie’s Knight for February. And we’re all going to learn more about rowing than we ever wanted too.

It has come to my attention I have spent a good amount of time, as of late, discussing my vagina. Or whoo-ha. Or crotch. Or ba-gyna, for those fluent in toddler. And with all the goings-on in my nether regions, I haven’t thought much about the boys around here. Those in this kingdom and those just stopping by to read about this kingdom. Fair enough.

Let me update everyone on the penis (peni?) in this house. Because, truthfully, there is much to tell.

Count Waffles the Terrible likes to make his dance. He likes to get naked and proudly proclaim it’s “penis dance party” and shake it up and down. He also wants his father to join him.

If I could just capture for you the look of confusion and amusement on the Kaiser’s face when this happens. Imagine this shit-eating grin, mixed with sheer terror over this parenting decision.
Do I actually hop up and down with my son and make my penis flap? Or do I somehow say “no” and then explain why Daddy can’t penis dance?

Hilarious to watch if you are me, sitting on the sidelines.

I think the Kaiser has successfully avoided actually making the decision, thus far, by being clothed each time he’s been asked to join the party. But he was nearly caught with his pants down (sorry) recently after having stepped out of the shower to find the penis dance in full effect in our bedroom.

My stealth-like husband quickly donned his boxers, then joined the party. Cheater. But not before Count Waffles compared, ahem, sizes. (imagine several minutes of “yours is big, mine is little” and the Kaiser and I trying really hard not to catch eachother’s eyes or crack inappropriate jokes)

So I sit there, looking at these two males in amazement. Here we have one toddler, fascinated already with the things that man part can do. And he just thinks it pees and dances. And then we have one man totally amused with his son, yet you can see in his eyes he’s also wondering what happens when that little man no longer wants to have a dance party. And all that innocence is gone.

But as soon as they start jumping up and down…flapping and laughing, it’s just silly. And through the giggles and wiener jokes I realize boys really will be boys.

It is a girl day around here.

Princess Peanut turns 10-months old today. She heralded the milestone by somehow giving me my period back and reminding me that those pregnancy ‘roids never really go away.

Thinking of you, I grabbed the hubby’s electric razor in the shower this weekend. I have three gashes on my whoo-ha. I refused the toddler’s insistence that I “put an Elmo bandaid on your ba-gyna boo boo, Mommy?”

So let’s round out being totally girly today by going over to the BRAND NEW BLOGHER site and giving everyone some love.

You’ll find me under Politics and News, and you might find some of yourselves blogrolled already…I started to add you all to the list over there and got sidetracked with ‘roids, tampons, and ba-gyna boo boos. So go register and blogroll yourselves.
And bask in the wonder that is woman.

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 third “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.

This month is all about Valentine’s and love people. Can you feel the love??? And this time around, I want PHOTO posts. You heard me…upload those love pics. Just show me love. Your version of love. Love for your kids. Your partner. Your Mom. Your hamster. Whatever. I just want to see a photo of what you call love. Post the photo with a story. Without one. Whatever-then leave a comment with the link.

This month’s winner gets their choice of one of these.
Once again, don’t make me get all PriceWaterhouseCoopers on your ass with rules. You get the idea. Play fair. 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 the month of February, knocking out last month’s winner, Kdubs. 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.

You have until January 30th to get your post up. I’m getting ready for BlogHer’s new site launch…so have fun playing with this post for awhile.

Now, go make me want to knight you…

Think gay families are just as good as “traditional” families?
Think Brad and Angelina are the reason society is falling apart?
Is Hollywood to blame for the decline of “morals” in our society?
Or something like that.

Allison and I are over at Geronimo debating . Come join us.

Some of you are not going to like this post.

I’ve been waiting since Monday for my doctor to prescribe whatever anti-depressant du jour I get to play with. I’ve had much anxiety over the idea of drugs. Do I really need them? Can’t I just control this on my own? Isn’t there another way? But the psychologist told me drugs were part of the plan, at least until my hormones evened out from all this baby having. I figured who am I, the crazy lady, to tell anyone no.

So I’ve spent the past four days waiting for my prescription to be called in, preparing myself to take said drugs. Four days wondering what they will do to me. Four days wondering how they would make me feel. Four days really very unsure I wanted to take them. But again, I’m the crazy one, I didn’t feel I was of sound mind to argue with the doc.

Thursday my doctor called to tell me he won’t be giving me any drugs.

Uh. Ok.

I saw a clinical psychologist. She came highly recommended by my OB and my primary care physician. She’s supposedly the best person to see in town for anything post partum related.

I liked her. We hit it off right away, I felt comfortable at her office, and I was willing to accept that she could not prescribe anything to me and I needed to take her recommendations back to my OB. Pain in the ass…yes. But again here, I’m just doing what I was told.

Dr. S spent most of Monday’s couch time telling me how safe antidepressants are for breastfeeding. How there are several to choose from. Etc. Etc.

My OB called to tell me she’s wrong. He will not prescribe me an antidepressants while I breastfeed. And asked me several questions to determine if I really needed them.

This man delivered both of my children. Saw me through TWO high risk pregnancies and two early labors. He has known me and dealt with my 4am phone calls for years. I trust him.

Apparently there is a very new study out that shows cardiac and developmental problems in the babies getting some antidepressants through their mother’s milk. He, and most other doctors in our area, will no longer prescribe them to a lactating woman. IF I really wanted them, I could see a post partum specialist at UCLA and have myself and the baby monitored. Or I can wean.

Weaning is NOT an option. Unless I am slitting my wrists, driving my kids in a lake crazy, weaning is only going to make me 700 times worse. And they’d have to completely sedate me.

I’m not saying this won’t change. If the psychologist tells me I’m certifiable, and I MUST take drugs NOW or everyone will die, then we’ll get a second opinion. If another qualified person thinks the same, I guess I won’t have a choice.

But as it stands now, the doctor who has known me for years and dealt with thousands of pregnant and post partum women does not think I need drugs. Nor, will he prescribe them. The clincher for him: since my admission and my appointment on Monday I’ve only had one anxiety episode. ONE. I was having several per day. He also mentioned how I just got my period back a few months ago, and it’s still not regular. He feels that needs time to even out. And he described MY symptoms to ME before I even told him what I had been going through. He’s seen this before. Many times. And he doesn’t think the risk of medication is enough to give me a bottle of pills. He also does not recommend weaning.

Right now, I am in love with my OB. I have no idea what Dr. S, psychologist will say about all this. My hope is she says we just need a new plan, and I have to be on top of my yoga and breathing exercises, therapy, etc.

I know many women need drugs to handle this condition. But I firmly felt all along I was not one of those women. But I also felt I was not of sound mind to argue. I’m very, very happy I have a trusted OB who wasn’t quick to just write a prescription and send me on my way.

The Kaiser is quick to remind me this is just the start of a journey. So things may change. But we’re BOTH happy with this turn of events. As is my mother. Everyone is in agreement here. So it’s not like I just strongarmed everyone into letting me handle this drug free.

For the record, just because I’m going drug free doesn’t mean everyone should. Tom Cruise is still a moron.

Oh, and since you were so nice to go read all of that—here…go play MASH. Yes! That 4h grade game.

For the record, I’ll be living in Spain with Matthew McConaughey and our 9 children. I’m an heiress with a pink porche. -thanks daughter of opinion!

Seriously. Peanut hairwatch 2006 continues.
It’s just getting worse.
Which is more unfortunate…the squiggy/old balding lady/receding hairline hair…or the silly bear hat?

I think I’m doing a photo post to avoid the latest and greatest chapter of “Mamma is crazy“-let’s just say the plan of attack has changed and I’m emotionally spent from the rollercoaster. I’ll post about it later.

Right now I’m much more concerned with the state of my daughter’s hair. I have to admit, it totally fits her budding personality. And it matches the inside of her mother’s head.

I really thought you were just fiddling with one of those long, green Starbuck’s straws as you swerved in and out of traffic lanes here in Suburbia.

Once stopped at the red light, and twiddling in front of me, with , what? your knees on the wheels? I thought to myself, wow…she really wants that last bit o’ whipped cream.

And when the light turned red, and you failed to notice, you seemed annoyed and startled all 15 cars behind you had the nerve to honk. We had the nerve to honk.

So when I finally pulled next to you, and saw that in fact you did not have an iced latte…but a KNITTING needle and some sort of doily I flipped you off. Ya, that’s right. I flipped you off. With my children in the car. On the way to nursery school. You brought out the worst in me, but what can I say…I’ve never seen a middle-aged soccer mom/asshat with that much nerve.

It never occurred to me that you too, might be on your way to nursery school.

But, it probably never occurred to you that knitting and driving simultaneously is, oh hell, I’ll say it…dumb. No, wait…not dumb…REALLY FUCKING STUPID.

So we can spend the next few school months not making eye contact with one another. Fine by me. You’re not the kind of bitch I care to associate with anyway.