It infuriates me, this weekend Jekyll and Hyde my kids pull when Daddy is home. I feel like they spend Saturday and Sunday making a big, fat liar out of me.

…I swear, just yesterday she would only nurse to sleep. No, really…Normally he won’t share that toy with his sister…

I expect my children to act different with Daddy. But I feel robbed. Jipped. Totally scammed. It’s like I’ve spent all week at the hardest job on earth, barely making it through. Barely keeping my hair combed. Barely getting dinner cooked, keeping the house somewhat respectable…and come Saturday anyone hanging out with all of us would think I hallucinate the drama Monday through Friday.

I feel like the Kaiser must think, somedays, I make it all up.

I told him the other night that sometimes, by Sunday night, the kids seem “back to normal” when he’s around. But not totally. This Sunday, for instance, the Count had a nice little meltdown in the middle of the NBA All-Star game. VINDICATION! And as an added bonus, the Princess does that screaming thing she does only because her brother is doing it. DOUBLE VINDICATION! So what did I do?

Pointed it out to the Kaiser, of course.

“See! See!!”

He kinda shrugged.

I’m still not sure he believes me.

I’ve tried very hard to change many things since I had a son. One of those things is my knack for saying “Boys are Stupid” whenever I’m on the phone with a friend and our husband’s act like idiots. They act like idiots more than you’d think for two grown men. This trait is very endearing. And makes me laugh until my sides hurt most of the time. But other times, it’s baffling.

For instance, it’s taken Count Waffles all of two days to master saying “Smell the Love” after every. single. fart. He also gets his father’s shit-eating grin when he does it. It’s genetic, I guess.

But then, there are times I wonder how these men survive without us women.

Phone rings this morning not 5 minutes after the Kaiser left the house:
“Hello”
“Yeah. Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Can you, umm…send me an email at work?”
“Suuuuuuuuure. Why?”
“Can you remind me to put deodorant on?”

He can manage to clean the kitchen, fold the laundry, keep the kids happy, and make dinner all while I run to the store. But there are days he can’t even remember to put on deodorant.

Yes, he is the kind of guy who forgets his sunglasses/ipod/keys/wallet often. You’ll send him to the store for infant tylenol and paper towels and he’ll come home with children’s motrin and toilet paper. But the next time, he comes home with everything you asked, flowers, and bonus items you forgot you even needed.

So I’m trying really hard to curb saying “Boys are Stupid” because, obviously, I don’t want to give the Count any sort of complex. But now I’m starting to wonder how I try and train the Count to NOT have the more annoying traits of being a boy.
Or is it just inevitable? Will he make inappropriate jokes and be forgetful? Can I somehow bottle the sense of humor, but tame it?
How do I turn this boy into a man who doesn’t constantly forget doctor’s appointments and ipods?
Or, is there something more sinister at work here.
Is it all my fault?
Is it because I take care of these men, small and large, to the extent they don’t need to think?
Are Boys Stupid because we let them be stupid?
Are they just working us?
Am I being used?
Or do they really just not remember things like deodorant, for no other reason than they forgot.

Yeah, Kaiser’s got some stinky pits today. And that was a very round-about way of me making sure the whole world knows the Kaiser has stinky pits.

Toddler. Puke. Puke. Puke.
Scream.
Scream.
Chunky puke.
FAMILY bed.
No one spared.
In my hair.
Infant scream.
Toddler. Puke. Puke. Puke.
Oh dear God the Puke.
And Laundry.
Tired Family.
Fucking Preschool germs.
Toddler. Puke. Puke. Puke.

I’m not kidding.

I would prefer Princess Peanut and Count Waffles were gay.

I’ve said it all along, and I’m sticking to my guns.

Admittedly, these reasons are selfish. And, of course, I want my children to grow and become whatever they choose. I mean that. But if I had any say in the matter (and, I know I don’t) I’d like them both to be gay.

I can tell you right now, I will be a nightmare of a mother-in-law. I will hate whatever girl Count Waffles brings home. Because she’s a girl. And because I am Queen. If he brings home a boy, I think I would be less threatened. My place with him will remain secure. That’s horrible, isn’t it? Maybe I will soften over the years, and with many years of therapy and medication, one day, I might not hate all of his future girlfriends. But I doubt it.
I don’t want him dating girls. They screw with boys. Most of you are girls. You all know this to be true. And I fully realize men do the same thing…but we women have this down to a very, very evil science. I feel like he just might have a better shot with boys. Maybe not better…maybe just a bit more of a fair fight.
I also think he already has a mother, and does not need another one. And we wives tend to become mother-like to our husbands. Not intentionally, I don’t think. But because it’s just how many of us are. And how many men are.
If he’s gay. Maybe this won’t be the case. I realize, too, that there is no guarantee, but I’m just playing the odds.
I also won’t have to worry about him knocking up anyone too young. Which leads me to…

If Princess Peanut figures out her sexuality by puberty, I won’t have to worry about some hormone-frenzied boy getting her knocked up at 16. No worries that she’ll go on the pill at 15. And if she’s a slut, she’ll be a slut that can’t get pregnant. Whew.
Later in life, maybe, just maybe, she won’t have to deal with a million relatives asking her if she’s found a man yet. Or being taken care of by a man yet. Or getting pregnant by a man yet. Or working for a man yet. Or getting married to a man yet. Hopefully her decisions on working, and career, and family, and love, and marriage won’t be as overshadowed by social stigma as her mother’s were. Simply because there is no man in the equation.

Sure, they will both have their hearts broken. Can’t help that whichever route they choose.

Now, the tough part. Most of you out there (or so I am told) think there is something wrong with homosexuality. So if my children are gay, your children may or may not make their lives miserable. I certainly don’t want that for my kids. But I will also instill in them a very “fuck you if you don’t like it” attitude to get them through, if need be. And you better damn well believe I’ll be riding the PFLAG float (do they even have floats?) at whatever parade is nearby. I’ll also be smoothing over everything in their path-like I do already. So hopefully, those of you who seem to think gay equals bad won’t ever get your hate-filled message to my children’s ears. Hell, come to think of it, I may do that anyway. In fact, I know I will.

Isn’t it sad that I have to worry if they are gay that your kids will make them ashamed? As if there is something wrong with being gay? That your kids and my peers and my government may enact laws and ordinances barring them from the same rights and protections as heterosexuals? I’m not sure where you people get off, but I’m going to tell you right now, if my kids end up to be gay or not, my FAMILY will make sure you get one hell of a fight. This isn’t a political rant or anything here, this is just me, talking about my kids. And making sure they can be anything and everything in the world. And fall in love with whomever they want. And get married. And have children-in whatever manner they see fit.

So if my dream comes true, I guess I have a whole new set of worries.
Do you really, really mean it when you tell your kids they can be anything?
I’d rather my kids be gay. But I won’t be mad if they are not.
I’ll just need more medication. A number to a few convents. Many boxes of condoms. And maybe some lessons on how to be a nonmeddling mother-in-law.

For the past 10 years, the Kaiser and I have eaten Italian food for Valentine’s Day. That’s our tradition. No gifts. No roses (although he may have broken that one a few times). And no fussing. Just Italian for dinner.

Last night I pulled frozen spaghetti sauce out of the freezer. My, how things have changed.

I think the Italian tradition (that sounds really Coppola, doesn’t it?) started because back when I was dating the Kaiser, he was Mr. Hardcore. Valentine’s day was for sucks. A corporate sham. And anyone caught dead participating in such a farce was obviously an idiot.

But love does funny things. More accurately, good sex.

So we opted for dinner. Then the Kaiser was spared the indignity of Valentine’s hoopla, and the Queen was happily sedated with red wine and canolli’s.

We got married and the tradition continued. We got pregnant and it was take-out on the bed, since I was on bedrest for the 3rd trimester with the Count. The Count came out and was nearly a year old and we forgot that year. But he pulled himself up to a stand, how could you bother me with such nonsense like Italian food???

…and here we are, two little kids later, and instead of some fancy restaurant, or even take out..we’re totally domesticated and pulling sauce out of the freezer.

In the end, as always (don’t you dare tell him I said that) the Kaiser was right. Some how our little family managed to strip away the suck from Valentine’s Day and really get into our little Coppola-esq tradition. Sure it’s been boiled down to the bare bones, but I think that’s exactly where it should be.

We got a Valentine in the mail from the Count. In the mail, people. The preschool sent them out, stickered and everything.

Yeah, Homemade sauce and homemade cards. Valentine’s Day is no longer for sucks.

Enjoy Princess Peanut Punk as Fuck. Note the grin on the Kaiser…

…Daddy also taught Count Waffles an alternative to “excuse me” after a fart…it’s now “smell the love.”

p.s. I’m over at BlogHer today.

Sunday. Day 5. There is joy in Mudville.
My Paxil progress report.

Day 1-headache, nausea, but not bad. Feel nothing. Tired.

Day 2-headache, headache, headache, this isn’t fun…kids seem happy, hmmm…I don’t think I’ve screamed at anyone in awhile…tired. Very tired.

Day 3- Morning- going to cut my fucking head off, going to go off this drug this is not fun. how is this supposed to help me I feel like shit. but…hang on…I haven’t yelled or snapped at anyone in like, two days…hmmmm

Mid day- feeling better, let’s take the kids grocery shopping. What the hell, I’ll even shower. Here is where things get crazy. And I’m just going to come out and say it. Grocery shopping with both kids was not stressful. Shut up, you say. No really. It was fun. fun? what is this fun you speak of?
Hmmm…didn’t freak out at the grocery store once. Not ONE panic attack. (normally the grocery store with both kids sends me into multiple episodes, you know, because Count Waffles just moves 1 inch from my leg to see a box of cereal)–I even let the Count sit and eat a gellato on a bench about 3 feet away from me while I checked out. Unheard of.

We dance in the produce section while bagging lemons. Silliness. Silliness with Mommy…

Evening-Feeling a little low, but mostly just tired. Relaxed. A little sleepy. The Kaiser says he can see a difference just in my expressions. Just in my face. But says it might also be the fact that I showered.

Day 4-Doing the no headache dance.
Went outside multiple times to play with hubby and kids. Outside? What is this outside?
Still haven’t snapped at kids.
Watched Olympics with the Kaiser and laughed my head off at his silly jokes. Haven’t laughed like this in a long, long time. Kaiser seems sooooooooo happy.
I’m tired. But happy.

Day 5-No headache. Just realized the Count has only been in one time out all week. Feeling some uber guilt. Realizing the whole hitting thing last week was probably very related. Can’t dwell. Won’t dwell.

We’re off to a birthday party with a bouncer. Instead of spending the morning freaking out about how many ways the Count will bash his head in, I’m actually excited. And I’m pretty sure I’ll take off my shoes and get in. I’m jumping, baby.

We’re on day three of All Madagascar, ALL THE TIME.

Make it fucking stop.

Someone come over here and rip it out of my DVD player. Because, apparently, I am powerless against the toddler.

“Mommy! My NEW movie! Oh! It’s my BEST! I love it very, very much!”

Alison over at Aliblog had a great post on Toddler OCD a while back. And since my brain is mush from too many Count dance party’s to “I like to move it, move it,” sung by a lemur, she may have more insight than I do.

So far, Madagascar has taught Count Waffles that the word “underwear” is freaking hilarious.

Underwear! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
What did you say?
UNDERWEAR! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
underwear????
Yes Mommy. UNDERWEAR!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

But it’s also brought out that really fun toddler trait of questioning everything.

Mommy, Why did those penguins just fly? Penguins don’t fly.
Mommy? What did he do? Did he bite his butt??
Mommy are they in a boat? Oh, is that a big boat??
Mommy do I loooove this new movie my best?

I can’t really tell you if this movie is any good. I’m numb to it. All I know is when the lemur sings, I am required to get up from where ever I may be sitting and shake my ass.