Come see me over here today. I managed to get some folks you know in today’s news roundup. If you blog about anything in the news…TELL ME!

I only caught a little, little bit of the Grammy’s last night. I admit I love award shows. I love them, now that I no longer have to work them. I promise you, the red carpet is your very worst day at work times 10. Even if Tom Hanks knows your name. Just trust me on this.

Of course, the part of the show I did catch last night was Bono kissing Gwen Stefani’s baby bump. Adorable. And maddening all at the same time.

Never in my life has pregnancy looked so hip. And sexy. And cute.

Who looks like that while pregnant? Spare me the team of stylists, hairdressers, make up people excuse. I went and got stuff done while I was pregnant. I never, never looked like that.

I remember when I was pregnant with Count Waffles, and ready to pop. I was nearly 200lbs, miserable and looking like trailer trash. There really is no other way to describe it. No clothing fit. So I was mostly in one pair of fire engine red pj’s. Whooo sexy. I was getting those hormonal zits. I had read some article on hair dye seeping into my scalp, getting into my blood stream, and making its way to Count Waffles brain for a life of retardhyermyglioitis or something, therefore dying my hair was out of the question. So I was this dirty blonde/brown stringy mass of yarn on my head. Not pretty. Not sexy. Really not rock star. And for a kick in my ass, Catherine Zeta Jones was pregnant and on the red carpet back then for the Oscars.

Seriously…look at that photo. Beautiful. She fucking glows, people.

So with Princess Peanut I tried to step it up a bit. I wasn’t afraid to dye my hair. I wasn’t afraid to get a few more maternity shirts.

In the end: same result. I’m looking like I just stepped out of Wal-Mart with my miracle whip and 6-pack.
To review. Don’t watch award shows.

I officially have hired a babysitter. She’s here right now. You know, so I can get work done- uninterrupted by small, sticky people. Or, I dunno, go somewhere by myself.

Except I’m not getting much work done.

I’m sitting here thinking about having a babysitter. And how, just a month ago, this would have freaked me out.

Don’t get me wrong, there is still a certain amount of freak out going on. But nothing like the good old days of never trusting anyone but my husband or mother with the children.

Which makes me wonder how everyone else handles leaving their kids with other people. How do you screen your sitters? Do you only use relatives?

Here’s how my screening process went:

Queen went to day spa. Queen got her crotch waxed. Queen thought the girl who did it was very nice. Girl mentioned she babysat.
Because nothing says bonding like me naked on all fours while another woman pours hot wax on my labia, I figured she could babysit my kids.

And there you have it. I’m thinking this can’t be the process normally.

Sitting in a strip mall parking lot, cracking your first Paxil in half, then swigging it down with a latte just seems to easy. Too suburban. Too soccer mom. But I did it.

Things got better after my initial admission of postpartum. Then they got worse. Then they got so bad, I thought it might be best if these children and this husband didn’t have to deal with this crazy lady anymore.
Ever again.
But like so many other mothers, and author Marrit Ingman, I went to go kill myself…but couldn’t get a babysitter.

That was me, lightening the mood.

The pediatrician is in agreement. The physician and psychologist have spoken. The Princess will not be weaning. And with any luck, this pill contains magic. And everyone’s lives around here will get a little better.

I have to call my crazy ass cousin today. I really don’t want too. But I still haven’t called her to thank her for sending my kids’ a Christmas gift. Nevermind it came mid January…but I did say this was my crazy ass cousin.

One (of the many) reasons I dread calling her is because she’s going to ask when I’m getting Princess Peanut’s ears pierced. Or she’ll ask why on earth I haven’t done it yet.

Because I think its fucking stupid, that’s why.

I’m not sure if it’s a cultural thing. Or a regional thing. Or just a generation thing. But my family seems to think I’M THE CRAZY ONE for not have shot holes in my daughter’s ears before she can talk.

I’ll admit I think tiny little earrings on babies are cute. But not cute enough to risk infection, or tetanus, or the pain my daughter will endure (however briefly) for the sake of fashion. I’ll just stick to dressing her up on leopard print and pink.

I don’t give a shit if people think she’s a boy. All babies seems gender non-specific to me.

But most of all, I don’t care if every one of my cousins has done it to their daughters. I’m not trying to buck the system or anything. I’m not trying to make a statement. I just find it ridiculous.

And after last night’s Super Bowl Dove commercial that had me in tears, I am CERTAINLY not going to force some sort of beauty ritual on her, before she’s even old enough to know what the hell a beauty ritual is, anyway. She’s got years to feel shitty about some aspect of herself and I’m not going to set the pace in her infancy.

What are we doing to our daughters? Is ear piercing any better or worse than me sticking her in a dress and tights? I’m certainly NOT going to put her in the little, teenie, tiny mini-mini skirt (that I swear would have half her diapered ass hanging out) that same cousin sent. I’m also not going to deny her if she asks 5 years from now to get those ears pierced. But I think that’s the key here
…when she asks.

So I’m off to call my crazy ass cousin. I’m feeling the need to crank the PJ Harvey, or Sleater-Kinney, or maybe some Patti Smith…just ’cause.

You can take the girl out of Detroit…

Happy Super Bowl Sunday. I think I will spend the day hoping my hometown just doesn’t do anything stupid. Do me proud Motor City.

The Kaiser and I have an agreement. But looking back upon making this agreement, I’m pretty sure I was high. Or drunk. Or crazy. And since it’s been established that I’m crazy, I think I get a chance to renegotiate said agreement. I also think that because parenthood is nothing like advertised, I get to renegotiate said agreement.

AND, and, and…I think this will help in my postpartum state.

Confused???

Ok, here goes. And don’t judge me until you get all the facts.

I want a dog. I want a dog like I want air. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog.

But you see, my blogging friends. I can’t have a dog. Because many, many years ago when I, also, wanted a dog…the Kaiser said “we can have kids or you can have a dog.”

Well duh, I picked the kids.

And now that I’m postpartum crazy. Pulling my hair out. Yelling at small people all day. Losing my mind with worry…

I’ve changed my mind. Too late you say? Well, screw you. I want a dog. And I want one of these:

That’s a cockapoo. And I had one while growing up. Her name was Gidget. And now I want one for my kids. But you see, I can’t talk about this at home, because the Kaiser and I agreed it would be unfair to get the kids on my little dog bandwagon. Because I would be manipulating said kids, and he would be the bad guy.

I don’t want him to be the bad guy.

So I’m going to whine to you, dear internet. Because I can’t whine to the short, sticky, people who live with me. And because no matter how much I ask and beg and plead and give sexual favors (and I would totally sign a legal document promising sexual favors to the Kaiser for said dog)..I will never get this dog.

You know dogs can be soothing for their owners? Wouldn’t it be nice if I were soothed? And I would have to go on walks…which is good for my mental health. And I could really use some help with my mental health.

Now, the Kaiser may, or may not (depending on how much he ignores this post) comment to you, dear readers, that I’ve slacked in taking care of the one animal I do have in this house. But in my defense, I had a medical condition that caused me to not clean. (oooh…see how I used that there?) and now that I’m getting a little better, the cat is totally taken care of. Totally. Really. I swear.

So, can someone get a petition going or something? Maybe some sort of prescription from a doctor saying I HAVE to have a dog? Anyone?

I sat down this morning, thinking I was going to tell you something silly. Something, frivolous. But if I did, it would just be a coverup. A big conspiracy to make you think everything is happy and dandy and stepford here in the royal kingdom.

I have the mother of all mommy guilt going on this morning.

For the first time ever, the Kaiser and I played punishers. Like, hardcore punishers. Not the time outs we’ve been doing. Not the somewhat stern, half grinning lectures. This was full on, taking toys away, “wait ’till your father gets home” ass whuppin. With out the actual beating.

Count Waffles the Terrible hit me yesterday. Twice. I’m still fuzzy on the circumstances surrounding the mommybeating. He was mad. I was mad. He was in trouble, he didn’t want to be in trouble and the next thing I knew his tiny little hand was balled in a fist and he nailed me in the arm.

I lost my shit.

The first time, it was a time out with me screaming the whole way. Three minutes. And then I added a “and no tv for the rest of the day” for dramatic effect.

He spent the rest of the day discussing how much trouble he was in, and how he wasn’t allowed to turn on the tv because he hit mommy. I honestly thought he had learned his lesson.

Then came storytime in bed. We were goofing around, reading, tickling, waiting for Daddy to get home…when one thing lead to another and he was once again in trouble. This time I think I asked him to stop spitting (we had been making silly faces). He refused. I told him again. He refused. I grabbed his hand out of his mouth and told him very sternly to stop.

He balled up his tiny hand, again, and nailed my arm.

I lost my shit like I’ve never lost it before. He actually flinched backwards from the sheer volume and what must be fire coming from my mouth.

I got off the bed. Quickly contemplating my next move. It had to be fast. It had to be severe. I couldn’t just stick him in another time out.

I grabbed his two, very favorite, dumptrucks and told him I was taking them away.

Oh the horror.

I told him to stay on the bed and to NOT move. Daddy was going to be home soon and he was”IN DEEP SHIT.”

Yes, I actually said shit. What do you want from me, I was crazed.

As luck would have it, Daddy was pulling into the driveway as I was coming down the stairs with the dumptrucks. I sat at the bottom of the stairs and informed the Kaiser as soon as he walked through the front door what had just transpired. The Kaiser could hear Count Waffles crying above.

Then, in what might possibly be the most surreal moment of my life, the Kaiser proceeded directly upstairs and unleashed a serious Daddy ass whuppin. The tone of my husband’s voice when he lectured the Count on how “you NEVER hit your mother,” made ME shiver. And I was not the one in trouble.

Poor Count Waffles. His face. Oh, if you could have seen his face. Scared shitless. Sobbing. Couldn’t even catch his breathe he was sobbing so hard.

The Kaiser would tell me later he had no idea where that father tone came from. Somewhere deep inside that gets tapped when you become a parent, I guess.

And now I sit here this morning, feeling horribly guilty. Was the Count acting out because I haven’t been as attentive to him as I should? The post partum. The constant nursing of the Peanut.

Should I have handled the hits differently? Should there have been more love and tenderness in our voices instead of sheer venom?

We don’t spank. We didn’t spank. But were our words just as hurtful as a smack?

So as the dumptrucks sit ontop of our cabinet in the playroom until tomorrow, they serve as a reminder to the Count that he’s been punished. And a reminder to the Kaiser and I that we are now…the punishers.