I think there is an old wives tale that has infiltrated our minds and I’d like to, here on my blog, clear it up for good. I feel it’s my duty to inform the public.

Getting married and having kids does not mean your wife will suddenly STOP being interested in sex.

I’m not saying she has time for sex. But she will WANT sex.

There is a bit of a, ahem, dry spell going on here in the royal kingdom. Days upon days of very ill children, inlaws, and now, a rather ill wife.

And I’m feeling rather, um…frisky.

Just yesterday the Kaiser and I did the Friends routine where Monica is sick, but in denial, and trying to get Chandler to do it with her. She is in a robe, sneezing, totally stuffed up and says “You don’t want to get with this?”

The Kaiser did not want to get with this.

How I can feel so amorous and blow snot the size of my head out of my nostril is beyond me. But I’m also very sick and hungry, so much for that sick with no appetite thing.

I’m guessing my constantly tearing eyes don’t have that “come hither” look. And those raw, red patches under my nose may look a little, let’s just say, unappealing.

Personally I find my gray long-johns and Target-issued long sleeve shirt H-O-T.

They tell me Spring is here. Bleh, phooey, and HA! I say.

But soon, yes soon, the clouds will part and the sun will shine, spring will…um, spring, and the Kaiser and I will go at it like rabbits.

Soon.

I asked my pediatrician when all of this winter/kid/snot/illness will end.

He said, “June.”

Anyway, my Tylenol Cold & Flu haze has gotten me away from my original point:

Women want it too. And it’s not that we don’t care to do it…we just don’t have an opportunity to do it. Sorry about that.

Aaaaacccchhhhhoooooo.

My Army chaplain, Southern Baptist, brother-in-law and his “I serve my husband” wife sent my son a tank for his birthday.

We threw it in the trash.

You heard me, the trash.

I realize this may seem a bit extreme to some of you. And I know you may not agree. But I just really don’t want that kind of “War” toy around here. I don’t like the message it sends. I don’t like that it shoots. I don’t like that he will aim it at someone (his sister) and “pretend” to hurt her. Why on earth would anyone find that acceptable???
I realize my little man will figure all this out on his own. And I realize he will, some day, play with pretend guns and things. But they will be “pretend” and he will use his imagination. He’s not getting toy guns.

I sure as hell am not going to help him get violent earlier than he needs to be. He can get there on his own. I will not condone or encourage any behavior that sees shooting, hitting, stabbing, or otherwise maiming someone as “ok.” Because despite what you keep telling yourself about boys-violence is not acceptable.

An email has been sent to my inlaws, very politely and gently letting them know Count Waffles did not, and will not, be allowed to have the tank. I very politely and lovingly reminded them that they let us know which Princesses were acceptable as gifts in their house. We can’t send little E Ariel, because she disobeyed her father. You see, my inlaws use words like “obey”
with their kids. They also think I’m going to burn in the hellfires for eternity…but I’m digressing.

Despite my overwhelming urge to send my niece radical feminist books, dolls, and pamphlets…I will refrain. Because as parents, they have asked me to please adhere to their rules.

And as parent, I’m asking the same.

I’m hoping it’s taken well and does not cause any problems, but I wouldn’t necessarily be unwelcome to a nice debate. They could use some other viewpoints in their lives.

Here a few of the only nonblurry photos from our little get together.

Also—SlushTurtle is kicking everyone’s asses in the Hippo Diet. So get moving!

And I will be at Blogher at some point today.

Today the Kaiser and I got to see Laurie from Stranded in Suburbia fame. We ate, we drank. She’s just as cool as you think she is!!! We could only leave the royal snotfest at our house for a short time…but it was fun!!

I think the Kaiser came because he heard “internet friend” and “pink chaps.”

Actually, I invited him, after hearing Sarah’s tale of hoping to not be killed when she met Lumpyhead’s Mom, I needed a backup.

That’s not really true either. The truth is we have babysitters and got the hell out of our house…together.

I highly recommend meeting your blogging friends in real life.

I need to lighten the mood around here. The kids are miserable. The grandparents keep wanting to take them out back into the RAIN and 40 degree weather. I need to do some BlogHer work and neither child wants to leave my lap for more than a few minutes…so…

A homeless guy approached the Kaiser in Santa Monica the other night telling him “I’d uh…just like to mention that among the NASA implants that are in me are tearduct and nasal mucus implants.”

The Count asked me “Mommy, what do you say?” after he caught me farting the other day…and I was forced to reply “Smell the love.” May God Smite my husband for that one.

I’ve had to explain to my mother what a “hoe” is. Several times.

My father keeps talking about the sex lady on tv with the dildos.

My brother keeps making faces behind my inlaws backs to make me laugh.

The cashier at our pharmacy knows my children by name. And asked me how my Paxil was working in front of a crowded drugstore. I then proceeded to sing “You are My Sunshine” to my kids as we waited. I figured everyone knew I was nuts, so why act all normal.

Despite my anal cleaning (*editor’s note to the Kaiser-I mean my obsessive house cleaning. Not the actual cleaning of my anus) , there remains a “fort” made of rope, clips, and two blankets under my stairs. My father-in-law keeps hitting his head on it.

Our pediatrician laughed until he nearly choked when I gave my husband directions to the office sticker bin. He then said we’d been there way too much lately.

My father-in-law told me I looked like a zebra.
I have new highlights.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day my blogging friends. I think I will go get drunk now.

Look for a wasted BlogHer post later.

There will be cotton candy ice cream cake for 30. But no party.
There will be presents. But no party.
There will be grandparents in from across the country. But no party.

Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

Double ear infections. Throat infections. Sinus infections.

Not. Going. Away.

Anyone want cake?

Sometimes I think I am so in my own little world of mommyhood, that I forget how retarded I look to other people.

Last night, for instance, my mother got to witness our bedtime routine.

She was shocked and slightly awed. Mostly shocked, I think.

There I was, on my back, right boob out, book in left hand. The Count was laying on my left side while I read, the Princess on my right-nursing and gabbing.

Princess latches on and off, rolls around. Stands up. Gets told to sit. She yells back “YES!” with her arms in the air-defying her mother.

The Count tosses and turns and runs a motorcycle across my chest while I tug at the Princess to get her on her bottom. She re-latches, this time on all fours. The Count screams because I skipped a page of “My Mom is Great” and moves my left arm under his head even further.

My Mother was to the left of the Count, not daring to move, mouth agape at the circus act I was performing. Eventually the Princess crawled ontop of the Count and all hell broke loose.

My Mom said it was time for her to go to bed, and politely excused herself. She left staring at me, my shirt hiked up now on both sides, baby across me on all fours pinching my left nipple, toddler on my legs trying to avoid the baby taking up the top half of my body.

Everyone was either laughing, screaming, crying, or yelling.

This is all totally normal for bedtime. But I’m thinking a bystander, such as my mother, must think it’s not really a “routine” and more a “whirlwind.”

I have a confession. And once again, it’s going to kick me out of the feminist club. (I get kicked out of there a lot, don’t I?)

Barbie doesn’t bother me.

She never has.

I agree her proportions are totally ridiculous. I agree she’s not normal. Her tits are too big. Her waist is too small.

But here is my big secret:

None of that EVER occurred to me as a young girl. Not once.

She was simply a doll. And I got her naked and cut her hair and took her head off.

I write all of this because my uber-conservative sister-in-law just wrote me to ask that I not send my niece any “Barbies, Ariels, Belle’s, or Mulans” for her upcoming birthday. She says it’s “because of the message they send.”

The Disney girls all pissed off their parents. Barbie…I dunno??? She has a career??? She dumped Ken-who had no dick anyway??

My question is this…are we over analyzing everything these days? I certainly don’t want my daughter growing up with any body issues. And I don’t want to contribute to them with a super skinny, big boobed barbie doll.

But…is it really just a doll, and are the only ones noticing the tits and waist us???

I’m at BlogHer today!