Count Waffles

An Open Letter to iCarly

July 13, 2009 by Queen of Spain 124 Comments

It appears you are my son’s very first crush. He’s 6.
iCarly

As a mother, I, of course, have some concerns. But overall, I’m ok with you being the object of his desire.

He seems to think you are prettiest and funniest girl on the planet and even drooled (no really, with real drool) when he saw your DVD on the shelf at the store.

You are the reason his father taught him the phrase “humminahumminahummina,” and for that, I apologize.

You’re a web chick (in theory), you don’t wear revealing clothes, you seem, by all tabloid accounts, to stay out of trouble.

On camera you stick blueberries up your nose and make chicken soup in a toilet. What 6-year old boy wouldn’t love you?

However, and this is a big however…if you go all Britney on me…I will be forced to ban you, your show, and your network. Harsh, I know…but in this day and age I just can’t risk my little guy’s heart and mind to the wiley ways of a wayward girl. He’ll get enough of that in his real life when the time comes, this I am sure. Hell, he gets enough of that from his own mother. So he really doesn’t need it from the fictional female he adores.

In short, don’t disappoint me. Please.

No pressure, really.

Xoxoxox,

Erin

Filed Under: #suckit, Count Waffles

Sounding It Out

June 17, 2009 by Queen of Spain 15 Comments

I love to read.*

When I am able, I will devour a book whole in a night or two, ignoring everything around me and losing myself inside the pages.

My son is now reading, and I want him to love every word. I want him to realize how amazing it can be to escape into a book and enjoy a story so much you read it again and again and again.

I worry though, because at this point, reading seems to be a chore for him. It’s starting to become enjoyable as his comprehension grows and the struggle of ‘sounding it out’ doesn’t cloud the magic of the words.

He’s mostly clouded now. The mechanics of reading pain him more than the words entertain him.

I realize he will grow in the process, and maybe I am just overly-anxious because I understand what is just around the bend.

But there is no guarantee he will love to read. He might, he might not. His sister might, she might not. My visions of sharing with them my first copy of Catcher in the Rye or Little Women may fall on deaf ears.

Or maybe, if we continue to practice, he’ll get over that hump and find that section somewhere in the library or bookstore where he begs me to bring home everything on the shelf.

A Mom can hope.

*this post was inspired after reading 13-year old RJ’s blog this morning. I hope my kids read and write with the passion shown by this young woman.

Filed Under: BlogHer, Count Waffles, Feeling YaYa

My son shall grow up to be a wussy Mama’s boy and it’s all my fault

June 1, 2009 by Queen of Spain 23 Comments

My son can be sensitive.

He loves his mom. Anything that involves blood or death upsets him, and you better not touch his lego creations (that include 6 armed robots who are his best friend AND evil ships with aliens) or he will crumble into a million pieces and weep for their dismantling.

So I wasn’t surprised when he quizzed me about what is next in his life, mainly, Kindergarten ending.

Well honey we talked about this. After Kindergarten comes 1st grade.

…and then what Mom.

Then comes 2nd grade. And then 3rd grade.

And then 4th grade and 5th grade mom?

Yes honey. You got it.

So what happens when the grades are done?

Well then you get to go away to college sweetie. You get to live there, and be with your friends, it’s SO MUCH FUN.

Dead Silence.

Uncomfortable sighs.

Heaves.

SOBS.

Full-on hysterical crying.

Yes, my son was losing it over something 12 grades from now, and with good reason.

…but, but…Mom…I DON’T WANT TO LEAVE YOU EVER.

awww honey, you don’t ever have to go, it’s ok. Really sweetie calm down it’s ok. But trust me you’ll want to go. I know you don’t feel that way now, but when you’re older and as big as Drew (our good friend’s son who’s 17) you might want to be with your friends more than your Mom.

NO I WON’T! DON’T TELL ME THOSE THINGS! I WANT YOU MOMMY!

Oh honey. It’s ok. It’s ok. (hysterical sobs continue, tears EVERYWHERE) you can stay home. You can stay home as long as you like. Really. You know where we go to the Farmer’s Market? That’s a college! You can go right there to college and live here and never leave!

And then I realized what I had just said. And caught myself.

But promise me you’ll think about living away. Because you need to try things in life. Remember how you thought you hated salmon? And you tried salmon and now you love it? That might be what college is like!

No Mom. Not unless you come.

Ok honey. I can come to college.

Yes, in one tiny, bedtime exchange I promised my son that not only could he stay home from college but if he decided he wanted to go…I would go with him.

#fail.

Filed Under: Count Waffles, Feeling YaYa, Stepford Crazies

It Won’t Last Forever

May 10, 2009 by Queen of Spain 29 Comments

When she lays sideways against me, she usually swings her legs over my knees. They dangle. They dangle because she is tiny and even the simple act of laying across me is monumental to her. Her limbs looking so very small in relation to mine.

To me it’s heaven. Her body nestled across mine, while her brother rests his head on my shoulder. Everyone breathing in unison and calm together.

This is how we sleep from time-to-time. Not so often anymore, but often enough for me to realize it’s nearly gone.

Sometimes, when I lay on my side, she can still curl to spoon me. But her spoon involves her tiny feet against my thighs and her head in my neck. She still fits there. But barely. Just barely.

He is another story. He can’t fit there ever again. Now he wraps his arms around me like a little man, and uses one hand to pet my back, or pet my arm. He dotes in a way where before, he wanted the doting on himself.

Now when he rolls over, he’s careful to not touch my breast, instead choosing to lay a hand on my belly. This one is harder for me. More emotional of a change. Before his head would lay nowhere but my breast. Not anymore. He is embarrassed. He is aware.

It breaks my heart.

It doesn’t happen so often anymore, but when they are both at my side, sleeping with limbs strewn across mine and breathing on my arm it’s almost as if time doesn’t move, and I am at peace.

I can hear their breath.

They aren’t darting off to play, or at school, or in the yard.

It’s the one time of day I have no fear for them, or for myself. They are with me. They are safe. We are together.

This morning as I awoke with feet in my face and a sweaty head on my shoulder, I realized it was just a moment away from being gone. We are but days or months from being done with wanting to lay near Mom. Needing to lay near Mom. Able to lay near Mom.

They both barely fit any longer…not just in size.

It’s nearly gone. Time is so very short. Those tiny feet now push away instead of pushing on my thighs. That once small head now changes his mind and goes back to his own bed, full of independence and assured and able to comfort himself.

I laugh now at myself. Wanting not so long ago for them to learn to sleep in their own beds. Willing it. I needed the break, or the space, or the freedom at night. Forgetting one of the mantra’s I would tell others when they looked-down on our co-sleeping habits, “it won’t last forever.”

And here we are. Forever. And I’d like it to last just a bit longer.

Please.

Filed Under: Count Waffles, Feeling YaYa, Princess Peanut, Stepford Crazies

Because Nothing Says Family Fun Like the Cops Surrounding the House

April 30, 2009 by Queen of Spain 20 Comments

jail Dinner time should really be that time of day when the family winds down and shares their day. You sit at the table, tell eachother how school/work/thepark went and calmly and quietly eat and talk.

I’d recommend it NOT be the time of day when an alarm blares loud enough to actually be painful to your ears and sheriff’s deputies, with guns drawn, surround your house and peer through your windows.

I can make this recommendation speaking from experience, because my 6-year old had 3 cops cars at our house the other night...the gangsta.

Raise your hand if you have a junk drawer in your kitchen…. uh huh…I know you do. We do too. In the back of that junk drawer is a little remote control with a panic button.

As my son searched for AAA batteries for his Robot, he found the remote and, being six, pressed the red panic button.

Not the green button. Not the blue one. Not even the yellow one. No…he went straight for the red “holy fuck we’re being attacked’ panic button.

I was upstairs putting away laundry and cleaning screwing around on the computer when I heard

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

and there was much gnashing of teeth and screaming and crying and chaos.

Flying downstairs thinking the rapture was upon us I found my son screaming “make it stop! make it stop! make it stop!”while my daughter had dive-bombed herself under a blanket.

As calmly as I could I asked my son to show me exactly how this ungodly noise started in our home, realized it was the house alarm, and went to press the code to, in fact, make it stop.

It seems in the midst of the chaos the alarm company called, we failed to answer (not hearing the phone over the alarm and all) and they immediately called the police.

So while I sat the kids down and had a nice discussion with them about NOT TOUCHING shit they aren’t supposed to touch, my brother exclaims “the cops are here…they have guns…I need my ID…”

I look out my front window to see a very nice sheriff’s deputy, gun drawn, at my front window.

Um…holy shit?

This news prompts the 6-year old to panic and cry, and me to sooth him with “don’t worry you’re not in trouble, the police just want to make sure we’re safe’ tones as I open the door and apologize to the …6 (?) uniformed deputies and plain clothed detectives out front.

Yes, I am fairly certain my son will never push another button again for as long as he lives.

Yes, I am really glad the cops showed up so quickly and were not hauling us all off to jail for screwing up.

Yes, I will- if this ever happens again- try and contact my alarm company a bit faster.

Yes, I cost my city tax payer dollars because I have a messy junk drawer.

and yes, even our quiet dinner times here are never, ever, dull.

No wonder the neighbors love us so much.

Filed Under: Count Waffles, Houseboy, kill me now, Stepford Crazies

Frankly, Scarlett

April 26, 2009 by Queen of Spain 19 Comments

I wasn’t home while my son had his first bout of strep and…wait for it…Scarlet Fever. Not that I have guilt or anything.

Here’s the thing about this Scarlet Fever crap…it looks SO MUCH WORSE than it is. And apparently I wasn’t even home for the bad part. I got off the plane and my son had what looked like…POX all over his body. Head. Fingers. Feet. Legs. Arms. Chest. NOTHING was unpoxed.

Scared the shit out of me.

Of course he was apparently pox’d and bright red while I was gone, so I got the toned down version. Either way. I’m glad I’m home. If anyone else gets pox’d, it will be on my watch.

Filed Under: Count Waffles, Stepford Crazies

Lobstery is Missing

April 10, 2009 by Queen of Spain 11 Comments

That’s him. The orange one. Beloved by the boy for all of a week now. Tonight, after switching hotels in Orlando, we discovered Lobstery wasn’t around.

My son sobbed like he hasn’t sobbed in years.

Maybe it was 3 days of theme parks. Maybe it was all the sugar. Maybe it was true love of lobster…but my 6-year old was entirely heartbroken over the loss of his orange, plastic, squeaking lobster pal.

I called the Walt Disney World Dolphin and they kindly directed me to hotel security. The very nice man who answered the phone only giggled once when taking down a description of Lobstery. And swore that if “any lobsters matching his description came in” they would call.

Now I lay in the hotel bed next to a sleeping, yet still heaving, boy. He’s doing that thing you do after a really hard cry. That sob in your sleep thing. It’s pathetic. And gut wrenching.

Nana is in the other room swearing to drive all the way back to Tarpon Springs to get him another one. Of course, he doesn’t want another one. He wants “his” Lobstery.

I know which one he is. You can’t trick me. Because I loved him so very much.

But just think honey. When they find him, they will mail him to us. Lobstery will have an adventure!

No! Lobsters aren’t supposed to have adventures, Mom. He’s supposed to just stay with me.

So tomorrow morning I will wake up early to again re-pack our bags. I will, again, look through each and every suitcase for a hint of orange. And I will again call hotel security and check the lost and found.

Cross your fingers for us.

Come home Lobstery! We miss you!

Filed Under: Count Waffles, Stepford Crazies

Inhale

April 6, 2009 by Queen of Spain 17 Comments

I’m not so hot at this boy stuff. See right here…my son…up in this tree. I’m fairly sure I held my breath until he came down.

The smashing. The jumping. The constant running and destroying.

I hate it.

It makes me live in fear for the next ER trip. The first broken bone. The first set of stitches.

Did I really struggle to carry this child in my womb for 9 months just so he could come out and maim himself?

However. And this is a big HOWEVER…I’m standing here letting him climb this damn tree. Everything in me wants him DOWN on the GROUND where it is SAFE. But no…I’m letting him climb.

Because children need to climb trees and scrape their knees and not have Mom hovering directly overhead waiting to catch at the slightest imbalance.

At least that’s what I keep saying to myself…as I watch. Only slightly turning blue from the lack of oxygen.

Filed Under: Count Waffles