If you have a park better than THIS one in our neighborhood, call me out. Because this park, smack dab on the Pacific, kicks your park’s ASS. That’s right, I’m still ass kicking.

We went to Santa Barbara this weekend and had a ball. There is nothing like a good Santa Barbara outing to lift the spirits and get you happy. Except for the fact that Count Waffles the Terrible has a new alter ego: Captain No Pants.

Potty training (which is going really well -knock on wood- by the way) means his pants are on and off…a lot. But he prefers them off. His sister follows suit and declare herself “Naaaa bababa!” which translates into NAKED BABY! Which must be said just like that…in a scream. You also need to throw your hands in the air.

Anyway, everyone has been naked around here a lot more lately. Which is great for potty training, but not so great when it’s been the coldest and wettest spring in Southern California in recent memory.

So today, we’re trying to go to playgroup…but Captain No Pants is refusing to put pants on. Much like this weekend when we wanted to leave for Santa Barbara and I couldn’t get him to put pants on.

“Can’t we go to the zoo with no pants, Mommy?”

Costumes, capes, hats…I can handle. But how the hell do I get out of the house when kids have NO PANTS???

I’m off to wrestle a 3-year-old now.

If anyone is in the mood for some pushing and shoving, Captain Mom is picking a fight with me.

Go tell her I said “hi!”and add your two cents.

Congrats to SlushTurtle. She’s our Hippo Diet Queen for April! Keep up the dieting, though, everyone. You are all making REAL progress and we’ll do it again for MAY.

Keep emailing me your weight loss progress at queenofspainblog@yahoo.com.

Yes, she is beautiful…isn’t she?
Oh…I agree…those eyes are so very big and deep and dark.
Really? You think she looks like me? You must be mistaken, because I see ALL Daddy in this one. And some of her Nana.

No. No. I have no problems with her at all. Easy baby. Sweet as can be, our little peanut. And smart! I tell ya…I’m thinking Harvard, Yale, Notre Dame for this one. Just jolly and easy going and really very happy.

Her name? Yes, it is a bit unusual. But it was her great-grandmother’s. Well, I don’t think it’s THAT odd. In fact, I find it to be beautiful. And it fits her very well. Her middle name? Wow. You didn’t have to scrunch your face up like that. That was her other great-grandmother’s name. AND my mother’s middle name. And my husband and I think her full name is perfect. No. I don’t think she will be teased. Not anymore than any other child. And trust me…she’ll kick all their asses. She’s freakishly strong. I actually have to put my entire body weight on her to hold her down and give her medicine. No, I’m not kidding.

Sleep? Her crib? Haahahahahha. Oh. Sorry, ahem. No. She doesn’t sleep in a crib. In fact, I don’t even know where her crib is. Our garage…maybe? Maybe the attic.
Well, she sleeps with us, of course. And her 3-year-old brother.

Yes, yes. I’ve heard that. But we are safe. And we all sleep very well. Much better than many, many other parents I know. Sure we have some nights here and there. But mostly, we all sleep pretty good.
No. I’m not worried about rolling on her. Or her not gaining independence from me. Trust me…she’s fine on that front.

Oh no, it’s ok…you don’t have to leave. I can nurse here right here. No, really…you won’t see a thing. I just lift up my shirt and….yep…see, you’d never know, if it weren’t for the slurping.

Now…why would you say that? Of course she’s not “getting a little old for this.” She’s a year. And yes, I hear that’s what is recommended, yes…one year of nursing. But you see…I’m an overachiever. This stuff in these here boobs? Really good for her. Not to mention the comfort. Oh, the comfort. So, to answer your question…No, she’s not getting too old to nurse. And I have NO PLANS to wean her. She can wean when she’s ready. Her brother weaned at 19 months. I expect her to wean a bit sooner, but only because she’s a bit more independent than he was.

Her Dad? What do you mean? Oh, I see. You think her Dad would want these playthings back for himself. First of all, her Dad knows what is best for her, he is a man well educated on the benefits of breastfeeding. He is also well aware these are working breasts…not man’s toy. They are doing what nature intended them to do. I also think it’s funny you seem to think he has any control over them. Like they are his to play with and somehow I’m denying him because I continue to breastfeed past the whole one year mark. Please. Don’t make me laugh. What is best for these kids comes first in this house. And let me just tell you this much: these suckers on my chest…soooooooooooooo not going back to him in the shape they left. Not. Even. Close.

Bottle? No. She’s never had one of those. Pacifier? She has one that is a toy…somewhere around here. Well…no. I don’t get to go out for very long. 3 hours, 4 max. Then she needs her Mom. But hey, it’s what I signed on for. And she won’t be little and nursing forever. Inconvenient? Well, that depends on what you consider inconvenient. I don’t have family nearby, so it’s not like we have babysitters clamoring for kid-time around here. We are a family that likes our sports and things. So it’s not like I have all these places to go and people to see. So, no…it’s really not inconvenient at all.

Walking? Oh yes…since she was 9-months. Talking? Oh my. She even calls her Dad on the phone and has entire conversations, says “Gu-bye!” and hangs up.

The hair? Yes. Yes. I know. Today it seems to be down, but tomorrow, I’m sure it will be straight up in the air. We like it that way. Gives her a very punk rock look.

Sure, I’d be happy if she were punk. Or a tomboy. Or a girly-girl. Or like her Mom…a tomboy, girly-girl. Yeah, I know. As long as she’s not a cheerleader, I’ll be fine.

The thing about Post Pardum Depression and Anxiety, is that you don’t know you are knee-deep in it…until well after you are out of it.

Tricky, huh?

I really and truly just thought I was trying to adjust to having two children. I really believed that. But now that the good days far out-number the bad, I can look back and see just how bad I was. Or, “it”, was.

I’m not cured. But I’ve got a nice big bandaid. And it’s healing under there.

The question is how to heal everyone and everything around me. They suffered too.

I didn’t beat anyone. I didn’t forget anyone in the car or leave anyone to sit in a poopy diaper or anything. But I wasn’t the Mom or wife I could have been. And that hurts.

And now, when days get tough around here (and with two kids, they are bound to get tough every once in a while-regardless of mental health) I KNOW they are tough. And it brings me back to the crappy, angst-ridden, sick place within myself. I know when I am there now. And I know how to get out of it, for the most part. But it almost makes me feel worse. Mainly due to all those times I didn’t know I was there. And didn’t know how to get out of it.

It was a bad day around here. Kids were whiney and clingy. The Kaiser apparently had a crappy day. But things needed to be done. Rain was pouring down. But I made sure dinner got cooked, and laundry was done, and the house was cleaned. There was still a dance party in the living room while I swept the kitchen, and there was still tickle fights and hug piles. It may have been a bad day…but this bad day was already so, so, so, so, so much better than those “other” bad days. The ones before therapy and Paxil and talks with my wonderful husband.

So I sit here wondering how scarred I am. How scarred they are. How I make up for lost time. How I take today’s bad day, and try not to dwell on all those other bad days.

I wish there was some way I could have known. I bet you a million other PPD Moms out there feel the same way.

Maybe therapy after a baby should just be a mandatory part of Post Pardum care. You have a baby, and it just happens. Like a baby shower in reverse or something. But it has to happen a good few months after the baby. Not those honeymoons weeks when you’re still delirious with pain killers and exhaustion and euphoria.

Maybe there needs to be real specialists in this field. Let’s study the fuck out of it and then send out a team of women to check in on every Mom in the world.

Hiya! We’re the PPD team…just making sure you’re not filled with dread and fear over today’s local news stories and you WILL go to your playgroup despite being sure everyone will die in a car wreck if you leave the house. And oh, by the way…we’re going to help you clean up around here, open some window shades, and sing to lift your spirits a bit. Don’t worry honey! You’re not alone. You’re never alone! We do this for hundreds and hundreds of women across the world and you are NOT THE ONLY ONE!

That would be nice. Actually, it would just be nice if I felt like that’s how the world worked. Then maybe I could get rid of this shame and feeling of complete and totally vulnerability over having been diagnosed.

I feel like the world is screaming “oh, so you admit you are weak? yeah…you women and those hormones. first it was migraines, now…this emotional, childbearing thing, uh-huh” and then the world gives me a bottle of pills and pats me on the head and sends me back to suburbia.

But in reality…it’s every. other. mom. I. know. Every other Mom blogging. Every other WOMAN I’ve met at the pediatrician. The grocery store. The pharmacy.

That gives me strength. It gives me strength to know I’m not alone. And it gives me hope that, eventually and in it’s own time, the world won’t pat us on the head anymore. There won’t be shame anymore.

And I won’t feel guilty anymore.

But for tonight…I’m going back upstairs to cuddle my kids again. Kiss the Kaiser a few extra times.

Because I’m still trying to make it right. How many other Moms are trying to make it right?

I am very happy to announce I am joining the ranks of some kick ass Mom’s over at DotMoms.

If you haven’t spent time over there as of yet, I highly recommend it. Start reading some posts, and the next thing you know you’ve clicked a good few dozen times and spent a good hour reading.

Speaking of sitting on your butt and reading…get me your Hippo Diet progress report by the end of the week. I’m announcing the winner (so far) by the 31st and that thinning person will be Annie’s Knight for April. You get to hang out on my sidebar and everything. E-mail me with your “version” of diet progress at queenofspainblog@yahoo.com.

And as a little reward for stopping by today, here is my beloved Kaiser and his rendition of some Disney Princess song from some goofy bedtime book. Yes, the video is dark…but it was bedtime, what do you want from me? Just turn up your volume and TRUST ME. Enjoy.

3. 3. Three. three. THREE.

He’s 3 today.

I want to go on and on saying things like “where did the time go?” and “how did he get so big?” but I’ll spare you.

Instead, let me lament a bit about the bundle of emotions that is a 3-year-old. That picture there-that’s a good one. Because you can see the stress and tension in his face. It’s over how to get cake on his fork. The Dora fork, NOT the Spiderman fork. And the cake is on the THOMAS plate, NOT a yellow plate.

Had some fool tried the Spiderman fork or a yellow plate, God help them. God help them.

There are good parts too my interweb friends, don’t let me fool you. He now can tell me how much he loves me. Did you know he loves me inside, AND outside, AND EVERYWHERE? That includes all the way to the moon and back. You see, I’m his best Mom. Red is his best color. And circles are his best shape.

This also means he can tell me to go away. And not to look at him. He really prefers I keep his sister a good three arm lengths away at all times. Oh, and she’s not allowed to speak. Or cry. Or touch anything. Even if it’s hers.

We’re going to watch “A Bug’s Life” about 3 times today. And we’re going to be outside gardening. He’s requested a Happy Meal for lunch, and chicken hot dogs for dinner. We’ll even go to the park, since the clouds seem to have finally parted around here.

We’re also going to try underwear. Again. We’ve hyped the “you’re three today! 3-year-olds wear underwear!” thing. So far, he’s not buying it. He’ll tell you he’s still 2, and 2-year-olds wear pull ups. When you remind him he’s 3 now, he’ll say “I’m 2, just a little longer…”

If only it were so easy.