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.

Can you people appreciate how difficult this makes laundry days???

I was waiting for blogging inspiration to strike this morning, when…

WHAM.

I got hit in the face with a block.

An actual block. Thrown by Count Waffles, not because he wanted to hurt anyone. And not because he was finding some new, avantgarde way to build a tower. But simply because he did not want his sister to touch the block.

The sibling issue around here is getting worse. And I’m really out of ways to handle it with any sort of tact or dignity. I’ve sunk to, “be NICE to your SISTER or you’re in BIG trouble,” tirades…laced with a little “you’re her brother, she wants to be near you, she loves you, you are supposed to teach her,” guilt trips.

Count Waffles the Terrible has gotten so bad, Princess Peanut is not even allowed to look at him. From 40 feet away. One glance and he’s shrieking like she spit lava all over his favorite toy.

I have friends who tell me I should be thankful all the Count does is scream. Their nearly three year old tries to smother his little sister. And kicks her. And punches her. And knocks her over on purpose. And displays overall serial killer characteristics with his sibling. The Count jus screams about his. Mainly because the few time he has gotten physical, he’s been in sooo much trouble he dare not go there again.

But mix one crazed, post partum Mom, with one constantly shrieking toddler, add in a dash of crying baby…and whammo, dinnertime around here becomes an exercise in me not becoming an alcoholic or pill-popper while the children meltdown because one is, heaven forbid, crawling in the same direction as the other.

I don’t know what to do.

We’re trying the “I don’t want to hear you scream unless she’s actually touching you” route. That’s not really working.

I’ve tried the “but she just loves you so much” route.
But the Count could really care less.

I’ve tried the “but look how much FUN you can have together” thing…but that lasts for the 3 minutes they were having fun, then someone touches someone else and shrieking ensues.

Please don’t tell me to go get Dr. Someone or another’s book on sibling whatever. I’m trying to read a book right now, and it’s taken me 3 days to get 30 pages.

I need real world parenting advice.

How do I discipline a boy who is allowed to not want to be near his sister? Who has every right to get a little uppity when she comes near, because, let’s face it…she normally slobbers on him and pulls his hair.

But I really can NOT stand this constant shrieking. I’m going even more insane than I already am.

Help me internet. You’re my only hope.

Ok, I’ll go ahead and end the suspense.

Thank you to everyone who submitted their version of “love” for this month’s Order of St. Anne fun. I really enjoyed every single one of them.

And I really had a hard time picking a winner.

There were so many cute photos of Dad’s with babies and men vacuuming and kids, kids, kids. Eating ice cream. Sleeping side by side. Couples in love. Good stuff. All of it.

I looked them over. And over. And over.

And I kept coming back to one entry.

Not, really, because it was the best photo in the bunch (although it’s totally super cute).

And not, really, because of the story that went with it (although it’s a good one).

I kept going back to it, because it wasn’t the usual commenter on this blog that submitted it.

It was her husband.

Think about that for a second.

Her HUSBAND knew she read this blog, and went and entered her in the contest.

Does your husband read the blogs you read? Does he care enough to download and submit an entry to a contest for you, without even telling you???

THAT IS LOVE.

THAT is what this was about.

Arise, Launch Exhaust. You are Annie’s Knight for February. And we’re all going to learn more about rowing than we ever wanted too.

It has come to my attention I have spent a good amount of time, as of late, discussing my vagina. Or whoo-ha. Or crotch. Or ba-gyna, for those fluent in toddler. And with all the goings-on in my nether regions, I haven’t thought much about the boys around here. Those in this kingdom and those just stopping by to read about this kingdom. Fair enough.

Let me update everyone on the penis (peni?) in this house. Because, truthfully, there is much to tell.

Count Waffles the Terrible likes to make his dance. He likes to get naked and proudly proclaim it’s “penis dance party” and shake it up and down. He also wants his father to join him.

If I could just capture for you the look of confusion and amusement on the Kaiser’s face when this happens. Imagine this shit-eating grin, mixed with sheer terror over this parenting decision.
Do I actually hop up and down with my son and make my penis flap? Or do I somehow say “no” and then explain why Daddy can’t penis dance?

Hilarious to watch if you are me, sitting on the sidelines.

I think the Kaiser has successfully avoided actually making the decision, thus far, by being clothed each time he’s been asked to join the party. But he was nearly caught with his pants down (sorry) recently after having stepped out of the shower to find the penis dance in full effect in our bedroom.

My stealth-like husband quickly donned his boxers, then joined the party. Cheater. But not before Count Waffles compared, ahem, sizes. (imagine several minutes of “yours is big, mine is little” and the Kaiser and I trying really hard not to catch eachother’s eyes or crack inappropriate jokes)

So I sit there, looking at these two males in amazement. Here we have one toddler, fascinated already with the things that man part can do. And he just thinks it pees and dances. And then we have one man totally amused with his son, yet you can see in his eyes he’s also wondering what happens when that little man no longer wants to have a dance party. And all that innocence is gone.

But as soon as they start jumping up and down…flapping and laughing, it’s just silly. And through the giggles and wiener jokes I realize boys really will be boys.

It is a girl day around here.

Princess Peanut turns 10-months old today. She heralded the milestone by somehow giving me my period back and reminding me that those pregnancy ‘roids never really go away.

Thinking of you, I grabbed the hubby’s electric razor in the shower this weekend. I have three gashes on my whoo-ha. I refused the toddler’s insistence that I “put an Elmo bandaid on your ba-gyna boo boo, Mommy?”

So let’s round out being totally girly today by going over to the BRAND NEW BLOGHER site and giving everyone some love.

You’ll find me under Politics and News, and you might find some of yourselves blogrolled already…I started to add you all to the list over there and got sidetracked with ‘roids, tampons, and ba-gyna boo boos. So go register and blogroll yourselves.
And bask in the wonder that is woman.