Count Waffles the Terrible, HRH Princess Peanut and I got a “gift” from the Kaiser this weekend. “Shana Banana Yoga” ordered and shipped to our home thanks to the good people over at NetFlix. You might ask yourself, “but Queen, that’s not a gift…you have to send that back.” Right you are. But the gift portion is the fact the Kaiser even ordered it for us. You see, normally the only thing that comes to our house via Netflix are the Kaiser’s zombie movies and “Sleepaway Camp Massacre” the series.

So not only was I thrilled a movie came for us. But I was super thrilled the Kaiser found it himself and ordered it without me begging for it to jump “Dawn of the Dead: Documentaries” in the queue. What a guy.

Imagine my utter disappointment when I was so overcome with the CRAP that is Shana Banana Yoga that I couldn’t even speak.

Peace. Love. Togetherness. Peace. Love. Togetherness. Peace. Love. Togetherness.

That was a rap. A RAP.

Ok, I’ll give old Shana the benefit of the doubt. Maybe this was made in 1993. Maybe rap was really big and she was pressured to bust a few rhymes.
No such luck. 2000.
But the kids and I press on. Because dammit, we got a Netflix and we’re using it, no matter how crappy.
Count Waffles seems interested for all of 10 minutes. Sure, he’s not exactly the age group they are going for here, but Mommy is doing downward dog…that has to be engaging.
I wish I could adequately explain “Shana” to you. She’s obviously a little, umm…”out there” and she seems to think shaking her head and talking “crazy” is big with the kids. And let me just say right now I have a pretty high tolerance for adults acting stupid for children. The Wiggles, Doodlebobps (ew), etc. are all on our television.

…but after the Kaiser sat and watched, all he could say was, “I really want to hit her in the face.”

Me too. Meeee toooooo.

BUT we did do some yoga. And the Count did ask to watch it again. But what the hell does he know, he thinks Barney is cool.

A good friend of mine had a baby this week! And last night I got one of those sobbing, new mother calls.
Remember those?
How could she tell the baby was eating enough? Why did her boobs KILL? Why were they so hard?? How does she get the milk out? Was that her milk?
It was adorable.
And it was all I could do to calm her down, talk her through her engorgement (as I figured out through the sobs) and then, not giggle.
Welcome to the club, girl.
Those first few days home from the hospital, which seem soooooooooo long ago, were a big steaming pile of worry, indecision, panic, questions, questions, and more questions…all thrown on top of bleary eyed euphoria.
I’m a little freaked out she called me. Make senses, I’m the mother of TWO, now. I have the toddler and the infant. And both are/were breastfed.
Huh. Suddenly I’m the wise old Mom you call for advice.
That’s crazy.
But by the end of the phone call she was massaging milk out of her breast and going to snatch the newborn from her Dad before someone else panicked and gave her a bottle.
She sounded more confident. She sounded more sure she was doing what she needed to do as a mother. For that moment she felt like it was under control and she knew what to do next.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her she will have 5 million more moments like that over the next few weeks, months, years.
But I did tell her to call anytime.
Fellow clubmembers are always around to help out their newest recruit.

I got Princess Peanut in her PJ’s…and she pooped through them. So I put her back in her clothes.

Count Waffles the Terrible refused to put his PJ’s on at ALL. Then wouldn’t allow me to take his picture at ALL.

I finally got my PJ’s on…and HRH Peanut wanted to nurse for 16 hours, non stop. So here is the one and only photo you are getting Running2K’s. Everyone can find the other PJ party participants (and they actually participated, as opposed to my sorry clan) over at Running’s place.

We suck. Literally.

Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.
All I say is Daddy.
Nevermind Mommy is always showing me her tits.
Nevermind Mommy changes me and carries me and carts me around. Shields me from my brother, kisses my ouches.
Nevermind Daddy is at work a lot.
Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy.
He’s the only one that can bounce me to sleep.
He’s the only name I will say over and over and over and over.
Making Mommy feel like shit.
Sure, I can say Mommy. And I will, if you bother me enough.
But really all I want is Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy Daddy.

We have Guinness prodigy on our hands here. The director at Count Waffle’s nursery school is checking her books. She thinks our little man just might be the Boo-Boo Slip record holder. I guess its better than that guy with the longest ear hair in the world. I think.

It seems that Mr. Daredevil exhibits no fear on the playground. Thus landing on his ass and head often. When the kids get hurt enough to mention (because they get hurt more than this? and they don’t tell me??) said kid gets sent home with one of these “ouch” slips:We’re on slip # 7. SEVEN.
That particular slip talks about the Count swinging. Just swinging. And then, randomly, letting go.
“Because I didn’t want to hold the sides anymore Mommy. I just wanted to sit and swing.”
The good news here (I’m laughing as I type good) is that this is typical 4-year old behavior. The Count will not be 3 until the end of March.
But if he is advanced, will too many cracks on the head knock him back into average?

Maybe you just like to point at me and laugh. Maybe you are SURE I bite. Maybe you were a little overwhelmed at the 5 million comments in those last few posts. Whatever the reason you normally don’t comment, now is your chance to come out from the shadows. Its National Delurking Week. And I know, that you know, that I know, that you know YOU want too. Show me some love and leave me a comment.

I never know where.
Mommy…Mommy…
I never know when.
Mommy, are you ok?
I never know how bad it will be.
Mommy, why are your eyes closed?
I never know how long it will last.
Mommy, why are you sick?

I’ve suffered from migraines with aura since puberty. They always start the same.
I can’t see.
Not really a good thing when you have two children.
But then comes the really fun part…after I am unable to see (go rub a few streaks of vaseline in your eyes) I lose my ability to talk. And walk. And find light switches on walls. And find the bathroom I’ve been using for years.
Its debilitating.
I got one yesterday. And after it was all said and done, medication was working, and I could breathe again…I cried.
Its like waiting for that other shoe to drop. I’m convinced next time I’ll be driving a car when it comes. And both kids will be strapped in back and I won’t know how to get home. I won’t be able to see to drive. I won’t be able to explain to the cop what is wrong. I’ll be in jail throwing up and the kids will be wards of the state. Or worse, I’ll get into a horrible wreck. California has cliffs, you know.
Ok, maybe that’s a little much. But you know what I mean.
Yesterday I cried because my brother was home. And I was so thankful he was around. What would I have done if he didn’t live here? I would have tried to call my husband…but not remember his number or be able to speak. A nearby friend? I know she wasn’t home last night.
I live in constant fear of getting another migraine.
So I will tip-toe through today, humbled again by my curse.
I will probably tip-toe for weeks. And weeks. And maybe months, before it happens again.
…maybe not.

When Count Waffles the Terrible was born some very good friends of ours got him a gift. Our 6-week old received a subscription, in his name, to Playboy. It was meant as a joke, but my husband was thrilled. (We, being good friends, then enrolled their newborn twins in the Youth Communist League-but that’s another story. Heh)
And there it came, month after month, in that black plastic bag…so the neighbors couldn’t see what nasty mag we were getting.
Not so long ago, a few friends of mine, unknowingly, began trashing this magazine.
It was offensive to women. Or so I was told.
Their husbands did things with it. Or so they thought.
And no one in the real world could possibly look like that.
And since I’ve now used this blog to get on my soapbox, I figure why stop.
Hoooray for masturbation! Hoooray for Playboy!
Stop blushing. You know you are still reading.
First of all, have you ever actually sat down (toilet or otherwise) and read Playboy? Despite all the women bending over, its really very intelligent. I swear. I just finished an article on Shel Silverstein. Yes, THAT Shel Silverstein.
Second of all, I’d like to know how many of my mommyblogger friends out here are getting it regularly. Or giving it regularly. I try my damnedest to keep the Kaiser, ahem, satisfied…but in case you were born this week and just started reading my blog, we’ve got a 9-month old and a toddler. The 9-month old still sucks my tits and the toddler and the baby are in our bed.
Which means sex, when we can, in another room.
Did I mention my brother lives with us?
Now, we can easily get around all these little sex obstacles with some planning, or just by staying up late. But let’s be real here, when the hell is the last time YOU stayed up late?
Just last night I was going to stay up late and spend some quality Kaiser lovin’ time…and I fell asleep putting the Count to bed.
HOOORAY PLAYBOY.
Now on to the trickier part of this…the whole, unrealistic body image, plastic, fake, toned, fit, boobheavey women gracing those pages…I’m going to propose something to you that I can guarantee you are NOT going to like…
That could be us.
I’m not saying face wise. We can’t change what we landed here with.
But that could be us.
Sure, we’ve had kids.
Sure, we gots da flab.
Sure, we have mother bodies.
But that could be us.
We could get off our asses and exercise.
We could make time to tone ourselves.
We could work hard to look like that.
We could.
Personally, I could actually put on makeup and something other than sweats everyday. That might help. Add in some exercise, less goldfish crackers, and I just might be on to something.
SHOULD we? I don’t know. Obviously we’re engulfed in more important matters.
But if I can try and stay awake to take care of the Kaiser. I could probably try to get up early to go to Yoga.
Two small things that would just add to my tiredness. And let’s face it, that’s not going away…so why not add ??
And I’d like to give you one more, delicate, reason why you should either stop trashing your man’s Playboy or run out and get him one.
The women are hot. There. I’ve said it.
They are hot. And when that thing is laying around the bathroom and I pick it up, I get turned on. And then I work even harder to make time for the Kaiser.
I’m not afraid to admit it. I’m not ashamed. And I’m not going to pretend with you, my good friends.
There is one trick, with this whole Playboy thing, though.
I am forever reminding the Kaiser to put the damn thing UNDER the sink counter, especially when playgroup is coming.