I vote today everyone stop reading blogs. Stop checking emails. Stop goofing around the computer. Get up. Get out. Go spend time with your family. Don’t hide infront of the computer today. Go be with the ones you love. Even if they are driving you crazy. Have a good weekend everyone.

All my problems have melted away with a glass of wine and a good, old fashion scrub session. After the fiasco that was this week, I’ve pulled my proverbial shit together and cleaned house. Literally.

When my life is in chaos, it seems my house is in chaos. So I started in the only place I knew where to start in getting this kingdom back in royal form-I cleaned. Yesterday I dropped Count Waffles the Terrible off at nursery school, strapped the Princess in her swing, and scrubbed the Palace from top to bottom, until I actually made myself bleed. And I gotta tell ya, it felt goooood. I sweat. I smelled of cleaning products. I had goo under my nails from scraping unknown substances off floors and counters. And I felt fabulous.

And with one manic cleaning session I’m back on top. The Count came home from school, ate lunch, and napped without a struggle. Princess was a sweet pea all day, and the Kaiser came home from work early and played and played with the kids. Mommy and Daddy even got some much needed “alone” time when BOTH children actually remained sleeping for more than 7 minutes at a time. What a difference a day makes.

Later in the night, when I was telling the Kaiser what a great day we had I realized something. He must dread walking through that door every night. Not knowing if he’s coming home to Wednesday’s lunatic ala Andrea Yates Queen or if he’ll stumble upon a spotless house with happy inhabitants. That’s enough to make you want to go to a bar after work, like my father. And his father before him.

I also have the knack for springing I Love Lucy type ideas on him all day. Hatching plans to become an overnight blogging success, write a novel, buy a new house (that one worked), have a third child, get a dog, etc. etc. etc.

At least, in the end, you can’t claim life with me is dull. I’m going to go clean up breakfast now. Then maybe I’ll take the kids to the zoo. And knit everyone Christmas presents, and start that novel. Did anyone see today’s real estate section…

My day with the kids is long. We’re not a “Daddy is home at 530pm for dinner” family. I’m not cooking dinner while my husband helps set the table or plays with the kids.

The Kaiser’s day begins with an hour long commute when he walks out the door at 845am. And ends when he gets home at 845pm. The kids awake around 730am. And go to sleep around 9pm.

Do the math.

Lately the Kaiser’s days at work have been a little shorter, so he’s taken to going to the gym (gym…what is this gym you speak of?) a few days a week. Yesterday, I had to ask him to skip the gym and get his ass home. I had enough.

Sick kids for three weeks. Children who won’t even let me leave the room. Stuck to me. They are always stuck to me. The Princess likes to pull my hair and chew it. My ends are like hard, globs of goo. All mashed together in clumps with a gel of snot and saliva. The Count has left bruises on my legs and arms, from climbing on me and up me and over me. Mostly to just be near me and touching me. And both have had sleep issues lately. And naptime was my breaking point.

The Count was crying because he wanted me to read another book, and I was pleading with him to just lay down while I got his sister settled. The Princess, meanwhile was screaming because she was tired. She wouldn’t nurse quietly, she wanted to be held and walked around the room. So there I was. Standing with one screaming child in my arms. Still in my PJ’s at 1pm on a Wednesday. My other child was screaming in bed. And suddenly I just couldn’t do it.

Shaking, I put the Princess on the bed. I screamed “SHUT UP!” and walked out of the room and into the hallway where I burst into tears. The screams inside room grew tenfold, because Mommy was gone.

I composed myself. Went back in. And somehow got the Count the bed. Came downstairs with Princess Peanut and told the Kaiser no gym tonight. Come home. Please.

He did. I can’t say if he actually did much. My dishes are still dirty. The house is still a mess. BUT…for more than 20 minutes last night, I had an extra hand. The Count didn’t have to beg for 15 minutes for someone to play with him. And I wasn’t trying to please the entire kingdom by being everything to every child. Relief.

I wish all of you mothers some relief today. Its deserved.

Count Waffles the Terrible used his imagination today and turned a lego bridge his father built for him into a gun. Typing that word hurt.

He does not have any toy guns. He does not watch any cartoons where anyone could or would use a gun, shoot a gun, or hell, I don’t know…eat a gun. The last time I checked Dora was not popping a cap in Boot’s ass.

Count Waffles used his lego gun to make “pfft pfft pfft” noises and shoot me. He said “I got you, Mamma” with a shit-eating grin on his face and ran away.

I, the Queen of Spain, proceeded to freak out.

“How does he even know how to do that? Did he learn that at school? What do we tell him? We tell him its not ok to shoot people, right? (as if the Kaiser was going to say-no honey, lets tell him it is ok to shoot people) How do we handle this? What should we do?” Etc. Etc. Etc for about, oh, 15 minutes too long.

“Calm down. Its fine. He’s a boy. This is what they do. We discourage him from pretending to shoot at people. He’s a boy, though. We all did this,” the Kaiser answered casually while visions of the Count in a bell tower picking off students in letter sweaters played over and over in my head.

Lunatic Queen is quickly processing the face of every boy at nursery school who may or may not have taught her sweet sweet baby boy how to be a thug. Lunatic Queen wants to hunt down the director of said nursery school to ask just what sort of war games are going on during recess on her playground. Lunatic Queen is formulating a discussion with Count Waffles in her head on why guns are bad. Lunatic Queen is considering the stuffed toys in the ottoman–yes! They can role play! Elmo can pretend to shoot Jay Jay and…wait…

The Count begins singing along to the Gilmore Girls theme song. The Kaiser puts his head in his hands, rolling his eyes.

Crisis over.

Polls are OPEN. Vote early and often.
Go to ALIBLOG to vote for worst dress and hair !!

(right) Prom 1993. Because perms were cool -and super cool if you could get the one curl strand thing going. And apparently you could practice for your wedding in a white gown.

(left) 1990. Homecoming, I think. Remember Julia Robert’s dress in Mystic Pizza when she goes out with the rich guy? This was my interpretation. I honestly thought this was the coolest dress ever. The special dye matching shoes just topped it off.

(right) Some random dance circa 90-92. I have no explanation for this. Slutty for a 16/17-year old, don’t you think?

(below) Maybe (?) winter formal 1991. Red was H-O-T.

PROMAPALOOZA contestants:

Sarah and the Goon Squad

Aliblog

The Reign of Ellen

Live from the Wang of America

I’d Like to Buy a Vowel

Because I’m Your Father

Christa

Ms. Mamma

April

True Blue Semi-CRunchy Mamma

Hillary

After a very, very long night…resulting in a trip with BOTH kids to the pediatrician this morning, the Kaiser holds my hand in the minivan on the way home. Bleary eyed and half delirious from lack of sleep he says:

“What have we gotten ourselves into? Can we hit the reset button?”

In other news: Just a reminder Promapalooza is tomorrow. There is still time to join us! Just post your old school homecoming/prom/formal photos on your blog tomorrow and link to Aliblog so everyone can vote on worst hair/dress/tux! Let me know if you’re playing! (you know you want too…everyone’s doing it…)

It all started when I nearly threw up on Governor Gray Davis. THAT, I believe, is THE moment I went from award winning reporter to Mommy. In one quick flash of morning sickness, I changed roles and my life was no longer the same. And I’ve been struggling with my identity ever since.

If you’ve read my blog for more than a day, you know I am having trouble with my current title. No, not Queen. I’ve always been one of those…but Mom. Let me just type the BIG disclaimer now, before I really get rolling: I would not and will not give up being a stay at home mom to go pursue my career. I KNOW what I do is more important. And I am LUCKY to have the means and the husband to make it all happen. I love my children. I love my life and I am so very thankful. Now…with that aside…

I can’t seem to reconcile the career woman in me and the mommy in me. They are fighting. And on any given day, career woman beats the hell out of mommy and mommy beats the hell out of career woman. I have this battle in my head all the time, but it hit me a little harder while at the Kaiser’s work recently. I packed up the minivan and drove down for lunch to show off the little ones and give Daddy a nice break in his day. Then I was asked THAT question. The one I get asked ALL THE TIME in any sort of social situation:

“So, what do you do?”

More times than not I nod my head in the direction of the destructive toddler pulling leaves off the office greenery or some such thing and say “you’re looking at it.”

Why does it make me feel inferior? Like I’m admitting I do nothing all day, living off my husband’s sweat and tears. When clearly anyone who has spent more than 3 minutes with kids knows this job is much harder than interviewing any politician. Yet for some reason it was much more satisfying to tell people or, better yet–when my husband would beat me to the punch and chime in “she’s a reporter over at KFWB…”

There were some comments in my “Stepford Wife” post about how many of us wonder how we got here. And let’s not imply we don’t LOVE here. Because we all love here. Its just…here doesn’t come with the title or the paycheck, and, I’ll say it-the respect. And despite the fact I know I’ve made the right decision for me and my family, I still feel small some days. “Just” a Mom. Am I failing? Am I supposed to be more? Am I supposed to do it all? Is that what we were taught?

I don’t want to make this a whiney “where’s the recognition for how hard it is to be a Mom” post. Its not. Its more just a rambling of my own feelings of NOT being comfortable in this role just yet. About trying to find my identity and defining who I am these days. Soccer Mom? Stepford wife? Former wage earner? Ex-newswoman? I think I’ll just stick with Queen and call it a day.

Toddlers. Are. Weird. Really weird.

I know kids have quirks. I’ve read other blogger’s posts about their kids freaking out when the tub water goes down the drain. Or when their juice cup is, heaven forbid, green instead of blue. But I’m starting to wonder about Count Waffles.

Its not unusual for him to take 10 things to bed. We’ve tried to put limits on it, but really, when its past bedtime and tempers are short and he wants to bring just one more matchbox car Mamma, I give in for the sake of sanity.

Last night the Count brought with him a garlic press and three beaters. He went right to sleep. And woke up this morning smiling, playing with his beaters, and even giving one to me. I think he assumed I too would find it the most beautiful toy ever. “Here you go Mamma…you have DIS beater,” handing it to me like it was the prize of the century.

Mamma needs some coffee first.