The Kaiser has done a fantastic job pushing the “please” “thank you” and “your welcome” stuff with Count Waffles. Seriously people, A plus parenting on his part. Which works well for me because at 30, I still forget to be polite. I also still forget I shouldn’t say “FUCK” in front of my kids, but that’s another issue.
Anyway, the Count is so good at this polite stuff he’s using it all the time. And by all the time, I mean even when its not necessary and really doesn’t make sense.
Last night after tucking the Count in bed, he asked if I could stay and cuddle with him for “just another minute, Mamma.” Who can say no to that, right? So I squeeze my fat ass into his tiny car bed (alongside 3 pillows, two Thomas trains, one stuffed dragonfly, and one plastic motorcycle) and lay my head on his shoulder. After a few minutes I kiss him, say goodnight, and move to get up.
“Just one more minute Mamma….please.”
Ok.
One more minute passes and I move to get up again.
“Almost Mamma. One more minute. Please.”
Ok.
Finally I get out of the tiny, tiny bed.
“Ok, Mamma. Go downstairs. Thank you.”
Did my kid just thank me for cuddling with him? Guess he really appreciated the hugs.
Today after his Halloween parade at nursery school I kissed him goodbye.
“Have a good day at school honey. I Love You.”
“Oh, Ok. Thank you Mamma.”
Thank you Mamma?
Talk about a “I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen” moment.

We have endeavored in our parenting not to make certain things a battle. The Kaiser and I decided long ago on co-sleeping, not crying it out, and giving the kids tons of new and yummy things to eat. For the most part, our efforts have paid off. Despite bad nights here and there, the Count now sleeps in his own bed. Neither of our children have ever cried themselves to sleep. And the Count, mostly, will eat just about anything. Until recently, that is.

Last night, after roasting a chicken and recycling yesterday’s grilled veggie pasta salad, dinner was ready. The three of us (Queen, Princess Peanut, and Count Waffles the TERRIBLE–you’ll see why I capitalized that in a sec) sat down as per usual and I poured chocolate milk as per usual and endured rice cereal and bananas in my hair as per usual. Then I, stupidly, got up to get a Tylenol out of the cupboard. This is also the same cupboard where the C-A-N-D-Y (yes, I’m still spelling it…just in case) is hidden. Count Waffles, being the genius that he is, immediately spies the Pez his Nana stashed up there.
“Mamma. I want some candy?”
“Eat your dinner, then you can have one.”
The Count then proceeded to shove ALL the chicken on his plate, in his mouth. All of it. ALL OF IT PEOPLE.
(with a muffled voice) “Can I have some candy now, Mamma?”
“Make it all go in your belly.”
You can see his eyes get really wide, like he realizes…shit, how the hell am I going to do that?
If this were Iron Chef, Chairman Kaga would now, very gay-like, take a bite of that pepper and declare BATTLE CHICKEN has begun.
The Kaiser and I are making a really, really big effort to stay consistent these days. You know, trying to be good parents, blah blah blah. So this means he must eat every single piece of chicken in his mouth or no candy.
So. Time passed. He tried to spit it out, but was warned there would be no candy. So he kept chewing. More time passed. He begged for the candy. I stood firm. More time passed. And passed. And passed.
One hour and 37 minutes later he swallowed all of the chicken. ONE HOUR AND 37 MINUTES OF CHEWING CHICKEN.
Tonight’s winner: Mommy. Battle Chicken is OOOVVVVAAAH!

Some housekeeping:
Thanks to Homer Jay for the Einstein link. He and his wife Tired Tunia are my latest blogroll additions.
Stranded in Suburbia’s Laurie has a new, vomit inducing, spinning globe on her site. Go give her some love ’cause her Haloscan sucks.
Those scholastic flier books arrived at school for the Count. They discretely handed them to the parents before the bell. I guess this means I’m off to the hook to buy more, until he switches schools anyway.
The Kaiser has yet to tell everyone how he was duped like a sucker and Battle Pajama ended. I think he’s just a wuss. Let’s just say, his lack of paying attention bit him in the ass. That being said, he also spent 4.5 hours of his work day yesterday IN A BAR. So I’ve got no sympathy for him.

See this little girl? This one…right here…..She won’t leave my arms. Not for a nap. Not to play. Not to see Daddy. Not so I can take a shit. She is FOREVER on me. And I’m getting a little frazzled.

If I lay her down. She wakes up. If I set her down awake, she screams her head off. If I, dear God no, leave the room…all hell breaks loose.

I know these tiny creatures go through phases. And she’s obviously in one now. But I would really, really like to wipe my ass without her 7 month old 17lbs plus sack of potatoes on my lap.

You may find yourself, one chilly Monday morning, contemplating showering so you can smell girly and shave. You want to look and feel nice and clean because Houseboy (your brother) is out of town and you just might get some action later. And you’d be right in thinking your husband might be more inclined to some fun if you were, say, NOT smelling of sour breastmilk, WITHOUT rice cereal in your hair, and, oh, for the hell of it, NOT all hippied-out with a jungle of hair on your legs and your crotch. I’m hear to tell you: DON’T DO IT. Evil forces are at work while you shower. Trust me.

But let’s pretend you didn’t listen to me. Here is what might happen:

After a morning filled with train playing and nursing you notice both your toddler and infant seem pretty content. So you bring them into the bedroom so you can commence with the cleansing. You set up the smiling baby in her bouncy seat. She’s happy. She’s bubbly. You give the toddler a PB&J, a cookie (to ENSURE he stays put) and turn on reliable Elmo. You get naked and step in the shower.

Immediately your once-happy infant notices you are gone, and despite the fact she’s right outside the shower door she begins to cry. No biggie, you think as you shampoo. You crack the door a little so you can readjust her toys and let her see your face. This backfires. She now seems to understand you are just on the other side and SCREAMS when you shut the shower door. So while trying to shave you crack the door. Now she can see you. This works for about, oh, 30 seconds. You’ve got the armpits and one leg done. Bravely you decide to dredge on through and hope the fussiness subsides.

No such luck. The screaming gets louder. And now she’s throwing in some back-arching for effect. Its then you realize things are awfully quiet in the other half of the room-where you stupidly assume the toddler is quietly munching his sandwich and cookie in front of the tv.

Realizing nothing good ever comes when its quiet in the other part of the room, you’re just shaving like a madwoman. Your infant’s screaming has become some sort of UNHOLY HOWL and you clearly need to wrap up this shower. You’re singing. Playing peakaboo. All while you try and shave. Lets face it, the neighbors are going to call the cops soon, due to the screams of sheer torture only a bouncy seat can cause, so you quickly rinse and step out of the shower.

Only to fall on your half shaven crotch from the puddle of water on your bathroom floor. Way to crack the shower door, moron.

You recover. Dry off. Calm the baby. Step into the bedroom to find the toddler shoving his peanut butter and jelly inbetween your box spring and mattress. There is a trail of chocolate chips smushed into the carpet from the television to the bed. And you don’t even know where to begin in cleaning said toddler, who is covered in grape jelly and chocolate. Its on the back of his neck, for christsake.

So, instead, you declare it NAPTIME. And you’ll clean and maybe finish shaving later. But probably not.

I wonder how many other half-shaven mothers are wandering out there? I get the feeling I’m not alone.

Lets just all agree right off the top here that *sometimes* I can be a raging lunatic. I get very worked up over things that other, more sane mothers might not bat an eyelash over. Well batten down those hatches people because Halloween not only brings out my inner lunatic, it lets it run around naked in my front yard.

Halloween, in my warped mind, means I should be UBERmom and MAKE my children unique and personal costumes. Of course, I am the farthest thing from crafty any one mother can be. So, in my right mind I do what many, many mothers do and go BUY Halloween costumes. I bought the kids their’s weeks ago and they’ve been hanging in our hall closet since. But with the happy candy eating holiday approaching, those store bought fiasco’s are calling me.

“You SUCK Queen…we are SO GENERIC!”

“If you were a REAL mom you’d make your kids something that wasn’t so FLAME RETARDANT”

“Neee Ner nee Ner nee Ner…Your kids will look like EVERY OTHER KID in Suburban Los Angeles!!!”””

Putting aside the obvious concerns that inanimate objects are speaking to me, what the hell is my problem, here? Why is this such a HUGE issue for me? Is it because my mother made our costumes? Back in the day when they had those sewing patterns and machiney thingies? Do they still have those? Or that I am worried I’m not creative enough to come up with anything like my mother did? There is a photo in one of my many junk drawers around here with my brother dressed as a tourist (Hawaiian shirt, zinc on the nose, camera around the neck) and me as some sort of space alien. I’m actually wearing an old dance class costume leotard thing with some tin foil wrapped around cardboard cut out thing my mother made. Complete with headband sporting homemade alien antennas. Now why can’t I do THAT????? Because I SUCK. That’s why.

This little paranoia of mine closely resembles another one of my little quirks the Kaiser will one day institutionalize me for. I’m obsessed with learning to make cool cupcakes. Because, in my mind, my kids will always have that Mom that made the cool cupcakes and sent them to their class on their birthday…instead of generic store bought cupcakes. I’ve actually been practicing making cool cupcakes since the Count was old enough to eat them. That’s how crazy I am. This photo is from the time I was practicing Froggie Cupcakes. We’ve also make Elmo, Cookie Monster, even Zoe. See. I’m not lying.

So as I sit here this morning, and agonize over the Bob the Builder piece of crap in the closet. And the ballerina fairy flimsy little outfit next to it, I’ll do my best to stay sane. I’ll remind myself they will look adorable in ANYTHING. And I’ll promise not to try and sew anything before Monday. Maybe. We’ll see. I’m not crazy…Institution!!!

7 things I want to do before I die:

1) Write a book
2)FINISH my degree
3) Get a dog
4)Pose nude
5)Live on an island
6)Run for public office
7)Buy my husband’s family land

7 things I cannot do:
1)Math
2)Argue
3)roll my tongue
4)drive a stick
5)play a musical instrument
6)paint my own toe nails
7)bake

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex:
1)sense of humor
2)ability to not be an idiot
3)height
4)eyes
5)ass
6)hair
7)lips

7 things I say most often:
1)NO!
2)Come here. I said come here.
3)SHUT UP.
4)OH MY GOD.
5)I love you
6)What should we have for dinner/lunch/breakfast?
7)I don’t know.

7 celebrity crushes:
1)LL Cool J
2)Mathew McConaughey
3)Steve Yzerman
4)Johnny Depp
5)Angelina Jolie
6)Jared Leto
7)Keanu Reeves

7 people I want to do this(sorry if you did it already, just ignore me): (for those who don’t blog, in my comments)
1)Ms. Mamma
2)Tammy
3)Dread Pirate Robert
4)The Diaper Pail
5)Stranded in Suburbia
6)Tomorrow is Another Day
7)Dak-Ind

“Daddy…wanna be a chipmunk?”
“Umm. Sure, How?”
“Eat chips.”

“There is a bra on Elmo’s head.”

“The Smurf record is NOT for throwing.”

“You’re in your thinking chair because you head-butted your sister.”
“No. My butt is DOWN HERE, Mamma.”

“Because we took our infant and toddler to a German restaurant to eat wieners and watch an old guy in lederhosen play guitar and do the chicken dance.”

Its simply unthinkable to me that anyone could not love this sweet little Peanut face on the left. That you just wouldn’t want to squeeze her and slobber on her and tickle her because her laugh is so hysterical and her smile is so infectious. Except I don’t have to go far to find someone who loathes my little Princess. With every fiber of his being, the Count wishes his sister gone. Banished. Sent to the woods to live with some dwarves and a poison apple. The jealousy around here has gotten down right nasty. And as a mother, I’m at my wits end.

Count Waffles the Terrible will not tolerate being anywhere near his sister. She’s not allowed to touch anything. She’s not allowed to crawl toward him or his things. She’s not even allowed to speak. Lately, when Princess Peanut gives out a little hello in the form of a “aaahhhgggaaaaaaaa!” to her brother, the Count screams back, angrily, in her face. He’s taken to pushing her. He’s taken to knocking her over while she, still unsteady, stands clinging to the ottoman or stairs. He’s even taken to hitting her. All of this means he’s in trouble. A lot. A lot A lot. And I just can’t take it anymore. Outside of issues with his sister, he’s the sweetest child on earth. He’s the quiet, shy one. I swear. Really.

I’ve tried giving him more one on one attention. I’ve tried reasoning with him. I’ve tried every trick in the book, including bribery (i.e. play nice with your sister and there’s a cookie in it for you) and manipulation. Nothing doing. I even harbored hope that with Nana’s recent visit and all the gifts she would bring and extra hands to go around he’d be happy to have his baby sister around. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Silly Queen. Nana got Princess a baby doll. Nana got the Count a Thomas game. The Count took his Thomas game and screamed bloody murder over his sister’s joy at the doll. Nana was supposed to be my savior for the week. Instead, the sibling issue was worsened.

Of course its only natural for a mother to want her children to love one another. But its all the more heartbreaking for me because my little baby Peanut so, so, so, so, soooooooooooo wants her brother. She beams if he even comes near her. She squeals with delight if he happens to accidentally smile at her. All she wants is his love. And I’ll be damned if he doesn’t seem to know this and use it against her. That Bonnie Rait song “I can’t make you love me” keeps going through my head. Its awful.

So I’ll continue to try and give those extra hugs and kisses and special time to the Count. And he’ll continue to be sent to the thinking chair for cracking his sister over the head with god knows what. And maybe, when they are much, much older, I’ll catch them hug at Christmas or something and be reminded how they went through this “phase” in their early years.

Or maybe I’ll just prepare now for the endless “she’s touching me!” and “Mom…make him stop!” and “Tell her to get off the phone now!” and “He won’t share the blocks!” and so on. And so on. And so on.

I’m really very sure this is how so many Moms end up on valium and bloody mary’s all day. I wish I were kidding.