Queen of Spain Blog

Princess Peanut is in “I will be a vet when I grow up” phase and I may have to sell her to the gypsies.

I remember doing this when I was young, but I think I was like 11, not 2. So my obsessions were a bit more grounded…like collecting stuffed dogs or say, getting really excited at a stable. HRH PP Punk as Fuck isn’t nearly as reasonable in her ripe old toddler years.

So she tends to ride a stuffed horse on a stick wherever we go.

That means it comes in the van. It is ridden through the grocery store, target, home depot, the pharmacy. And of course, in true toddler fashion, when it suits her to NOT be riding the horse, I get to carry it. You know, carry the big horse head on a stick through a crowded store along with whatever I’m buying. Superfun.

The horse also has it’s own spot at the kitchen table and bowls of feed are demanded for the stuffed and impaled creature.

Now I’m sure you’re thinking…well you could say “no” but I think we all know that we pick our battles with these schizophrenic little people and when the whole horse thing started it did not seem like a large issue, so off we went to the store with “Racing Stripes” in the his own seat in the momvan.

Yeah, she named it after that movie with a very young Hayden Panettiere and it makes me feel creepy to see her all grown up and boobie now.

Anyway none of this would be too too too hard on me if it weren’t for my boneheaded move rushing out the door from our wildfire threatened home in smoky Cali agreeing that “Racing Stripes” could stay home.

Yeah, I know. But it DID take her like 7 days to realize the damn thing wasn’t here in Florida.

Now she’s a scorned woman and we’re all just getting out of her way.

She tried riding my parent’s pool noodle around the house but quickly realized it was a poor substitute.

She tried riding Maggie, my parents 120lbs golden. Maggie wasn’t really happy with that idea.

So now she’s determined to whine and cry until we’re home in California…you know, very late tonight. We’re on about day 4 of “Mommy we have to go home NOW and get him.” Not in that simple sentence back there kinda way either. It’s usually followed by a good 20 minutes of face down to the floor pouting, crying, and screaming.

She has also packed one of the carry-ons with an elmo and a sock and tried to wheel it out the front door. Apparently she was going to just take matters into her own hands and walk her sassy little self back to California because that damn mother of hers refused to hop a plane early.

So I’ve emailed her father and phoned him (gotta double up here) to make sure that DAMN horse is in the back seat of the van when he picks us up from LAX. If he forgets (entirely possible) maybe the Count and I can take a cab home and Daddy and daughter can discuss Racing Stripe’s failure to show on the hour ride home.