Queen of Spain Blog

Count Waffles the Terrible has officially completed his very first year of preschool.

Sigh.
Whimper.
Sniffle.

And the Queen managed not to kill any SUV driving Alpha Moms (who, as you may or may not recall…knit while driving), get kicked out of any parent meetings, and-might I add-I even managed to be polite to the one lady deemed the “crazy” Mom. I know, I know, many of you are wondering why I didn’t get that title. But I got pegged as “Tattoo Mom” early on, so I think the “crazy” was just assumed by all those other church going gals.

I don’t mind sharing the preschool program video of the Count, since you can’t really see any kids. It’s a bit blurry. Might be from what you will find my child doing on the end there. Go back and click that purple text up there. I’ll wait.

Yup. That’s my kid. The odd one on the end. No doubt about it. Mine. Allllllll Mine.

But what really, really capped off the school year was the little guy’s decision on what he wants to be when he grows up. Not a decision to be taken lightly by any 3-year-old. And certainly not one who can balance an iced tea bottle on his penis.

When faced with this huge, life question, our little Count opted against firefighter, race car driver, train conductor, baseball player, dump truck driver, and policeman. What is his calling, you ask? His much thought about future profession?

He wants to be a Dad.

Happy Father’s Day everyone.

p.s. Not to be outdone in the “make Daddy’s heart melt” contest, HRH Princess Peanut can make herself fart on command and will proudly proclaim “POOOOOOP!” and laugh her head off.

As an annoying “Mommyblogger” it is my sworn duty (in the back of my head, the Kaiser just laughed at me for saying ‘duty’) to post about kids music. I had to take an oath on my Poop posts and everything.

Yes, Sweet Juniper and Sweetney and others are up on this. But I wanted to make sure. Because as much as I trust you to know these things…sometimes other moms surprise me.

For instance, the uber-cool, ultra-tattooed, hip, Mommyfabulous, boss of my husband recently spent her son’s first birthday party (the tot has a mohawk-yeah, they are hard core) spinning the same, earpiercing, children’s chorus, London Bridge if falling down, Mulberry Bush, ting ting, chime, chime, CD.

Unacceptable.

So I am here today, just to double check that you are aware there is more out there than the Wiggles and Raffi. I recently burned a “Kidz Rock” CD mix that every mother needs in her Momvan. I’m adding to it daily. And Ninja Poodles and I agree everyone needs some XM kids too. I will gladly email files to those of you desperate for some decent tunes. queenofspainblog@yahoo.com

First and foremost, go laugh along with the Thunderlords. While they are not my favorite sing-a-long in the Momvan, they are hilarious to those of us who may or may not have had some big hair days. I plead the fifth.

Top of my kid list, currently, are the Imagination Movers. The kids sing-a-long, and I crack up at the lyrics. It’s catchy too. The Farm (The Roosters, not the Roof, are TIRED, not on Fire) is our favorite. But we also like Clean My Room (pick it up now). Plus, the guys are cool.

We also love Terri Hendrix-Nerves. Let it play for a bit…trust me. We chase eachother around the house to that song.

Another favorite is Chocolate Milk by ScribbleMonster and Pals. Good for learning those letters too.

I have to throw in Lisa Loeb and Elizabeth Mitchell too. While they are more tame, they satisfy the etherial, Canadian, girlie, music lover in me. And make no mistake, I am a Lilith Fair junkie. If it weren’t for my husband, well…let’s not go there.

Don’t forget They Might Be Giants, Laurie Berkner (who gets me more search hits for being naked than I could ever possibly thank her for), The Sippy Cups (who I find simultaneously annoying and funny), and Jack Johnson. I know, I know, the Kaiser is going to really make fun of me for that last one…but I like it. When faced with Row Row Row your Boat by the Kids from Bubblegum Land or Upside Down from Curious George…I pick the cute surfer boy.

Don’t forget the Spongebob soundtrack. Because we’re all Goofy Goobers (ROCK!)

My work here is done.

CRUSH YOU, I say.

They have the power to force you to say “hello” in the grocery store, even if you are a grumpy old man, hell-bent on ignoring their “hi!” “hi” “hi” chorus.

They will cost you over one hundred dollars in damaged goods at a local store, yet you will hug and kiss them for hours after.

They will climb your chairs, couches, and counters. Leap off ottomans, beds, and tables. Go through more bandaids than any one human needs…yet you will kiss every boo-boo like it’s a war wound.

I’ll be at blogher later. I just wanted to crush you all with their cuteness.

So the whole kids “exploring their body parts”…Totally normal, right?
But what about exploring other peoples’ body parts???
Had you hung around our house this weekend, you would have heard these phrases…

“Stop grabbing your brother’s penis”
“Stop touching my nipples”
“Stop touching your mother’s nipples”
“No, no…We don’t stick our fingers up there”
“Let go of my boob”
“No, don’t grab Daddy there”
“Stop touching my nipples!”

and finally…Apparently Sarah has seeped into our brain too much lately…

“I need TP! For my bunghole!”

We are so classy.

This is a cautionary tale, my friends.

Never take your children anywhere. Just leave them home. Don’t leave the house if you do not have a babysitter. The house is much, much safer than that crazy world out your door.

Even with the best of intentions, things will go wrong. Horribly, horribly, wrong.

I took the children to my favorite nursery. Since we’ve been gardening together all Spring, we’ve been frequenting our local “plant store” (as the Count calls it) on a semi-regular basis. Here is proof that all of our hard work is paying off:

But back to the story. When we go to the nursery the Count insists on pulling one of their red wagons behind him. The place has radio flyers for you to stack all your plants in. He also insists on picking out one of their many windmills to tote. Windmill in one hand, wagon in the other, he trudges behind me as I push a cart with the Peanut and sniff flowers and herbs.

As we wrapped up our latest trip, the Peanut was getting restless and we beelined for the checkout. I had maybe $25 in yummy plant goodness. The Count was happily dragging the wagon and I was plotting how to rip the windmill from his little hands at the last moment because I had no intentions of buying it.

Then it happened.

I’m not exactly sure how it occurred. But somewhere between me urging the Count to pick up the pace and the whole family turning an aisle corner…CRASH.

The front of the Count’s wagon and the back of his windmill-stick had taken out an ENTIRE SHELF OF GLASS FLOWER VASES.

An entire shelf.

The Count began to cry and scream. I, now holding the Peanut, rushed to get him away from the shards upon shards of broken glass scattered everywhere. The Peanut, as I lean down to scoop up the Count, reaches down and scoops up two fists full of glass.

She’s cut. She’s crying. She’s screaming.

I now am holding two children. Both hysterical, surrounded by what can only be the worst “clean up on aisle 3” in the history of garden centers.

Employees rush over. Brooms and napkins are busted out to sweep and mop up blood. I am apologizing profusely and trying to calm my kids and check for deep wounds.

The Peanut only has some scrapes and the Count is now enthralled with all the mess. The employees, however, are huddling to decide what exactly to do with me.

I immediately offer to pay. To help clean. To do whatever. They are obviously annoyed and I think more interested in me just getting the hell out of there than actually making me do anything. But it is decided that I shall pay for most of the broken vases, and then I can immediately return them as “broken” for store credit.

Bingo. I now have $112 in garden store credit. And you had better believe we left WITH that windmill. And no, your eyes are not deceiving you. My child is not wearing pants. But really, when does he EVER wear pants.

Queen’s note: I am aware many of you can not comment. Blogger has been having issues, and I will leave this post up so everyone gets a chance to say what they want. It’s not some vast, left-wing conspiracy to keep you from showing Ann Coulter love. If you are really hard up to scream at me, feel free to send me an email at queenofspainblog@yahoo.com, just keep in mind I reserve the right to publish any and all emails to show the world what a moron you are.

I figure if Ann Coulter can theorize that some 9/11 widows are enjoying their husband’s deaths, then I can, at least, theorize that Ann Coulter is a bitter, evil, bitch because she does not shave her stinky snatch.

Both theories are absurd. Both are below-the-belt remarks. And both are potentially written simply for shock value.

But I do think a stinky snatch makes for a cranky woman. A cranky woman who would be better to spend her time getting a good wax or shaving her cooter, instead of spouting off on various subjects.

I’d like to be first in line to wax Ann. The joy I would get from pouring hot liquid on her nether regions and tearing it off would be indescribable. I won’t even charge her. In fact, she can charge me.

But back to the issue at hand. It seems Ms. Coulter believes some of the 9/11 widows have gotten a bit too political about the whole thing. Much like Cindy Sheehan, apparently.

I have to ask this, though…if the death of a loved one isn’t reason to get political, or be an activist…then what is? Anger over gas prices? Frustration with your taxes? Is money the only good reason for anyone to become involved and vocal?

I can’t think of a better reason to thrust yourself into the limelight than to fight for and speak up for those you have lost. And yes, it will make you a target for criticism. But it should make you a target for your stance on the issues. Not for your pain.

Many people are bashing Ann Coulter for her latest remarks (written in her new book) saying things like “shame on you,” and the like. But I’d really like to take it a step further and use the same, no-holds barred attitude and language that she uses;

Fuck you Ann Coulter. I think you crave attention because your nasty cunt emits a foul odor. You are profiting from the pain of women. Women. Widows. You are a sad representation of smart women around the world. I’m sure you are thrilled to see people like me fueling the fire. Attracting more attention to your little book than is needed. But know that there is a huge portion of women (even the stay-at-home Mom, blogging variety) that are here to call you out on your little ploy.

I will not be buying your book. And if someone thinks I have taken something out of context, I will be happy to read a copy of your book if mailed to me.

I’m not afraid.

There were things you could have told me about motherhood that I would have never believed.

For instance, you could have said “Poop really won’t bother you that much after awhile” and I would have looked at you disgusted. I mean, it’s poop, of course it’s going to bother me.

The other night the Kaiser had to fish something out of a pee-filled potty and I was laughing at him for being such a wuss. I mean, it wasn’t like it was a shit-filled toilet, so I really couldn’t see what he was being so squeamish about.

Pee, does not bother me. Poop, does not bother me.

You also could have told me that I would have a battle of the wills with my children over some very simple things, silly things, and I would have-again-laughed at you. Stoop to my child’s level and try to negotiate? Nope. We don’t negotiate with terrorists.

HRH Princess Peanut has, as of late, insisted on holding something (a toy, a pen) while nursing. No biggie. Except for today.

A battle of wills ensued.

I lost.

Yes, she’s holding a stroller.

Go give some love to the Violet and Slipshop clan…they added a baby girl this morning.

We love her already! And I can’t wait to meet her in July. Violet and I go back a little ways…well, its hard to explain-but let’s just say I’m glad she’s my friend, even if she’s not my sister-in-law.