Queen of Spain Blog

Ok, I can’t keep my mouth shut anymore. But in case you missed it, Britney Spears obviously knows NOTHING about carseats. Nothing.

Did she just skip reading up on the law? Or what age/weight you can turn the kid around?

I don’t get it. As a new mom, I was OBSESSED with those things. I wanted to make sure I had the latest in safety. I wanted to make sure I was being OVERLY safe.

What sort of hillbilly/white trash/uneducated move is it to either a) let your kid sit on your lap while you drive or b) not secure them properly in their carseat?

Is there just some whole segment of the population out there that has no issues with this? Because you can add my inlaws to the Britney mentality. They nursed a baby and drove halfway across the country instead of stopping to nurse…because it was easier.

I openly admit to some boneheaded parenting moves. But come on. OBVIOUSLY Mrs. Federline didn’t do her homework on this. She premeditated turning him around. And let’s face it…we’ve all had our fair share of backward riding, SCREAMING and unhappy babies. But for safety, they need to stay backwards…despite the screaming.

I can wait for the PR spin on this one.

(editor’s note: on a related topic, I am totally down with Bill Simmons’ US Weekly Fantasy League idea. Seriously. The Sports Gal needs to contact me and we need to get the kids together over Starbucks to finalize this plan. I’d crush everyone.)

I have earthworms, free coffee grinds from Starbucks, and an obsession over squirrels.

I’m a flower floozie. Although in my case the term should probably be flower whore. Who are we kidding, right?

I’ve thrown myself headfirst into gardening. Partly because of my postpartum depression. And partly because it’s a family activity.

It has now completely taken over my life, and my yard.

I dream about gardens. I can smell mine in my sleep. I have plotted every inch of my yard. It’s all mapped out on a very worn piece of computer paper. I know where the sun hits what plant at what time of day. Where each sprinkler head sprays. How my soil drains. Where my soil is mostly clay.

I know. I know. It’s insane. But I tell you, it’s healing me. And it’s healing me in ways far beyond PPD.

When I’m angry, I pull weeds. I trim vines. I yank and I pull and I get dirty and sweaty and tired. Until I’m just not that angry anymore.

When I’m happy, I plant. I plant marigolds to keep away bugs and pests. I tend to my tomatoes. I search for caterpillars on my zucchini.

When I’m anxious, I hunt squirrel.

Laugh at me, it’s ok. But I have a bumper crop of strawberries going and those damn furry things keep stealing them just as they ripen. Imagine waiting weeks and weeks for the reward, only to have it carried away by some bastard rodent.

The whole family has gotten in on the act. The kids each have watering cans. They follow me around the yard as I trim and rake. Count Waffles knows the names of almost everything we’ve planted in the fruit and veggie garden. He can tell you which trees are cherry and which are apple. Princess Peanut insists carrying her kid blue shovel each time I grab my adult sized shovel. They both help me pour beer into planted plastic cups to catch snails and slugs.

Even the Kaiser is contributing. He stopped me from buying a gun to kill the neighborhood squirrels, and fashioned a chickenwire fence instead.

We’re all outside together. As a family. Working toward ripe tomatoes and jalepenos for summer cook outs. And it feels good.

So far, that’s just my food garden. I haven’t even touched on the flowers. Yet. OOOOOH the flowers. My new babies arrive this week. Columbine, German Catchfly, Verbascum, delphinium, Githago, Viola, someone stop me…because I can go on for hours.

My goal is to make our yard a showplace. I want to give TOURS of my garden. I’m a long, long way from that. But I’m off to a hell of a start.

As my garden grows, I heal. As my hands get dirty, I heal. I’m in the sunshine, I’m being physical.
Fantastic therapy right in your own backyard.

Can those of you with older children please explain the whole “kids love to be naked” thing to me?

I am convinced my children will spend this summer naked.

Yesterday was our first official day in our pool, and both kids ended up naked from about 2pm to bedtime. It was hot, sure. At one point, they were wet. But really, they just LOOOOVE being naked.

As we know, Count Waffles has found those boys parts (this week’s discoveries include: “I have one, TWO balls, Mommy!”)

And Princess Peanut actually lifts her shirt and flashes anyone and everyone. Yes, yes, like mother, like daughter. Go ahead, tell me I deserve it.

Last summer, my brother’s girlfriend had dinner with us one night and declared “Oh! I’ve never seen the Count with pants on!”

Add in potty training this summer, and well…um…I can’t imagine she’ll see him with pants this year, either.

I really don’t care if my kids are naked all the time. But I think our guests do. Especially when the Count declares “My Penis is long again! Oh, wait…now it’s short. OH! It’s LONG again!”

Help.

I’m at Draft Day Suit and BlogHer today.

Believe everyone and everything anyone tells you about 2-year-olds being NOTHING compared to 3-year-olds.

They. Are. Right.

I just finished with bedtime stall session number 7. And I feel like sticking my head through this computer screen. All the way inside. Then lifting it up and running around with it around my neck while my hair burns and wires snap and pop. All while I scream “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

My darling, lovable, sweet, innocent Count Waffles the Terrible is turning into OCD Toddler Who Can’t Do Anything Unless It’s BY HIMSELF. OR, NOT ALL ALONE. OR, WITH MOMMY. OR, NOT WITH PEANUT. OR WITH THE DOOR SHUT. OR OPEN.

He MUST be present and perched on the counter if you are cooking ANYTHING. If food appears and he has not witnessed it’s exit from the fridge/pantry and cooking/plating all while ON THE COUNTER, it must be done all over again. If you do not do it ALL OVER AGAIN, he will cry until something else upsets him.

If he stumbles, trips, falls, or otherwise does any step incorrectly, anyone and everyone near him or walking/running/breathing with him must re-enact those steps (everyone in their exact places, please) so he can do it right. (this also applies to: getting into his carseat, climbing any park plaything, or getting on or off a couch.)

You may not walk up any stairs or down any stairs without him. If you leave before he does for a trip upstairs…you must come back down to do it again…with him.

He MUST be carried by Daddy to get the morning newspaper. He MUST have “blankies on his toes” in order to fall asleep.

If any person or persons touch/graze/accidentally bump ANY part of his body while he is “DOING IT BY HIMSELF” the entire process of whatever he is doing must start over. From the beginning. Congratulatory pats on butt or head, or a guiding hand that isn’t helping COUNTS as touching and assistance to whatever task is being performed, and said task must begin again.

I could go on. I really, really could. But I’m too tired. So I’m going to bed. Which won’t be easy with this computer screen stuck around my neck. NOTHING but Mommy’s head is allowed to touch his pillow. The RED pillow. And it MUST have the opening facing left.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”

I’m going to tell you something about the Kaiser that will SHOCK you. Because I feel he currently has you all snowed with his “I am such a supportive husband! Watch me cook! Clean! Change Diapers! Make my wife mojitos and t-shirt logo’s” thing.

He forgot my very first Mother’s Day.

No really. It was late afternoon before he even SAID “Happy Mother’s Day.”

He’s going to tell you he really didn’t forget. He was just so very busy with work that week he didn’t get a chance to get anything. And he’ll also tell you that he didn’t SAY “Happy Mother’s Day” because he wanted to wait until he could hand me his gift.

So on my very first Mother’s Day, I sobbed while nursing the Count, watching Kobe Bryant wish his wife a very Happy First Mother’s Day on tv. KOBE F’ING BRYANT. Who then promptly walked off the court and screwed some hotel worker up the ass.

HE wished HIS wife a Happy First Mother’s Day. And he’s got to be up there on the “Craptacular Husband” list. Although, he may have been bumped off the list after buying that ring and turning into a very whipped man.

Anyway, the Kaiser made up for his little Mother’s Day faux pas the next year. He woke me with champagne, chocolate, and jewelry. Then a fantastic trip to Santa Barbara.

Last year, I got PJ’s I picked out and asked for.

Now, the Kaiser is going to tell you that this is a sham of a holiday anyway. And I shouldn’t be so emotional about it. He’s probably right.

But I’m a gift girl and I’ve always liked to be fussed over. So if ONE DAY of the YEAR I want to be told I’m the BEST MOTHER in the world. I say…DEAL.

I’m happy to make a fuss out of Father’s Day. Thrilled, really.

And I don’t think I’d have such high expectations for Mother’s Day had the man not screwed up the first one so very badly. NOW it’s an event. NOW it’s an issue. And NOW, I want it to be everything Hallmark and sappy phone commercials tell me it’s supposed to be.

Is it right? Is it sane?

Not really. But that’s just the way it is. And I’m fine with it.

So, you know, no pressure honey. But your son made me this at school, and I’m just not sure you can top it.

And that last line was NOT your get-out-of-jail-free card.

I fully expect you to try. Give more of an effort than Kobe, and we’ll be just fine.

Queen’s edit: I’m at DotMom’s today. Go buy a shirt and then go read my post over there. DO IT. The Kaiser says you have to, or no more cool shirts.

And it’s for a good cause.

You can all GUSH more over the Kaiser…He made this today. Without my help.

She’s now plastered on everything from shirts to tote bags to mugs. Half of the proceeds will be donated to the Feminist Majority Foundation. So go ahead and visit the CafePress Queen Store. And for those of you not in the “stay at home” category, never fear…the Kaiser is working on more!

Baby Crack. That’s what we call it in our house.

Do your kids freeze when a puppet walks across the tv screen? Do their jaws drop open, drool dribbling down their chins as a wind-up duck quacks and waddles from right to left on the boob tube??

Yeah, you’re a Clarkian. Welcome to the cult.

Julie Clark is the L. Ron Hubbard of us parents. We pop in her DVD’s and bow to the message that toys are much more fun to watch on television. Pictures of apples are fascinating. And when the puppets come on, it might as well be Jesus walking on water.

Julie is from my former hood. She was a stay-at-home Mom. In, might I add, a pretty nice neighborhood. Now, you can call her media mogul.

So it’s no wonder we are all addicted to the Baby Einstein conglomerate. We must believe everything Julie tells our children is gospel. For we too, wish to be stay-at-home media moguls. Or at least find a way to make millions while not disrupting the very reasons we chose to stay-at-home with our children.

Therefore we worship Julie. She’s livin’ the dream. She plopped a Jack-in-the-Box infront of a camera and BAM! infants were instantly hypnotized and mothers everywhere smacked their foreheads, wishing they had done it first.

So how do we become good Clarkians? First we must take the oath:

Personally, I’m doing my part by blogging everywhere possible. Will there be a book deal? Syndication? A windfall from the blogging Gods (formerly the dotcom Gods) when blogging reaches Microsoft status? Maybe. But it makes my husband’s eyes roll. And YOU KNOW Mr. Clark shook his head when Julie came home from yet another Starbucks playgroup and said “let’s video the kids in costumes playing with toys!”

So I have to be on to something.