Queen of Spain Blog

I finally feel like I’ve conquered Post Partum Depression and Anxiety.

I think.

Maybe.

I’m pretty sure.

Just as it was tricky to figure out I was going through PPD, I’m now finding it difficult to determine if I’ve won the battle. My psychologist has me coming in once a month, if I feel I need it. My kids are, overall, much happier. My husband is getting a ton more tail than he used to.

So what about me? How am I feeling?? At peace, really.

Don’t get me wrong. I still get angry. I still get upset. I still lose it with these small people in my house every once in awhile. But it’s for good reason, and usually after I’ve been pushed for hours.
We’re outside nearly every day. We’ve planted a garden. We go to the park.

I don’t think every stranger we run across is a potential kidnapper. My heart no longer pounds when my son darts across the playground from one slide to the other. I don’t lay in bed wondering what natural disaster will sweep my family away. I don’t worry needlessly that my husband will be killed on his commute.

But am I cured? And more importantly, is it really gone?

My therapist says this is typical. Once you feel good for awhile, you worry it won’t be permanent. But I’m more worried that if I do start slipping back into those old habits, I won’t notice.

It was so hard to figure out I was suffering from PPD, that I can’t say for sure we’d spot it again, right away.

I’m also finding myself becoming an advocate for other mothers. I want them to know they are not alone. They are not imagining it. And they can get help. Even though I’m nearing the end of my battle, I still feel shame. I’m not sure who to blame for that, but I really want to blame someone. Or something. Society? I’m not sure.

I’m learning to get past that shame. And stand up for the many women who aren’t ready to stand up yet. Who’s with me??

Mommies, we have arrived.

If you have yet to hear about the so-called “Mommy Wars,” you’ve been living in a media blackout.

Ladies, we are all the rage.

In fact, we are so popular, advertisers are catering to us. Talk shows are clamoring for our attention. Local news is filled with breastfeeding-breast-bearing Moms, preschool competition, and the best baby gear.

We’ve hit it big.

…and the backlash is starting. But I’ve found this backlash is coming from a rather unsettling source: other women. More specifically, women who took that other path in life and chose to remain either childless or only career focused.

Many of them think we’re silly. And they can’t believe the world, nay, the educated world, is taking us seriously. And as the Mommies gain advertising, page one stories, and credibility, the so-called “Mommy War” talk gets louder. And louder.

I have a theory on why all the rhetoric is growing; It’s classic war tactics here, girls. And we’re too self absorbed in battling breast vs bottle that we’re missing the real fight.

A segment is threatened, and they are trying to turn us against ourselves. We’re being discredited by our own kind.

They’ve turned “Mommyblogger” into a derogatory term, right in front of us. They passively call us “those Mommybloggers” as if we have nothing important to say. And if we do, it certainly does not belong in the same category as their “real” political/news/academia thoughts and opinions.

We’re “cute.” And we’re supposed to be polite and take it like good little housewives.

Not anymore.

Here’s a little something for all the women who can’t seem to figure out what the networks, corporations, and advertisers have: We’re raising the next world leaders. The doctors who will cure cancer. The thinkers that will change the world. And if this generation of mother wants to argue over how to best raise those future leaders we will do it with as much passion and gusto as you argue this week’s congressional scandal.

We were raised like you, to consider ourselves ALL woman. We have or had careers. We are educated. We are just as devoted and important as you. How can we compare potty training to world economics? Easy, we are doing our best not to scar the next generation of economists. To turn them into the next Nobel laureate.

So my dear, Mommy friends. Let’s keep our little Mommy War going. Fight about formula and breastmilk amongst eachother just like those other girls fight about Republican vs Democrat. It’s JUST as important.

…and while you scream yourself blue touting the benefits of Montessori, remember you’ve arrived. Debate and discourse are all a part of being taken seriously.

There are those moments in every woman’s life that she never, ever forgets.

Her first date. Her first time (hopefully not on her first date). Her Wedding. The birth of her children.

And the day she finds the best jeans EVER invented.

I know what you are thinking. Why the hell does this woman keep showing us her ass??

Probably because I’ve never, ever liked my ass. I’m not asstacular. Don’t get me wrong. Growing up in the ‘burbs of Detroit, my bodonkadonk was always a, forgive me, asset. But despite my shape and curves, underneath my probably Guess (at the time) jeans, I had dimples. Bumps. Not like a baby’s ass.

Much like I don’t cry pretty…I also don’t ass pretty. So when I find a product that actually makes my ass look not only three times smaller, but prettier…I’m telling the world.

If I were Oprah, I’d give you all Gap Curvy jeans. But the Kaiser keeps babbling something about “money” and “mortgage” and “gardener” and “blah blah blah.” Anyway…I’ve named them “Magic Butt” jeans, and they are the greatest thing to happen to my closet since I bagged up all my maternity underwear.

Now, there was a time in my life I swore I would never, ever shop at the Gap. They were evil. I’m foggy on the details, but it had something to do with the environment and the Redwoods and cute boys with long dreads.

But I’m sacrificing those, as you can tell, extremely closely held beliefs in order to bring you what every mother who still has curves should wear. Magic. Butt. Jeans. I’m not kidding.

The Gap should pay me for this. They are not. But when you find something this good, you can’t keep it inside.

Go to the Gap and try on their “curvy” line of jeans. Then go home, and let your significant other ravage you like you haven’t been ravaged since you actually wore those Guess jeans back in ’89.

Steps For Easter Brunch With a Toddler

By Christina from A Mommy Story

1. Start preparing three hours before the assigned meal time (reservations are at 11:30).
2. Take turns showering and dressing while watching the child.
3. Attempt to give child a bath to make her less smelly for seeing relatives.
4. Change soggy clothing after toddler disapproves of bath.
5. Wrestle toddler to the ground to get her into cute Easter dress. Listen to her cry in disapproval about dress.
6. Take a swig from the open bottle of wine in the fridge.
7. As soon as everyone is ready to go, toddler falls to the ground in a tantrum. Attempt to placate her in order to get going, but give up and take pictures of her fit. After all, it’ll be good blackmail someday.
8. Go for one more swig of wine before heading out the door, realizing the toddler is just getting started.
9. Make funny faces at toddler in the car to cheer her up, but get met with a cold stare in response.
10. Arrive at restaurant. Nearly cause a revolving door accident when child chooses to stop walking while halfway inside the revolving door.
11. Do damage control when great aunt suddenly appears in toddler’s face, terrifying said toddler who probably doesn’t remember her.
12. Be seated. Try to convince nervous toddler that the woman sitting next to her is her grandmother, her third favorite person in the world that she sees weekly. Toddler is unconvinced, due to said grandmother getting her hair cut very short. (She donated it to Locks of Love.)
13. Attempt to make a trip to the buffet for food. Get as far as two tables away before toddler realizes you’re gone and begins howling in protest, forcing one family at the next table to decide it’s time to leave. Throw random food onto plate as fast as possible and return to table.
14. Be greeted by sobbing toddler, who wants nothing more than to sit on your lap, blocking your access to the food you just gathered.
15. Consider ordering alcohol, but decide against it for fear of cold stares from family.
16. Tempt toddler with several yummy food choices, but when said child refuses to eat any of it, give in and let her eat cheerios and goldfish for her main course. Reach around toddler for a few bites of food.
17. Put child into highchair. Change mind when it results in screeching. Resigned to your fate, put child back onto your lap. Consider braving the cold stares to order that drink.
18. Daddy returns with dessert, including chocolate, and suddenly child no longer is interested in your lap. Toddler moves to daddy’s lap and screams for chocolate brownie on the plate. You can finally eat!
19. Round out toddler’s Easter brunch with a chocolate brownie, and then one more just to keep her happy.
20. Toddler crawls back onto your lap just long enough to wipe her chocolate covered mouth across your shirt. Now you have chocolate streaks over each breast.
21. Once toddler finishes eating brownies, take turns running after her around the dining room. Endure tantrum and attempted biting every time you attempt to bring her back to the table.
22. Begin fantasizing about the remainder of the bottle of wine back in the fridge at home. Consider sneaking into the bar for a shot of scotch.
23. Watch toddler hug cute stuffed rabbit she received as a gift. Then watch her recoil in horror when it begins dancing and singing. Bad gift.
24. Remove toddler from table, shoving rabbit into a bag. Stop for a quick picture with the Easter bunny. Amazingly, toddler charms the bunny.
25. Return home, where toddler acts perfectly happy and normal. Put her in crib for nap – your nap.
26. Reconsider idea of having another child. Seriously, Queen, how do you do it??

Go HERE.

And then GO HERE, and tell Fred Meyer (it’s a store) to suck it.

I’ve had it.

I think Marrit at Baldo hit the nail on the head with this one,

“Breastfeeding isn’t harmful or unsanitary. It’s not comparable to urinating on the floor. It’s food going into somebody’s mouth. If you have a problem with that, then you’re going to be really busy policing for people eating in public. How many people are you going to see eating in public today? Are you going to be offended? Then don’t look at them. American people want their lives to be totally antiseptic. We want to float around all day long in our individual bubbles of privacy and personal comfort. The world is our living room, and we want everyone on their company manners. If you don’t like mothers and babies, then by all means they should be expected to hide from you and not offend. It’s their problem, not yours. What’s a three-month-old doing in a store anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be on house arrest? Don’t you know that children annoy all the Real People who have a right to assembly? You might inconvenience someone. These are strange times. Women are losing our reproductive rights, but we’re expected to raise children entirely in private without burdening anyone.”

I nursed Princess Peanut in the Emergency Room the other day. I didn’t bother to cover up. She was hurt. She was upset. It did not occur to me to be discreet and it did not matter. At least, it didn’t cross my mind that it should, until some pervert janitor kept walking by, staring out of the corner of his eye. And walking by again. And again. And again. The garbage had been emptied. The floor swept. He had no reason to keep coming by, except to try and catch a glimpse of my tit.

I think we’re dealing with a larger problem here ladies. And until we stand firm with the men around us that these are working breasts first and sex objects second (if at all) we will continue to feel humiliated, oggled, and embarrassed about feeding our children in public.

The embarrassed part pisses me off. Because many of us were raised to think we should cover up. Raised for his pleasure. Raised for pleasing those around us. Raised to be an object, not a contributor. I get mad at the mom’s who won’t breastfeed in public. Because they feel “weird” about it. I say they feel weird because society tells them too. Because in the back of their minds, there is something wrong with exposing your breast to feed your kid.

Fuck them. Fuck that idea. And fuck you if you have a problem with it.

Think about what Marrit said first our reproductive right…

Control our wombs and you control our destiny. Control what comes out of our wombs. Control, Control, Control.

Stop being meek. Stop covering up. Stop buying into the idea that bottles are just as good. It was pushed on our mother’s to make having a baby seem convenient. Start being a fucking MOM and do what those freaking things on your chest were meant to do. Don’t do it for 6 weeks and feel accomplished. Do it for what the REST OF THE WORLD DOES IT FOR, except us too busy to be bothered Americans. (that’s TWO years for those of your too lazy to click on the link)

I’m sick of this playing nice and saying “it’s your choice, bottle or breast.” Fuck that. I’m done. If you can’t breastfeed, that’s one thing. Then there is no choice. If you choose not too…that’s another.

Those tits are not for your husband. They are not there to sit up and look pretty, playing peak-a-boo with all the men in the room.

They are there to feed your kid. And if those fuckers can’t handle looking at them, too God Damn bad. And if you can’t handle whipping them out to feed your kid, maybe you’re not the mother you thought you were. And maybe you need to get over exposing your boobs or using your boobs for something other than fun time with your significant other.

Rant over.

Congrats to Mocha Momma and Christina. I’m sending you both to blogher.

And since I want everyone to go give Fred Meyer and earfull, I’ll post the winning posts this weekend.

I’m happy to announce there have been some exciting developments in the Blogher Tuition contest. The winner (or winners, I’m not telling) will be announced on Friday. Let’s just say we’re skipping the 1st runner up thing. It is good to be Queen.

(from left to right, Sarah, Tammy, Queen of Spain)

by Sarah of Sarah and the Goon Squad