Queen of Spain Blog

We’re on day three of All Madagascar, ALL THE TIME.

Make it fucking stop.

Someone come over here and rip it out of my DVD player. Because, apparently, I am powerless against the toddler.

“Mommy! My NEW movie! Oh! It’s my BEST! I love it very, very much!”

Alison over at Aliblog had a great post on Toddler OCD a while back. And since my brain is mush from too many Count dance party’s to “I like to move it, move it,” sung by a lemur, she may have more insight than I do.

So far, Madagascar has taught Count Waffles that the word “underwear” is freaking hilarious.

Underwear! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
What did you say?
UNDERWEAR! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
underwear????
Yes Mommy. UNDERWEAR!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

But it’s also brought out that really fun toddler trait of questioning everything.

Mommy, Why did those penguins just fly? Penguins don’t fly.
Mommy? What did he do? Did he bite his butt??
Mommy are they in a boat? Oh, is that a big boat??
Mommy do I loooove this new movie my best?

I can’t really tell you if this movie is any good. I’m numb to it. All I know is when the lemur sings, I am required to get up from where ever I may be sitting and shake my ass.

Come see me over here today. I managed to get some folks you know in today’s news roundup. If you blog about anything in the news…TELL ME!

I only caught a little, little bit of the Grammy’s last night. I admit I love award shows. I love them, now that I no longer have to work them. I promise you, the red carpet is your very worst day at work times 10. Even if Tom Hanks knows your name. Just trust me on this.

Of course, the part of the show I did catch last night was Bono kissing Gwen Stefani’s baby bump. Adorable. And maddening all at the same time.

Never in my life has pregnancy looked so hip. And sexy. And cute.

Who looks like that while pregnant? Spare me the team of stylists, hairdressers, make up people excuse. I went and got stuff done while I was pregnant. I never, never looked like that.

I remember when I was pregnant with Count Waffles, and ready to pop. I was nearly 200lbs, miserable and looking like trailer trash. There really is no other way to describe it. No clothing fit. So I was mostly in one pair of fire engine red pj’s. Whooo sexy. I was getting those hormonal zits. I had read some article on hair dye seeping into my scalp, getting into my blood stream, and making its way to Count Waffles brain for a life of retardhyermyglioitis or something, therefore dying my hair was out of the question. So I was this dirty blonde/brown stringy mass of yarn on my head. Not pretty. Not sexy. Really not rock star. And for a kick in my ass, Catherine Zeta Jones was pregnant and on the red carpet back then for the Oscars.

Seriously…look at that photo. Beautiful. She fucking glows, people.

So with Princess Peanut I tried to step it up a bit. I wasn’t afraid to dye my hair. I wasn’t afraid to get a few more maternity shirts.

In the end: same result. I’m looking like I just stepped out of Wal-Mart with my miracle whip and 6-pack.
To review. Don’t watch award shows.

I officially have hired a babysitter. She’s here right now. You know, so I can get work done- uninterrupted by small, sticky people. Or, I dunno, go somewhere by myself.

Except I’m not getting much work done.

I’m sitting here thinking about having a babysitter. And how, just a month ago, this would have freaked me out.

Don’t get me wrong, there is still a certain amount of freak out going on. But nothing like the good old days of never trusting anyone but my husband or mother with the children.

Which makes me wonder how everyone else handles leaving their kids with other people. How do you screen your sitters? Do you only use relatives?

Here’s how my screening process went:

Queen went to day spa. Queen got her crotch waxed. Queen thought the girl who did it was very nice. Girl mentioned she babysat.
Because nothing says bonding like me naked on all fours while another woman pours hot wax on my labia, I figured she could babysit my kids.

And there you have it. I’m thinking this can’t be the process normally.

Sitting in a strip mall parking lot, cracking your first Paxil in half, then swigging it down with a latte just seems to easy. Too suburban. Too soccer mom. But I did it.

Things got better after my initial admission of postpartum. Then they got worse. Then they got so bad, I thought it might be best if these children and this husband didn’t have to deal with this crazy lady anymore.
Ever again.
But like so many other mothers, and author Marrit Ingman, I went to go kill myself…but couldn’t get a babysitter.

That was me, lightening the mood.

The pediatrician is in agreement. The physician and psychologist have spoken. The Princess will not be weaning. And with any luck, this pill contains magic. And everyone’s lives around here will get a little better.

I have to call my crazy ass cousin today. I really don’t want too. But I still haven’t called her to thank her for sending my kids’ a Christmas gift. Nevermind it came mid January…but I did say this was my crazy ass cousin.

One (of the many) reasons I dread calling her is because she’s going to ask when I’m getting Princess Peanut’s ears pierced. Or she’ll ask why on earth I haven’t done it yet.

Because I think its fucking stupid, that’s why.

I’m not sure if it’s a cultural thing. Or a regional thing. Or just a generation thing. But my family seems to think I’M THE CRAZY ONE for not have shot holes in my daughter’s ears before she can talk.

I’ll admit I think tiny little earrings on babies are cute. But not cute enough to risk infection, or tetanus, or the pain my daughter will endure (however briefly) for the sake of fashion. I’ll just stick to dressing her up on leopard print and pink.

I don’t give a shit if people think she’s a boy. All babies seems gender non-specific to me.

But most of all, I don’t care if every one of my cousins has done it to their daughters. I’m not trying to buck the system or anything. I’m not trying to make a statement. I just find it ridiculous.

And after last night’s Super Bowl Dove commercial that had me in tears, I am CERTAINLY not going to force some sort of beauty ritual on her, before she’s even old enough to know what the hell a beauty ritual is, anyway. She’s got years to feel shitty about some aspect of herself and I’m not going to set the pace in her infancy.

What are we doing to our daughters? Is ear piercing any better or worse than me sticking her in a dress and tights? I’m certainly NOT going to put her in the little, teenie, tiny mini-mini skirt (that I swear would have half her diapered ass hanging out) that same cousin sent. I’m also not going to deny her if she asks 5 years from now to get those ears pierced. But I think that’s the key here
…when she asks.

So I’m off to call my crazy ass cousin. I’m feeling the need to crank the PJ Harvey, or Sleater-Kinney, or maybe some Patti Smith…just ’cause.

You can take the girl out of Detroit…

Happy Super Bowl Sunday. I think I will spend the day hoping my hometown just doesn’t do anything stupid. Do me proud Motor City.

The Kaiser and I have an agreement. But looking back upon making this agreement, I’m pretty sure I was high. Or drunk. Or crazy. And since it’s been established that I’m crazy, I think I get a chance to renegotiate said agreement. I also think that because parenthood is nothing like advertised, I get to renegotiate said agreement.

AND, and, and…I think this will help in my postpartum state.

Confused???

Ok, here goes. And don’t judge me until you get all the facts.

I want a dog. I want a dog like I want air. I want a dog. I want a dog. I want a dog.

But you see, my blogging friends. I can’t have a dog. Because many, many years ago when I, also, wanted a dog…the Kaiser said “we can have kids or you can have a dog.”

Well duh, I picked the kids.

And now that I’m postpartum crazy. Pulling my hair out. Yelling at small people all day. Losing my mind with worry…

I’ve changed my mind. Too late you say? Well, screw you. I want a dog. And I want one of these:

That’s a cockapoo. And I had one while growing up. Her name was Gidget. And now I want one for my kids. But you see, I can’t talk about this at home, because the Kaiser and I agreed it would be unfair to get the kids on my little dog bandwagon. Because I would be manipulating said kids, and he would be the bad guy.

I don’t want him to be the bad guy.

So I’m going to whine to you, dear internet. Because I can’t whine to the short, sticky, people who live with me. And because no matter how much I ask and beg and plead and give sexual favors (and I would totally sign a legal document promising sexual favors to the Kaiser for said dog)..I will never get this dog.

You know dogs can be soothing for their owners? Wouldn’t it be nice if I were soothed? And I would have to go on walks…which is good for my mental health. And I could really use some help with my mental health.

Now, the Kaiser may, or may not (depending on how much he ignores this post) comment to you, dear readers, that I’ve slacked in taking care of the one animal I do have in this house. But in my defense, I had a medical condition that caused me to not clean. (oooh…see how I used that there?) and now that I’m getting a little better, the cat is totally taken care of. Totally. Really. I swear.

So, can someone get a petition going or something? Maybe some sort of prescription from a doctor saying I HAVE to have a dog? Anyone?