Queen of Spain Blog

You may have a hard time telling in that photo, but Her Royal Highness Princess Peanut is scowling at me. She’s pissed off because of the tooth that won’t cut. And, possibly, because I stuck her in this ridiculous, fuzzy, bear coat/snowsuit. Not that it snows around here, but she doesn’t know that. And it was cold (like, 50’s…shut up, that’s cold for Southern California) and we were going outside.

Her left top tooth is in. Her right top tooth, however, just seems to be waiting for the right moment (I’m guessing 2am, maybe 4am) to poke on through. This has put our little peanut in a rather foul mood for, oh, a month. Ok, maybe more like a week…but whatever.

The Highland teething tablets are not working. The infant motrin is not working. The Highland gel is not working. The only things that seemingly soothes this savage beast is my left boob. You read that right. The LEFT boob. The right one, apparently, does not rub the right spot.

So Mom’s left breast is mangled. It’s literally being gnawed on 24-7. It has scratch marks, bite marks, and even a cut. My right boob, meanwhile, is deflated from all the non-use.

HRH Princess Peanut also seems to think that randomly waking, oh, 40 times a night is the correct protocol for her current state of discomfort. And she doesn’t just fuss a little and groggily grope for boob. No, no, not our little sunshine. She prefers to go from sound asleep to ear-piercing scream in no time flat. No warning. No slight awakening movements. Just sit straight up and pulls you out of your only REM cycle of the night with, what you’re sure, is the sound of a baby being mauled by an animal.

As you can imagine, we’re all a bit warn out from the drama. If you wouldn’t mind a little blogosphere chant…say it with me now…”CUT THAT TOOTH! CUT THAT TOOTH! CUT THAT TOOTH!” Thank you.

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There is something unbelievably sad and selfish that happens to a Mom when she witnesses one of those “growing up” moments. Or two, today…in my case. All we did was play at the park and then get Count Waffles a haircut. That’s all we did. Yet somehow, everything has changed.

Count Waffles did his usual thing at the new park here in Suburbia. He ran. And ran. And ran. Then he ran up to some kids and asked, “do you want to play with me?” and promptly ran away. How he will ever make friends this way is beyond me.

The usual playgroup crew was present, plus maybe a half dozen other non-school aged kids with their nannies (we were on the other side of town today…the one where both parents work). A little baby boy, about Princess Peanut’s age came crawling over to our little girl and sat. At 9-months they really just sit. So HRH and the boy basically just drooled and stared.

Then came trouble. A friend’s 12-month old. Who thought it would be fun to use the butt-heavy babies as bowling pins and plow through the two, knocking both the weebles on their sides.

From NOWHERE, Count Waffles raced over. Scolded the 12-month old with a very, very harsh, monster voice “That’s MY sister…no hurt MY sister.” And ran away.

I stood there, stunned. Baby still rolling on her back. Wondering who the hell that protective brother might be…and how the hell I could get him to manifest this alter ego more often.

Then came the haircut. Because, you know, Mom hasn’t had enough fun for one week. It’s standard practice around here that Count Waffles just NOT get haircuts. Trust me, it’s much easier this way. There are no tears. No screaming. No globs of hair stuck to a lollipop. But the hair, officially getting caught in his eyes, finally had to be dealt with.

We entered one of those kid salons and I put on my game face. You gotta have a game face for haircuts. I told you, it’s a blood sport.

Ready to pry fingers off chairs and strap him down if need be, I announced to the lady at the desk (poor, unsuspecting woman) that Count Waffles the Terrible had arrived.

“Ok, sweetie, we’re ready for you…come on back”
Game face. Game face.
“Ok, time to get my hair cut Mom. Good Bye.”
Good bye? Uh, wait…I’m going with….uh…good bye…umm…
Count Waffles marched to the Jeep haircut chair. Sat down. Played with a basket of toys while they clipped away.
I sat in a chair.
Feeling totally obsolete.

It is really no wonder more women don’t get help when they are feeling nuts. Since my big admission yesterday I’ve dealt with several doctor’s offices and one completely retarded insurance company.

It turns out, I have incentive to head into next week’s appointment and really crazy it up. If I’m only mildly crazy, it costs more per visit. If I’m severely crazy, its cheap. Gotta love the insurance companies.

I just want to thank everyone for their words of encouragement while I do this. Even though I’m not really sure what “this” is just yet. I can’t get over how many of you are going through something similar. It really makes me wonder if we’re not nutso afterall…maybe we’re all normal and the world just wants us medicated. Or maybe this is some sort of Mommy epidemic and our drinking water is spiked.

I have to say, its surreal to get call from a complete stranger, making sure you’re not suicidal or going to drown your kids. I guess it is standard practice for the doctor to check up on you if they can’t see you right away…but geez. I felt really, really odd saying “No, I’m cool, not gunna kill anyone today…Thanks for calling.”

In the meantime I have a pile of freelance to finish and kids to feed. Rest assured I’m good. We’re good. YOU are good. We’re all good.

Kisses

There has been a lot going on around here lately. The Kaiser’s usual 9am to 9pm work routine. The Count’s never ending, vomit inducing cough. The Peanut’s two new teeth. I’ve picked up some freelance writing. Busy. Busy.

So busy we sort of didn’t really notice I’m, well, um…Possibly suffering from a post partum anxiety and/or depression.

There. I said it.

I’m getting help.

In all honesty I have very mixed feelings about what may, or may not, be going on. I’m ashamed. I’m confused. I’m not sure I even buy it. But something is wrong and it needs to be addressed.

I’ve noticed every other mother in the blogging world is drugged. All of them seem to need medication to “cope” with life. This upsets me. I thought it was a cop out, frankly. An easy way out of a big problem. Take a pill and magically your stress and fears are gone!

Those thoughts are why it took me 9 months to admit I need help.

I’m not sure where this revelation will go. Or what will happen. But for the sake of all the other women out there, I promise to blog about it…good and bad. Because I already know I’m not the only one. And I already know I was reluctant to even admit a problem because, apparently, I was feeling very Tom Cruise on the whole subject.

I only leave the house when I have too.
The kids and I only get out of our PJ’s when we have too.
I don’t clean or cook anymore. (this one has improved)
I leave soiled diapers all over the house. (this one has gotten better too)
I stay awake in bed, fantasizing how my husband will die. How my children will die. How I will die. Kidnappings. Fires. White slavery. Car accidents. Plane crashes. Playgroud accidents. The fear of the unknown consumes me.
I can’t shut off my brain.
I am very tired.
I’ve never felt sad, so to speak.
I don’t cry.
I’m convinced I will be a widow. And wait for my husband to log onto his computer at work every morning, faithfully.
Sometimes I shop to feel better.
I have panic attacks during the day when I think the Count may have escaped the house and is wandering the streets. He’s just in the playroom.
I stare at the clock, get to nursery school early, and wait in the parking lot just to make sure no one has entered the school with a gun and taken the kids hostage.
I can work myself into a vomit or a migraine just thinking about what could happen to my kids.
I am suspicious of EVERYONE.
I think I’m weak for feeling this way.
I think I just need to “suck it up” and move on with life.
I don’t think I need to be medicated.
I’m angry no one around me noticed and made me get help.

Jesus, I just went back and read those. I’m fucking crazy.

I’m going to be over here this week. I’ll be back in a few days.

Pay me, and I’ll come back sooner.

Count Waffles the Terrible, HRH Princess Peanut and I got a “gift” from the Kaiser this weekend. “Shana Banana Yoga” ordered and shipped to our home thanks to the good people over at NetFlix. You might ask yourself, “but Queen, that’s not a gift…you have to send that back.” Right you are. But the gift portion is the fact the Kaiser even ordered it for us. You see, normally the only thing that comes to our house via Netflix are the Kaiser’s zombie movies and “Sleepaway Camp Massacre” the series.

So not only was I thrilled a movie came for us. But I was super thrilled the Kaiser found it himself and ordered it without me begging for it to jump “Dawn of the Dead: Documentaries” in the queue. What a guy.

Imagine my utter disappointment when I was so overcome with the CRAP that is Shana Banana Yoga that I couldn’t even speak.

Peace. Love. Togetherness. Peace. Love. Togetherness. Peace. Love. Togetherness.

That was a rap. A RAP.

Ok, I’ll give old Shana the benefit of the doubt. Maybe this was made in 1993. Maybe rap was really big and she was pressured to bust a few rhymes.
No such luck. 2000.
But the kids and I press on. Because dammit, we got a Netflix and we’re using it, no matter how crappy.
Count Waffles seems interested for all of 10 minutes. Sure, he’s not exactly the age group they are going for here, but Mommy is doing downward dog…that has to be engaging.
I wish I could adequately explain “Shana” to you. She’s obviously a little, umm…”out there” and she seems to think shaking her head and talking “crazy” is big with the kids. And let me just say right now I have a pretty high tolerance for adults acting stupid for children. The Wiggles, Doodlebobps (ew), etc. are all on our television.

…but after the Kaiser sat and watched, all he could say was, “I really want to hit her in the face.”

Me too. Meeee toooooo.

BUT we did do some yoga. And the Count did ask to watch it again. But what the hell does he know, he thinks Barney is cool.

A good friend of mine had a baby this week! And last night I got one of those sobbing, new mother calls.
Remember those?
How could she tell the baby was eating enough? Why did her boobs KILL? Why were they so hard?? How does she get the milk out? Was that her milk?
It was adorable.
And it was all I could do to calm her down, talk her through her engorgement (as I figured out through the sobs) and then, not giggle.
Welcome to the club, girl.
Those first few days home from the hospital, which seem soooooooooo long ago, were a big steaming pile of worry, indecision, panic, questions, questions, and more questions…all thrown on top of bleary eyed euphoria.
I’m a little freaked out she called me. Make senses, I’m the mother of TWO, now. I have the toddler and the infant. And both are/were breastfed.
Huh. Suddenly I’m the wise old Mom you call for advice.
That’s crazy.
But by the end of the phone call she was massaging milk out of her breast and going to snatch the newborn from her Dad before someone else panicked and gave her a bottle.
She sounded more confident. She sounded more sure she was doing what she needed to do as a mother. For that moment she felt like it was under control and she knew what to do next.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her she will have 5 million more moments like that over the next few weeks, months, years.
But I did tell her to call anytime.
Fellow clubmembers are always around to help out their newest recruit.