Queen of Spain Blog

Since many of you have been very kind to play along with my contests, I thought I should go ahead and jump in one myself. Here is my entry for the free book give away over at A Mamma’s Rant. I like to call these “My Husband Had Waaay Too Much Time On His Hands.”

Back when we only had one child, and that child was still immobile and incapable of mass amounts of destruction, Daddy actually had time to make goofy stuff. These are oldies, but goodies…and should serve as a warning to those of you who think parenting gets easier as the baby gets older. Daddy no longer has time for this sort of thing.

That’s a melted Ipod firewire cord.
That’s a burn mark on my carpet.
There were fumes that made me dizzy.
There were raised voices…Panicking when we couldn’t figure out where said fumes were coming from.
There was a tragic house fire around the corner from us just a few weeks ago.
This all happened just before we went to bed.

Being me, I wanted to unplug anything remotely flammable for the rest of our lives.

I then confided in the Kaiser it’s possible I have more anxiety than a normal person and should maybe call a doctor.

This feeling of wanting to keep everyone you love, safe forever…The mother part, is making me crazy. If I could just control the universe I think, maybe then, I’d be able to sleep.

Quick. Where is your frenulum???

I am now an expert in frenulum. Because this cute kid over here tore his. Tore it clean off.

Run your tongue over your top gums. Feel that flappy thing connected to your upper lip? That’s a frenulum.

Count Waffle’s frenulum is no longer attached. He thought it would be fun to stand on a Leap Frog drum and then fall/jump into an end table. Mouth agape, apparently.
The blood. Dear Ozzy the blood.
The panic. Dear Donna Reed the panic.
Then came the questions. Where is the blood coming from? Is that thing really no longer attached? Is that a big deal? Do I call the doctor? No, the dentist? Do I just go to the ER?
I opted to call my pediatrician who wanted to see him, pronto. They even stayed open during lunch to let us in. Apparently we haven’t met our take-kids-to-pediatrician-at-least-5times-a-month quota.
As it turns out, you don’t need your frenulum. And most of us did the same thing the Count did as children and it didn’t affect us at all.
No stitches.
No acidic or salty food for awhile.
Tylenol.
Popsicles.
And whatever else he wants because he scared the shit out of me and I don’t ever want to see blood pouring out of him again. Ever.

…so how many times will we do this again? Do these boys just jump off crap all the time? Girls are better, right? Should I just bring a fruit basket over to my local ER doctors now?

…this is only the beginning…isn’t it???

There was a time when I measured my victories and accomplishments in very large, distinct ways. I would get a raise. That was a pretty sure way to tell I had done well. I would get a promotion. I’ve been given some pretty cool awards. Once, the powers-that-be were so pleased with my nearly round the clock reporting on the scene of devastating wildfires I was given a cruise. An actual paid vacation.

So as I stayed up waaay too late last night watching the horrible news out of the Kaiser’s homestate of West Virginia, I did what I usually do: I spent the entire time wondering how I would have covered the story.

Early on in the coverage when the word “miracle” was being thrown around I told the Kaiser that angle should not be played up by the media just yet. I felt it in my gut. We didn’t know the condition of those miners yet. We didn’t have official word. I wonder how many other of those reporters out there felt it in their guts. But that’s not the point here. The point is there was a time when I knew I had done a good job. I knew I accomplished something.

As a stay-at-home mom, I don’t even know if my head is screwed on some days, let alone if I’ve done well. And I’m really not sure how to figure out my victories and accomplishments.

For instance, while in bed last night Count Waffles picked his nose. He informed me “Wow, Mom. That’s a really big boogie.” And I found myself really excited because he then asked me for a tissue, instead of, say, wiping it on the bed. Is that an accomplishment? That I taught my son to use a tissue??

Where am I setting the bar, here? Am I just hoping for the “stay out of jail, stay off drugs” human being, or am I aiming higher? What’s the parenting equivalent of winning an award or being given a cruise???

If we’re talking strictly a to-do list for the day, and what I can actually get done off that list on any given day…then I should be fired. Canned. Is that clear evidence I’m not good at my job??

Or is it something else? Is it my son saying “thank you” and “please” consistently? Is it Princess Peanut’s inability to be held by anyone but her mother evidence I’ve given her a feeling of complete and total security? Count Waffles lack of angry aggression on the playground? Is that a success?

I don’t know if I really need to know I’m doing a good job, so much as I’d like to be a bit more sure I’m not completely fucking up.

Don’t fuck with me. I really can’t be more clear than that.

I dropped off Count Waffles at nursery school this morning and made my usual stop at Starbucks. I now have enough gift cards to keep me in latte’s until St. Patrick’s Day.

With Princess Peanut on my hip I ordered my nonfat (dieting, again.ug.) vanilla latte and stood and waiting for the barista-whatever they call them to steam the milk with the steamy-thingy thing.

“Oooooh what a cute baby!”
“Thanks.”
“…but, oh. Wow. Sorry about her hair.”

It was if time stood still and you could actually see my hormones stand straight up. Here is where I should probably mention my period is back. Yes, I’m still nursing around the clock, but my body doesn’t seem to concern itself with such matters. I should probably also mention these first few periods I’ve been a little, um…lets just call them “hormonal.”

“Excuse me??? Maybe you should be more concerned with your hair.”

Now, there was really nothing wrong with this person’s hair. I just couldn’t think of any other comeback.

Laughing, “oh, you have to admit, that baby has unfortunate hair!”

Between you and I, yes…Princess Peanut has hilarious hair. We laugh about it all the time. With friends we laugh. With family we laugh. We even take pictures and laugh. But I’ll be damned if strangers in Starbucks can laugh. Out loud. In public. At my child’s expense.

I have no idea why I didn’t just laugh along with this woman. I have no idea why I got defensive. I have no idea why I felt the need to defend my daughter’s honor. Oh, wait…yes I do. I have my period.

“Unfortunate? Unfortunate? I think you are unfortunate.”

Oh. My. God. Did I just say that? I’m worse than my 2-year-old right now. I might as well have just called her a doodyhead.

To her credit, the woman was still laughing. We are now, very awkwardly, waiting for the coffeemaker guy to make the freaking coffee. Waiting. Waiting.

My nonfat latte comes first. I grab it in a huff.

“I’m sure her hair will lay down in a few months!” I hear as I walk out the door.

I’m shaking and shaking my head. I just keep walking. I want to run back and scream at this woman. It doesn’t seem to matter that she’s right. It doesn’t seem to matter that its obvious to everyone my daughter’s hair is sticking straight up. And its an adorable sticking straight up, I might add. But its up, non the less.

So my monthly bill is back. And I say “monthly bill” because it reminds me of Pretty in Pink-*nope! 16 Candles!* and the sister clutching the pillow getting ready to marry the beu-hunk. And that makes me laugh. And apparently I need to lighten up a little.

I started off this month’s contest very cynical about families (mine, in particular) but KDubs over at Not So Ordinary Mom melted me with this one. Her story just proves that families come in all shapes and sizes, and are made up of all different people. A lesson, it seems, everyone needs to be reminded of every once in awhile. Congrats KDubs! You are Annie’s Knight for January!

I’m still not entirely sure what happened in this Royal Kingdom last night. It was chaos.

As I mentioned (I think?) in my last post…we had a party. The adults had some silly idea that small children would play together and eventually pass out into dreamland, while those of us with voter eligibility and driver’s license rang in the new year with many cocktails.

Well, the many cocktails occurred, but those little people never passed out. Or slowed down. Or sat for more than 10 seconds. Even the infants (2 total) remained awake for the ball drop.

Count Waffles the Terrible, seconds before midnight, was still full stream ahead (complete with his sister’s headband) chasing the big kids around the house and divebombing off the couch while Mom and Dad were too preoccupied (lit) to care or discipline.

(He also said “Blast Off!” instead of “Happy New Year” at midnight and was very confused the rest of the crowd didn’t say “Blast Off!” with him after the countdown. The Queen was still in shock at how far apart Mariah Carey’s boobs seemed, and how once again this year we knew no one on the MTV.)

I’m awake only because Princess Peanut has two new front teeth to ring in 2006 and is miserable. Its 10am and everyone else (including my usually-up-at-the-crack-of-dawn-toddler) is snoring.
I just quickly glanced at what will need cleaning once I’m alive today…and lets just say its not often you see martini glasses next to sippy cups, both looking as if they partied hard into the New Year.

Have a Happy New Year Everyone.

You will have to forgive me if there are mass amounts of typos and things that do not make sense…but it was a long night. Happy New Year, by the way. 8 adults, 2 big kids, 3 toddlers, and 2 infants all made it to midnight in the Royal Kingdom and I’m very bleary eyed.

This month’s Order of St. Anne contest is heating up! You have until midnight to enter to win a free t-shirt! So far, the contestants are:

Christina and her Gift Hall of Shame

KDubs tear jerker!

…and then ANOTHER tear jerker from Andria

And then three (updated at 3pm) entries via email:

From Running2K’s:

Uncle Jim and Aunt Peggy’s Annual Lettter of Woe:
My Uncle Jim, not his birth name, and his wife Peggy, not her birth name, are the doom and gloom couple. Jim was born Jewish, and is my mom’s youngest brother. He went through the Bar Mitzvah, he was the “mistake”of the family (born to my grandmother when she was in her 40’s and not expecting to expect).
As a result of his chronic low esteem, or perhaps his acne, he fled off to grad school to become a man of earth science. Problem was, he never could stay motivated or hold a job, ever. He eventually married a very controlling woman, a very large woman who ate all of my dad’s grapes in once sitting 20 years ago and it is still talked about (take a breath here). For some reason, after he became Christian, he and his wife changed their names to Jim and Peggy. I really don’t know why.
Jim and Peggy proceeded to have 4 children, each what they called a different failed method of birth control. So for the purposes of anonymity, I’ll change the names in their annual holiday letter of woe to the method of birth control. There is the oldest child, a girl named Pill. Then came their son Condom. Their next son is Diaphragm, and their last son is Sponge. Jim and Peggy could not afford their 4 children, ever, and would often ask my grandmother for “loans”(aka money never paid back). They lived in very bad neighborhoods in very bad apartments and moved from state to state. They never thanked anyone for the help received–only kept their hand out for more.
Most people send out brag sheets about their family every holiday season. Jim and Peggy are no different. Here is their Holiday Letter of Woe (I added the “of Woe” because it is very apt, as you shall see):
Dear Family,
It is another year in the Woe family. Right now, we are in the process of moving to Pennsylvania. Our rental in Buffalo, NY still isn’t subletting. This is a shame because the kids really don’t want to leave our house, that the church provided, in Ohio. We are trying to figure out how we are supposed to pay rent in New York and Pennsylvania. We would have preferred to live rent-free in Ohio, but Peggy lost her job. As you remember, she was working to teach kids in the church, so they let us stay in that house. But they found out that we were attending service somewhere else, and they wouldn’t renew Peggy’s contract.
I keep trying to get jobs with UPS or Fed Ex. I couldn’t work in the pet store anymore. Peggy got a great job offer in Pennsylvania to work at another church. I hope I can find something to do there. As always, we can really use the income. Pill is getting ready to go off to culinary school, and Condom is talking about college. I hope they can find scholarships or help somehow.
Good news! We were able to get the state to recognize Diaphragm as having ADD and a learning disability, and they are giving us money to supplement him in school. Maybe he’ll get to be in a special program. We are also happy to report that the state will be giving us money for Sponge. They were trying to call him ADD, but we were able to finally find a specialist to say he has a mild form of Aspergers. This is great because he’ll have an aid in class, and we’ll get money for treatment. It’s too bad we never got Pill or Condom diagnosed with anything.
How’s everyone else doing?
Jim

And from Amy at Everybody seems to be Kerbabbled:

Your Royal Highness,
I decided against posting this on my blog because well, you never can tell how someone might find a picture of my mother dressed like Yasser Arafat as offensive. Thus, here’s the story:

We’re at my oldest sister’s house in Michigan, in the town where I grew up, and we’re all opening our presents on Christmas Eve (by “we” I mean my two sisters, their husbands and 3 kids between them, plus my parents, my husband and myself). My oldest sister gave each of us “girls” (mom, other sister and myself) baskets with handmade tablecloths in them, covered by various colors of kitchen towels. Mine was solid red, my other sister’s was green, and our mother’s was white with blue trim on the edges. Since I had opened mine first, I was silly and put the towel on my head while I opened the rest of the basket. My other sister followed suit when she opened hers, and when our mother (who just turned 70 by the way) opened hers, we told her she had to do the same thing. It wasn’t until the towel was on her head for about 30 seconds that I grabbed for the camera after realizing she looked a little like a former Palestinian leader. I couldn’t help it, it was really very funny to see my life-long Southern Baptist mother from Kentucky looking a little Middle Eastern.
Hopefully this wasn’t offensive … the picture is pretty funny regardless of whether or not you “see” the resemblance.

And from Monica:

“None Of Us Are In Jail, Selling Drugs, Under theInfluence of Drugs, Have Killed Anyone, or Plan OnDoing Anything Illegal”

The title of this story is something my sister and I tell our dad, in some form or other, every time he starts complaining about how his children never seem to measure up…and he realizes that it’s true…we are really okay…really…anyway…

History: Parents immigrated from Germany at the beginning of the ’60s. Me, the first child, born in 1961, my brother to follow in 1963. One last additionto arrive in 1977. My darling sister, welcomed by the four of us with wonder and amazement…and a little bitof trepidation since she came packaged with a strong will and the knowledge that she was the center of attention.

The years have been good to us. And they have been filled with moments of puzzlement over each other’s behavior. There was the year that my father and I spoke not one word to each other for something no one can remember. There are the strict rules we grew up with that still, to this day, make no sense. There is my headstrong daughter who continues to challenge me and step out of the mold that anyone would have dreamed for her…and I wouldn’t change a thing about her. The list goes on and on as it does in every family.

We have those little disapproving things that we do…disapproving from our parent’s point of view. My divorce and return to school at the age of 38. My sister bringing home that third cat when they think she should be bringing home a baby. My brother sending his girls to French Immersion School. My own child’s multiple piercings and tattoos. It’s that parental thing that they impose…that I’m going through now myself with my 17 year old girl: “I love you and want the best for you so why did you do that without thinking about it more and especially why didn’t you ask ME what the best thing is to do since I’m sure I know and could help you do the best and right thing”. Ah…on and on the merry-go-round goes.

Through it all, we love each other so deeply and have come such a long way that it fills me with pride and love and such deep emotion that it’s sometimes hard to convey. The five of us are scattered around the North American continent these days. My parents and brother(and his wife and 2 girls) are in the city of Kelowna. My daughter and I are in Vancouver. My sister and her husband are in Atlanta. We talk on the phone every day, my parents now understand the magic of email and the net. We share the simple things eachday…such as…”how do I make the red cabbage dish?” or “what’s the name of the movie you watched last weekthat you liked so much?” But the biggest and most important thing is the phone three times a day…it ends with that “bye, I love you”. There was a time when it was hard for my father to say those words to his children…and for us to speak those words to him…and now, those words are the backbone of my days and support me during this time when I have to live so far from them all.

I think I’ll send my family these words that I’m sending to you…and to them all…”I love you so very,very much and am oh so glad that I can call you mine.”