Queen of Spain Blog

My day with the kids is long. We’re not a “Daddy is home at 530pm for dinner” family. I’m not cooking dinner while my husband helps set the table or plays with the kids.

The Kaiser’s day begins with an hour long commute when he walks out the door at 845am. And ends when he gets home at 845pm. The kids awake around 730am. And go to sleep around 9pm.

Do the math.

Lately the Kaiser’s days at work have been a little shorter, so he’s taken to going to the gym (gym…what is this gym you speak of?) a few days a week. Yesterday, I had to ask him to skip the gym and get his ass home. I had enough.

Sick kids for three weeks. Children who won’t even let me leave the room. Stuck to me. They are always stuck to me. The Princess likes to pull my hair and chew it. My ends are like hard, globs of goo. All mashed together in clumps with a gel of snot and saliva. The Count has left bruises on my legs and arms, from climbing on me and up me and over me. Mostly to just be near me and touching me. And both have had sleep issues lately. And naptime was my breaking point.

The Count was crying because he wanted me to read another book, and I was pleading with him to just lay down while I got his sister settled. The Princess, meanwhile was screaming because she was tired. She wouldn’t nurse quietly, she wanted to be held and walked around the room. So there I was. Standing with one screaming child in my arms. Still in my PJ’s at 1pm on a Wednesday. My other child was screaming in bed. And suddenly I just couldn’t do it.

Shaking, I put the Princess on the bed. I screamed “SHUT UP!” and walked out of the room and into the hallway where I burst into tears. The screams inside room grew tenfold, because Mommy was gone.

I composed myself. Went back in. And somehow got the Count the bed. Came downstairs with Princess Peanut and told the Kaiser no gym tonight. Come home. Please.

He did. I can’t say if he actually did much. My dishes are still dirty. The house is still a mess. BUT…for more than 20 minutes last night, I had an extra hand. The Count didn’t have to beg for 15 minutes for someone to play with him. And I wasn’t trying to please the entire kingdom by being everything to every child. Relief.

I wish all of you mothers some relief today. Its deserved.

Count Waffles the Terrible used his imagination today and turned a lego bridge his father built for him into a gun. Typing that word hurt.

He does not have any toy guns. He does not watch any cartoons where anyone could or would use a gun, shoot a gun, or hell, I don’t know…eat a gun. The last time I checked Dora was not popping a cap in Boot’s ass.

Count Waffles used his lego gun to make “pfft pfft pfft” noises and shoot me. He said “I got you, Mamma” with a shit-eating grin on his face and ran away.

I, the Queen of Spain, proceeded to freak out.

“How does he even know how to do that? Did he learn that at school? What do we tell him? We tell him its not ok to shoot people, right? (as if the Kaiser was going to say-no honey, lets tell him it is ok to shoot people) How do we handle this? What should we do?” Etc. Etc. Etc for about, oh, 15 minutes too long.

“Calm down. Its fine. He’s a boy. This is what they do. We discourage him from pretending to shoot at people. He’s a boy, though. We all did this,” the Kaiser answered casually while visions of the Count in a bell tower picking off students in letter sweaters played over and over in my head.

Lunatic Queen is quickly processing the face of every boy at nursery school who may or may not have taught her sweet sweet baby boy how to be a thug. Lunatic Queen wants to hunt down the director of said nursery school to ask just what sort of war games are going on during recess on her playground. Lunatic Queen is formulating a discussion with Count Waffles in her head on why guns are bad. Lunatic Queen is considering the stuffed toys in the ottoman–yes! They can role play! Elmo can pretend to shoot Jay Jay and…wait…

The Count begins singing along to the Gilmore Girls theme song. The Kaiser puts his head in his hands, rolling his eyes.

Crisis over.

Polls are OPEN. Vote early and often.
Go to ALIBLOG to vote for worst dress and hair !!

(right) Prom 1993. Because perms were cool -and super cool if you could get the one curl strand thing going. And apparently you could practice for your wedding in a white gown.

(left) 1990. Homecoming, I think. Remember Julia Robert’s dress in Mystic Pizza when she goes out with the rich guy? This was my interpretation. I honestly thought this was the coolest dress ever. The special dye matching shoes just topped it off.

(right) Some random dance circa 90-92. I have no explanation for this. Slutty for a 16/17-year old, don’t you think?

(below) Maybe (?) winter formal 1991. Red was H-O-T.

PROMAPALOOZA contestants:

Sarah and the Goon Squad

Aliblog

The Reign of Ellen

Live from the Wang of America

I’d Like to Buy a Vowel

Because I’m Your Father

Christa

Ms. Mamma

April

True Blue Semi-CRunchy Mamma

Hillary

After a very, very long night…resulting in a trip with BOTH kids to the pediatrician this morning, the Kaiser holds my hand in the minivan on the way home. Bleary eyed and half delirious from lack of sleep he says:

“What have we gotten ourselves into? Can we hit the reset button?”

In other news: Just a reminder Promapalooza is tomorrow. There is still time to join us! Just post your old school homecoming/prom/formal photos on your blog tomorrow and link to Aliblog so everyone can vote on worst hair/dress/tux! Let me know if you’re playing! (you know you want too…everyone’s doing it…)

It all started when I nearly threw up on Governor Gray Davis. THAT, I believe, is THE moment I went from award winning reporter to Mommy. In one quick flash of morning sickness, I changed roles and my life was no longer the same. And I’ve been struggling with my identity ever since.

If you’ve read my blog for more than a day, you know I am having trouble with my current title. No, not Queen. I’ve always been one of those…but Mom. Let me just type the BIG disclaimer now, before I really get rolling: I would not and will not give up being a stay at home mom to go pursue my career. I KNOW what I do is more important. And I am LUCKY to have the means and the husband to make it all happen. I love my children. I love my life and I am so very thankful. Now…with that aside…

I can’t seem to reconcile the career woman in me and the mommy in me. They are fighting. And on any given day, career woman beats the hell out of mommy and mommy beats the hell out of career woman. I have this battle in my head all the time, but it hit me a little harder while at the Kaiser’s work recently. I packed up the minivan and drove down for lunch to show off the little ones and give Daddy a nice break in his day. Then I was asked THAT question. The one I get asked ALL THE TIME in any sort of social situation:

“So, what do you do?”

More times than not I nod my head in the direction of the destructive toddler pulling leaves off the office greenery or some such thing and say “you’re looking at it.”

Why does it make me feel inferior? Like I’m admitting I do nothing all day, living off my husband’s sweat and tears. When clearly anyone who has spent more than 3 minutes with kids knows this job is much harder than interviewing any politician. Yet for some reason it was much more satisfying to tell people or, better yet–when my husband would beat me to the punch and chime in “she’s a reporter over at KFWB…”

There were some comments in my “Stepford Wife” post about how many of us wonder how we got here. And let’s not imply we don’t LOVE here. Because we all love here. Its just…here doesn’t come with the title or the paycheck, and, I’ll say it-the respect. And despite the fact I know I’ve made the right decision for me and my family, I still feel small some days. “Just” a Mom. Am I failing? Am I supposed to be more? Am I supposed to do it all? Is that what we were taught?

I don’t want to make this a whiney “where’s the recognition for how hard it is to be a Mom” post. Its not. Its more just a rambling of my own feelings of NOT being comfortable in this role just yet. About trying to find my identity and defining who I am these days. Soccer Mom? Stepford wife? Former wage earner? Ex-newswoman? I think I’ll just stick with Queen and call it a day.

Toddlers. Are. Weird. Really weird.

I know kids have quirks. I’ve read other blogger’s posts about their kids freaking out when the tub water goes down the drain. Or when their juice cup is, heaven forbid, green instead of blue. But I’m starting to wonder about Count Waffles.

Its not unusual for him to take 10 things to bed. We’ve tried to put limits on it, but really, when its past bedtime and tempers are short and he wants to bring just one more matchbox car Mamma, I give in for the sake of sanity.

Last night the Count brought with him a garlic press and three beaters. He went right to sleep. And woke up this morning smiling, playing with his beaters, and even giving one to me. I think he assumed I too would find it the most beautiful toy ever. “Here you go Mamma…you have DIS beater,” handing it to me like it was the prize of the century.

Mamma needs some coffee first.

I don’t watch movies often. Not that I don’t enjoy a good bowl of popcorn and the lights dimmed, its just I seem to always choose sleep or sex or mindless television instead. Not to mention the whole toddler wanting to watch Thomas the Tank Engine and infant screaming stuff. So not only do I not get a chance to watch a movie very often, I always seem to NOT make that choice even when the opportunity arises. I know what you are thinking…but your husband MAKES movies. Just further proof that I suck, I guess.

Recently we joined that mail you the movie club and suddenly, I want to sit and watch movies. I even put my picks in the queue and everything. So when one of my first movies arrived, I…stop the presses….actually sat down and watched. With my husband. Wow.

Now here comes the kick in the ass: It scared the shit out of me. The kind of scared where today, like a week later, I’m still thinking about it. Hollywood bastards.

We watched Spanglish. Adam Sandler. Tea Leoni. Set in, of course, Los Angeles. Without boring you with the plot and stuff, lets just say I am now, terrified of becoming the Tea Leoni character. Terrified. And I think what scares me the most is…I can see it happening. The Kaiser was just as freaked out after the viewing. He was scared of ending up miserable and souless in our pseudo-hollywood/Los Angeles lives. I made him promise not to fall in love with the housekeeper, and I swore to him I’d never do it with our real estate agent. THAT was the conversation we had after the movie.

So why can’t I shake this movie, days later? Because I see myself being neurotic and insecure and controlling. Daily. I see it DAILY. I can see myself thinking I’m doing good by getting the housekeeper’s daughter a scholarship. I can see myself with a chubby daughter. And wanting to help her slim down, in all the wrong ways. I can see myself, bleary eyed and runny nosed, begging my husband to talk things out until we drop. I see myself wanting a summer house at the beach. I see myself waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much.

Here is the other problem, these Los Angeles women are all around me. Its more common for you to see the Nanny pushing the stroller down the street around here. I’ve watched those housekeepers get off the bus and walk to their employers. I have a gardener. I have a pool guy. And my husband does work in the biz. Of course, we’re not like that. But the fear is we could BECOME like that.

So after that freaking movie we also promised to catch eachother before we got caught up in all that crap. So after I dropped the Count off at preschool this morning, and came home with my Starbucks…I balanced it out with talking to my friends and looking at old photos for the upcoming Promapalooza. Because god knows if the Kaiser and I get too Hollywood…those are the people who will call us out. I hope.

On Tuesday Sarah, Alison, Becky, Bridgette, and I will be hosting the 1st ever Promapalooza. We will be posting our old prom/homecoming/dance photos from back in the day. We will be voting on worst dress and worst hair. There will be big hair. There will be 80’s 90’s dresses. There will be much peeing of pants and sarcasm.

Anyone can play along! Just have those photos dusted off and scanned by Tuesday and let one of us know. And as Sarah says…”please make sure you obscure your date unless he personally says you can use his likeness. I don’t want to get sued by anyone’s high school boyfriend.”