Queen of Spain Blog

God hates me. Both my kids have colds. Again. And while I’d like to blame all the partying we’ve been doing lately (see photo) I think maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with the new “game” the Count picked up at school. Apparently it involves tongues. And girls.

Before the Kaiser starts high-fiving everyone at work and I enroll Count Waffles in military school and Princess Peanut gets sent to the convent, (my parents always threatened to send me there) I’ll explain…

We were getting ready for bed tonight when the Count, very casually, walked over to me and…here it comes… licks my leg.
“What are you doing?”
“I GOT YOU, Mamma!”
Yes, yes. The new game at school is to lick eachother while running around on the playground. Putting aside the obvious “eeeewwww”-factor here, its making me wonder how I will ever win this germ/flu/winter cold battle.
Go ahead and call me nasty names. But I’m not a fan of the perpetually snot-nosed kid. My kids are not, naturally, a runny nose brood. We have friends who’s kids always have some sort of drip. That’s just how they are, their parents say. They really aren’t sick, their parents say. I always nod my head and say “sure” but inside I’m thinking “yeah, right…germ spreaders!” as I reach for the anti-bacterial wipes. These are the same parents that announce an hour into playgroup “yeah, little M. threw up last night and he’s really cranky today, I don’t know what could possibly be wrong.” You are a moron. That is what is wrong. He has the flu. Go the fuck home.
I think Ellen had it right, and playgroups and nursery school should only come with bio-hazard suits during flu season.

I’m going back to wipe more boogers as the Royal Snotfest-the sequel continues.

#1 Yes, your daughters DO look like little sluts in those Halloween outfits. If more than 2 Dads congregate to discuss a) if she’s legal b) if they are real c)if she could possibly be an “aunt” or “mom”—the costume is inappropriate. (editor’s note: remind self of this post when Princess asks to be Daisy Duke/school girl/cheerleader/goth witch/maid/nurse/britney for Halloween.)

#2 If your child is never allowed sugar, and on Halloween you suddenly allow sugar, don’t act surprised and/or shocked when there are a few temper tantrums. And if you take away all the treats your child has collected and substitute them with toys, fruit, or nuts (yes people—nuts, because kids think almonds are the same as tootsie rolls, don’t you know) don’t be surprised and/or shocked when your nearly three year old smacks you/Dad/sister/Grandma.

#3 If you are shocked to discover I’m not the actual Queen of Spain, a Spaniard, or related to the Royal Family of Spain and their new baby maybe you should get out more instead of look for royalty who secretly blog. (editor’s note—yes, I got an angry e-mail from some royal watcher. I am the Queen of Spain because this guy declared it so many, many moons ago. That’s all the explanation I’m giving. )

The multi-talented Ellen has graciously added me to her Court. Go check her out! She’s one of those *must read* blogs!

I did it. I’ve assimilated. I’m simultaneously lauding myself for participating and smacking myself for being so, so, so…soccer mom.

Last night I manned the raffle ticket table at our neighborhood Halloween party. There I am. In all my glory. Tearing those blue tickets. Who knew I had it in me? I’m really good at ripping them, too.

So why does this latest accomplishment of mine (and by latest accomplishment I mean–I showered AND shaved in one day, I fed the toddler something OTHER than spaghetti O’s) have me feeling so dirty?

Because I think I’m cooler than I really am. Because I think I’m somehow above or too cool to be the Mom in the minivan, helping out at the neighborhood Halloween party.

Yet I am the Mom in the minivan. Tearing the blue tickets. Helping out at the neighborhood Halloween party. Hrrrrrrrrmmmmph.

Knives are for wusses.

May all of your husbands leave for work this morning looking just as ridiculous. Happy Halloween. Yeah, I married him.

The Kaiser has done a fantastic job pushing the “please” “thank you” and “your welcome” stuff with Count Waffles. Seriously people, A plus parenting on his part. Which works well for me because at 30, I still forget to be polite. I also still forget I shouldn’t say “FUCK” in front of my kids, but that’s another issue.
Anyway, the Count is so good at this polite stuff he’s using it all the time. And by all the time, I mean even when its not necessary and really doesn’t make sense.
Last night after tucking the Count in bed, he asked if I could stay and cuddle with him for “just another minute, Mamma.” Who can say no to that, right? So I squeeze my fat ass into his tiny car bed (alongside 3 pillows, two Thomas trains, one stuffed dragonfly, and one plastic motorcycle) and lay my head on his shoulder. After a few minutes I kiss him, say goodnight, and move to get up.
“Just one more minute Mamma….please.”
Ok.
One more minute passes and I move to get up again.
“Almost Mamma. One more minute. Please.”
Ok.
Finally I get out of the tiny, tiny bed.
“Ok, Mamma. Go downstairs. Thank you.”
Did my kid just thank me for cuddling with him? Guess he really appreciated the hugs.
Today after his Halloween parade at nursery school I kissed him goodbye.
“Have a good day at school honey. I Love You.”
“Oh, Ok. Thank you Mamma.”
Thank you Mamma?
Talk about a “I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen” moment.

We have endeavored in our parenting not to make certain things a battle. The Kaiser and I decided long ago on co-sleeping, not crying it out, and giving the kids tons of new and yummy things to eat. For the most part, our efforts have paid off. Despite bad nights here and there, the Count now sleeps in his own bed. Neither of our children have ever cried themselves to sleep. And the Count, mostly, will eat just about anything. Until recently, that is.

Last night, after roasting a chicken and recycling yesterday’s grilled veggie pasta salad, dinner was ready. The three of us (Queen, Princess Peanut, and Count Waffles the TERRIBLE–you’ll see why I capitalized that in a sec) sat down as per usual and I poured chocolate milk as per usual and endured rice cereal and bananas in my hair as per usual. Then I, stupidly, got up to get a Tylenol out of the cupboard. This is also the same cupboard where the C-A-N-D-Y (yes, I’m still spelling it…just in case) is hidden. Count Waffles, being the genius that he is, immediately spies the Pez his Nana stashed up there.
“Mamma. I want some candy?”
“Eat your dinner, then you can have one.”
The Count then proceeded to shove ALL the chicken on his plate, in his mouth. All of it. ALL OF IT PEOPLE.
(with a muffled voice) “Can I have some candy now, Mamma?”
“Make it all go in your belly.”
You can see his eyes get really wide, like he realizes…shit, how the hell am I going to do that?
If this were Iron Chef, Chairman Kaga would now, very gay-like, take a bite of that pepper and declare BATTLE CHICKEN has begun.
The Kaiser and I are making a really, really big effort to stay consistent these days. You know, trying to be good parents, blah blah blah. So this means he must eat every single piece of chicken in his mouth or no candy.
So. Time passed. He tried to spit it out, but was warned there would be no candy. So he kept chewing. More time passed. He begged for the candy. I stood firm. More time passed. And passed. And passed.
One hour and 37 minutes later he swallowed all of the chicken. ONE HOUR AND 37 MINUTES OF CHEWING CHICKEN.
Tonight’s winner: Mommy. Battle Chicken is OOOVVVVAAAH!

Some housekeeping:
Thanks to Homer Jay for the Einstein link. He and his wife Tired Tunia are my latest blogroll additions.
Stranded in Suburbia’s Laurie has a new, vomit inducing, spinning globe on her site. Go give her some love ’cause her Haloscan sucks.
Those scholastic flier books arrived at school for the Count. They discretely handed them to the parents before the bell. I guess this means I’m off to the hook to buy more, until he switches schools anyway.
The Kaiser has yet to tell everyone how he was duped like a sucker and Battle Pajama ended. I think he’s just a wuss. Let’s just say, his lack of paying attention bit him in the ass. That being said, he also spent 4.5 hours of his work day yesterday IN A BAR. So I’ve got no sympathy for him.