Queen of Spain Blog

I’ve had to remove this photo of the Count at my Flickr site. Why? Because its gotten about 3 dozen more “views” than any other photo. Am I being paranoid? Maybe. But I also can’t think of a reason, other than SICK FUCKS, that its getting so many hits. I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m upset I can’t share a photo of my cute kid’s new undies while we potty train. Such is the way of the Internet. Now I know. And all you other parents should know too. Which is why I felt I had to post about this. Go take a look at your public photos, just in case. And to the BASTARDS, you’ll get yours. Every Mom will make sure of it. I got the Housewife Mafia with me now too. We’ll make sure of it. Watch your back asshole.

Go ahead. Say it. I’m the Man. I’m Big Brother. I’m Overprotective. I’m a prude. Tom & Jerry has been banished from the Royal Boob Tube. Add to that list Bugs Bunny, Wile E. & Road Runner, Yosemite Sam, Teen Titans, Batman, and Justice league.

So why the sudden Commie Censorship, you ask? Simple. Let a 2-and a half-year-old watch a mouse hit a cat with a frying pan and you are just asking for trouble. And nothing, I mean nothing, good comes from the Count watching Wile E. fall off a cliff. Case in point: playground diving. You heard me right. Playground diving. And its exactly what you think it is. Put one toddler on a tall, wooden playground structure and watch him run, full speed OFF THE EDGE, throw his legs parallel to the ground and land on his ass. In the 40 plus years the director of our nursery school has been watching kids, mine is the FIRST one to do this on her playground. Do I blame Warner Brothers? Of course not. But I’m certainly not going to encourage this behavior. Just like I’m also not going to cook with the the kids in the kitchen and be surprised when the Count whacks the Princess with the frying pan.

No one suffers more from this than the Kaiser. He loves these shows. He watches them when the kids are not around. So to him, I apologize. But Mamma’s gotta keep the peace. And I’m sure it will only last a few more years. You know, when the Count knows better. (editor’s note: I seriously can not breathe I’m laughing so hard after typing that last line.)

Picked up the Count from school today only to discover I’ve been labeled “Tattoo Mom” by the teachers. TATTOO MOM. Let that sink in a sec. I guess that’s better than Stripper Mom. Or Church Going Looking Mom. Or Generic Soccer Mom. Or Fatt Ass Mom.
Turns out they were referring to my battle with a temporary tattoo of a dinosaur that wouldn’t leave. I guess one of the teachers thought it was real. Because, you know, apparently I look like the type of person that tattoos cartoon-like dinosaurs on my flabby upper arm. Nevermind the nursery school teachers are obviously gossiping about the mothers (oh, come on…like you wouldn’t? bravo you) but I guess we’re getting labels as well. How very Seinfeld. And yes, I do have tattoos…but other than the temporary kids dino, the teachers will never see them.

He carries my big, overstuffed, hot pink diaper bag AND has conversations like this with me on a daily basis…
Queen to Kaiser
“How was the Count’s bath? He seemed to enjoy the squirting dinosaur?!”

“Ooooh yeah. Anything that squirts water out of its mouth that he can use to try and squirt water INTO his penis…is good.”

While watching the end of the Angels Yankees game (may the Evil Empire rot in hell, by the way) the Kaiser begins to sing…kinda…
“Vlad Vlad Vlad the Impaler!”

“Huh?”

“It’s a Gwar song. You know, for Vladimir Guerrero.”

HSRZQ
interjection
Definitions: expressing disapproval: used to express contempt, disbelief, disgust, or disappointment ( informal )
[Early 20th century. Partly
The Queen’s example: I say “HSRZQ!” to this new study crapping on all my parenting beliefs.

Temporary tattoos (the dinosaur variety) last exactly 3 weeks and 3 days on an adult arm (the Mom variety).

When your husband says “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you” to your toddler for the first time, you may be simultaneously impressed and kinda creeped out.

A rash decision to get bangs is ALWAYS a bad idea.

Toddlers eating all their meals under the kitchen table isn’t so bad, so long as they eat.

Bragging to friends and family that no, your baby has not bit your nipple with her new teeth is a surefire was to end up with a bitemark on your nipple.

And finally…your children will always behave like angels for their father when you, filled with guilt, steal away for a few hours on the weekend because you’re going crazy.

See you after my midterms!

“He’s Testing us!” “He’s testing us!” I can’t seem to stop thinking about FOOTLOOSE today. Hang on. Hang on. Hear me out.

Count Waffles the Terrible is truly living up to his name. And he’s making the Queen Google “animals that eat their young.” (Not surprisingly I found more articles on parenting than I did actual Discovery channel type stuff)

Exhibit A: That is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on my floor. A vast improvement from yesterday when it was smeared all over the television.

Exhibit B: “Count honey, please stop playing with your broccoli.”
“No Mamma…I want to do this…(makes a throwing gesture)”
“Don’t you dare. Now sit down and use your fork.”
“I don’t want too. (shakes broccoli so little broccoli thingies go everywhere)”
“I said NO. Now you’re making me crazy. Don’t shake your broccoli.”
“I wanna make you crazy Mamma. (Gets off chair, runs around kitchen shaking his broccoli)”

Exhibit C: As I sat down to type this my brother walked in the office to inform me the Count was squirting nasal spray onto the television. You know, where I left him to watch Thomas the freaking Tank Engine while I made myself a drink because I couldn’t take another minute of his Royal badness and retreated to play on the Internet for a few minutes to gather myself.

Exhibit D: I just walked back into the living room to check on the aforementioned squirting and he threw his hands and arm over his eyes. A sure sign he’s been rotten.

Its off to the chair. And he’ll be damn lucky if its not off with his head before the day is out.

My son has taken to calling me “Mamma.” He gets it from his West Virginian father, who to this day when he’s really revved up, has an accent. Unfortunately, no matter how cute they are when they say Mamma, it makes me fell like a very large, very old, black woman or a very skinny, very trailer trash, white woman. I’m not sure which. But either way, I’ve never been crazy about it. Maybe because I’m not southern. Sure, I pretend to be very Scarlett O’Hara…but really I’m as Midwest as they come. Beer drinking, bowling, fish-fry on a Friday night kinda gal. Yes, California living for 6 years now has softened my Canadian accent ( I am from Detroit, eh) and the only time I drink Molson these days is when the Kaiser brings it home as a joke. But my roots are my roots and I’m a “Mumma” NOT a “Mamma.”

What with hockey starting this week and my son’s preference for “Mamma” AND a Detroit-area wedding invitation I got in the mail recently, I’ve been a little homesick. I hesitate to call Michigan home, seeing as I haven’t lived there for 10 years now. But that hand shaped state has been on my mind a lot lately. And its got me wondering where home is for our transient society. Because I’m feeling a lot like a nomad lately.

Not many people live in the communities they were born and raised in anymore. Families are scattered. The Queen Mother is coming in from Florida next week. The Kaiser’s parents are still in WV. Grandfathers are in Kansas City. Brothers are in Germany. I guess home really is where the heart is…but half my heart is in Detroit.

I wonder what the Princess and Count will think of Michigan? Will they see it as they 7th circle of hell, like their father describes? Will they be as fond of the people, and FOOD, and communities as I am? Or will they simply see it as that odd place MAMMA makes us visit once every few years? Where everyone smokes and drinks and hunts and eats and eats and eats.

So as my son yells “Mamma! Mamma!” from the other room right now (the kid has a knack for timing), I think I’ll go call my Dad. We need to pick apart last night’s Red Wing game anyway. And while I’m at it I’ll put him on the phone with the Count…and have him say “Mumma” and “ha-aaaah-key” to him for awhile. Just in case.