Queen of Spain Blog

As I type tonight, I’m eating a Weight Watcher ice cream cone. You know-the 2 point ones that make you poop. (yes, more poop talk) And when I’m through I’ll probably go forage for another low point treat, despite the fact that its after 10pm and the Princess is happily camped on my left “nursings.” She is more than slightly annoyed with me everytime I precariously dangle her from one arm while she latches on like I’m pulling her from her last meal and trudge down the hall, yet again, to the fridge. At least, by now, Houseboy (my brother) has gone to bed and I’ll only be flashing the Kaiser with the top of my boob (not to mention the gut hanging out the now uncovered waistline—oooh so sexy, its really a wonder the Kaiser doesn’t jump me more often) as I head for more food.

My poor brother is really sick of seeing soooo much of his sister’s breasts. Truthfully, he never sees much. 19 months of nursing the Count and 6 months and counting with Princess Peanut has made me pretty proficient. But a flash of skin here and a lost latch on there has really taken its toll on 26-year old, single Houseboy.

Not too long ago he was talking to a buddy on the phone and I hear:
“Dude, I see my sister’s boobs ALL the time.”
long pause in him talking
“No, its not sick…dude…Dude…DUDE…she’s breastfeeding.”
And then, to my shock and amazement I hear him tell his friend all the great things about breastfeeding. Huh. Guess he actually does listen sometimes…but anyway…back to me eating…

I nearly threw my WW book out the window today over chicken nuggets. I’ve been eating AAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL day. I was working on Flex points by 2pm. It was sad. I made the Count dinner during the hockey game (hooray! hockey’s back!) thinking I’d be too distracted by my Stevie Yzerman’s cutie patootie face (and the new rule changes, of course) to think about Count Waffle’s leftover nuggets. No such luck. Commercial = eat a half of a nugget, tell myself it doesn’t count as a point. Stoppage in play = the other half, this time with the ketchup. By the end of the first period I had polished off 6 nuggets. I sat on the couch for what seemed like an eternity debating if I would count the nuggets in my daily points. Plus what had to be a tablespoon of ketchup. I’m counting them. Screw it, the box is in the garbage anyway, I’m not counting them. No…wait…I’m counting them. But I really don’t want to. But I should. Oh, just today I won’t. No, I said that last week with that cobbler, I have to count them. No…don’t be stupid…just forget about it. And so on. And so on.

By overtime I had fished the box out of the trash, calculated 6 f’in nuggets plus the goddamn ketchup. And I will now go trudge the hall again…maybe this time for some cherry tomatoes and 2 points worth of low fat dressing. Hope the Princess is ready for another trip.

I’m used to it. The Kaiser is used to it. Getting pooped on is nothing new for us really. And Princess Peanut tends to poop OUT her diaper a lot. But she had yet to get her brother…until today. Now that she’s crawling, she’s crawling to HIM. A lot. And finally, she crawled on him during an unfortunate moment for the Count. Wow. A lot of poop talk lately, huh?

Count Waffles took it well. “Yuk…Mommy, wanna wipe my hand?” And that was that. Whew. Seriously, though. How can you be mad at that sweet face???

I took the kids to story time at the local library last night. Both in their PJ’s. Both looking so cute you want to just gobble them up. Lucky for the Count, the night’s featured reading was “Where the Wild Things Are”–a favorite in this house. We actually had to stop reading it at bedtime here for awhile because everytime the “wild rumpus” would begin, the Count would rumpus himself into a little tizzy and not calm down for bedtime.

So the storylady, complete with her apron (why do they always have aprons?) and puppets and felt board began the rumpus and both my kids were intent listeners. (well, as intent as the royal family can be at this age)

…and that night a forest grew…and grew…and grew
Sniff. Sniff. Hmmm….I smell poop. Its a room full of kids…can’t be mine, can it??

…and he sailed in and out of weeks, and almost over a year
Sniff Sniff the Princess’s butt…nothing there. Sniff Sniff the Count’s butt…nothing there.

…Let the Wild Rumpus Begin!
I kid you not…nearly every mother in the place starts butt sniffing. Babies are being lifted and sniffed. Toddlers sniffed. Kindergarteners sniffed. As if on cue, it was wild kingdom during the wild rumpus. Butt sniffing galore.

Now I don’t have to tell you that in every crowd such as this, there are those kids. You know what I’m talking about. The ones acting up. The ones in the middle of the group waving their little matts in the air and smacking their neighbor with them. They are talking during the story. They are shoving during the story. They get up and look around during the story. And despite every eye in the group on them…no Mom or Dad or authority figure seemingly insight to say “Timmy, sit down honey” or “come sit by Mommy if you can’t sit on the matt.”

Admittedly, I live in an upscale town. Soccer Moms. SUV’s. Boutiques. Trophy wives, etc. There are days I love this fact. There are days I loath this fact. Today, I’m loathing.

You see, the poop smell was coming directly from the crowd going parentally unchecked. Every Mom/Dad in the place has sniffed their kids butt…except for that middle of the matt crowd causing all the storytime trouble. So now Moms/Dads are catching eachother’s eyes. We all KNOW where the poop smell is coming from, and not one of us is surprised. So we all start looking for their parents. Now, I had ALREADY looked for their parents when little Timmy started smacking the girl next to him with his matt. I saw nothing. But that was because, silly me, I didn’t check the hallway. Where…if you looked OUT the door to the storytime room, you could see two women chatting it up. Both donned in designer sweat suits. Yes…they have those…and they are $220 just for the pants. Both with makeup done. Both tanned. Both with hair done (note to self, extensions on 30+ year old women look ridiculous) Both with bling out their asses. (the tacky kind) Both with their stainless steel travel coffee mugs that are permanently attached to their hands. And both not paying one tiny bit of attention to the storytime in which they dumped their children.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that every so often I like to indulge in the farce that I am, in fact, one of these women. I want my hair to always be done. In reality it rarely gets brushed. I want my nails and makeup and clothes perfect. In reality my sweats have holes in them or are covered in toddler boogers, I sometimes put on concealer, and I haven’t had a pedicure since June. And while I have my share of bling, courtesy of the Kaiser, its nothing compared to the boulders upon boulders these women sport. So why I even think about keeping up with the Jones’ is beyond me. They are rude. They don’t give two shits about their kids, and they seem to care more about their image than any 15 year old girl.

Storytime continues with the smell of poop in the air. Max finally returns to his hot supper and the kids get up to color little monsters. I’ve got my eye on the middle of the matt group…and wouldn’t you know it…little Trevor-as we find out his name is– makes his way to his Britney wannabe of a Mom standing now in the back of the room. He’s picking his butt.

“TREVOR! NOW WE HAVE TO LEAVE….UH, I SWEAR!”

Poor little Trevor looks mortified.

“Sorry Amy, Trevor pooped his pants and now we have to leave…I’ll just talk to you Sunday at church! Now go get your sister and tell her we have to leave because you pooped your pants!”

I feel so bad for Trevor. I feel so bad for ALL the Trevors in this town. Hrumph. Such is life in surburbia.

There are days when everything is so close to perfect you just can’t help but think how lucky you are. Today, my little royal heirs played together. I know that may not seem like a big deal. But during the time the Count allowed the Princess to hold his new Shimmer toy and showed her how it “hang a hong like dis babee hawa” (sang a song like this, baby hala) my heart was so filled with love for these little creatures that it nearly burst. Sometimes…too often really…I forget to catch those moments. And today I’m thankful I was paying attention.

I’ve had much anxiety lately. Not that its unusual for me to have anxiety over things, but lets just say I’ve had more anxiety than normal these days. I, of course, blame the media. (ok, for those who don’t know, that’s a really big joke on my part) I spent most of yesterday talking to a friend who isn’t sure if she’s sending her daughter to preschool this morning. Her daughter is 6 weeks older than the Count. One of my friend’s reasons for sending her two days a week was “because by the next class, when they are 3, they already have cliques and stuff and they can be so mean to newcomers. ” Ok, hang on here. What???????

CLIQUES in PRESCHOOL??? Is she serious? As if I wasn’t having a enough trouble because of THIS new study, now I hear there is a popular crowd at Little Shepherd’s Nursery School? What is going on here? The Count isn’t potty trained yet. He CAN’T go to preschool. We don’t have a spot for this year anyway (yup, one-two year waiting list in this town). Not to mention the fact that I think dropping your 2 year old off at preschool is too early. But seriously, I now have to worry once he does go, he’ll not be accepted? Will he be the guy in black with the cigarette in the corner? Will he be on the jungle gym alone with his pocket protector? F’in shoot me now, because the anxiety grows by the day. And its over things I would have NEVER of dreamed of.

You know the old saying about kids…and what they say…and shucks if its not just the darned cutest thing….well check out my little Count Waffles…

Queen: “Count…time for bed honey”
Count: (hugging the Queen) “Mommy, you stinky”
Queen: “Stinky, really?? I’m stinky where??” (sniffing my shirt, which had a blob of Princess Peanut puke on the shoulder where the Count hugged)
Count: “Down THERE Mommy” (pointing..you guessed it)
…Sigh

I really want to write about the 5 hellish hours spent at the mall this weekend with a 2-year-old sans nap, two parents with dilated pupils, and a LOUD 5 month old. But I’ll spare you. It was a so horrific I think I’ve blocked most of it out anyway.

Instead, please join me in reliving that scene in Parenthood, where the cute little blonde boy sticks the bucket on his head and rams things. You see, I’ve always known I’d have a kid that did stuff like that. In fact, I’ve said it outloud to friends and family many times …”you know the kid with the bucket on his head…that will be my kid.” But life is funny.

I never thought it would be my daughter.

HRH Princess Peanut is now mobile. And she thoroughly enjoys her reflection in the television and entertainment cabinet. So much so, that she continually rams her head into said reflection. There seems to be no learning process here. No ram once, ouch, ram twice ouch, maybe I won’t ram a third time. Nope. Not my little girl. She will, if allowed, ram her head for 30 minutes straight until I pull her, screaming for more, away from her reflection.

Right or wrong, I expect this more from a boy. And am somewhat disappointed in her. The Kaiser, who actually called me into the family room laughing the other day to witness one of her first 10 minute head ramming episodes, seems to think nothing is askew here. And, in my sane world, I know this is fine. Normal, even. But then there is Crazy Queen. CQ wonders why she’s doing it…if its the start of head ramming child who will need mass therapy by age 4…and isn’t this more of a boy thing? only boys do this…not girls….etc. etc. etc. Poor Princess. Poor poor Princess. I apologize now for driving you crazy with my expectations. I’ll only be slightly disappointed if you are not the first woman President.

My brother’s girlfriend is over today. And the Notre Dame, Michigan State game is on. I’ve spent 2 quarters attempting to explain to her things like “offsides” “holding” and what it is to know and love my family on a Saturday during college football season. I can see that look in her eyes. She thinks we’re crazy. And I’m starting to wonder if she’s right.

I am a girl who loves sports. I watch them. I used to play them. I am pretty knowledgeable about most of them. I love hockey. I love Notre Dame football. I can tell you why Peter Forsberg can lick me and I could school you in a game of horse. But I’m starting to feel rather *alone* in my girly world of athletics. Yes, I do have other girlfriends who share my world. Sarah, for instance, is an NFL fanatic. The maid of honor at my wedding still plays softball/volleyball/bowls, etc. in regular leagues. But they are, sadly, the only few other women I know who can even, on a small level, relate.

In part, I know sports because of where I grew up and how I grew up. The suburbs of Detroit meant hockey, bowling, college football, and even a Tigers game here and there. The ponds froze around January and you laced up. Girl or not. My Dad BUILT a rink in our backyard every winter. In the Fall, I played football at the park with the guys. Summer’s meant one sports camp or another, followed by endless games of basketball in the backyard. I was a varsity basketball player as a freshman in High School and named Chairman of the Boards by the University of Michigan girl’s basketball camp. My Dad played hockey on Sundays and Thursdays. Bowled on Fridays and Softball on Saturdays. My brother earned a full ride scholarship for baseball to Eastern Michigan University. For my sweet 16 birthday I was given, as my BIG gift, an autographed Steve Yzerman Red Wings jersey. That was at 16. I never thought this was out of the ordinary. I never questioned it.

To be really, really fair…my Dad may or maynot (depending on who is reading this) have maybe of wagered some money on college/professional sports while I was a child. I may, or may not, have answered the phone at age 8 and given grown men the line on the days games. The over. The under. And I may or may not have said to my Dad on more than one occasion “Bernie wants $50 on the Lions and the Under.”

So maybe, just maybe, I know more than I should about sports. This helped me with the guys. I am pretty sure I had at least three boyfriends that dated me simply because I could keep score in the dugout during their Friday night bar league softball game.

But its days like today, with poor, confused Houseboy’s girlfriend looking at me blankly when I tell her NOT to RSVP to a party on a Saturday for both her and my brother if ND is playing that day…that I wonder if I’m just a little strange and I need even more pink clothes.