Queen of Spain Blog

I’d like the evil aliens to give me back my son. They, obviously, stole that sweet little boy I know and love and replaced him with a biting, sand throwing maniac.

I took the Count to the park today. Thinking after yesterday’s biting incident he needed to get out of the house. Play with his friends. Breathe some fresh air. Turns out, all he really wanted to do was throw sand and shove people.

Going to the park should not be so exhausting. From the moment he got out of the car all I did was yell. I was, officially, that crazed mother you always see at the park. You know, the one CONSTANTLY yelling at her seemingly bratty child to stop doing some devious action. After about 100 threats I finally made good. He threw sand at his friend, and I told him he had to leave the park. The shrill scream from the sandbox to the car would have made anyone within ear shot call child protective services. And, of course, the Princess had to start crying too. Because she can’t stand to see her beloved Count upset. So here I am, one child whimpering on one hip, the other kicking and screaming, half falling off the other hip. Diaper bag half slung over one shoulder with grocery store receipts and sucker wrappers falling out the entire way. Fumbling to get my keys, trying to yell “sorry” to friends as we left, but not being heard over the emotional bundles on both sides of my body.

Someone, anyone, please tell me this gets better. I’m drowning. F the park.

The babysitter on Oobi right now has a blue mohawk thing going on. Are they trying to be cool, or were there just no other wigs left in the Oobi costume department???

Did anyone else catch the dance-mix version of the Arthur theme song yesterday????

Count Waffles the Terrible bit me. He full on, opened wide in anger, grabbed my arm, and clamped down. I screamed, he cried. Then he took a nap and woke up fresh as a daisy, telling me he loves me and acting as though nothing out of the ordinary happened just a few hours prior.

I realize he’s 2 1/2 years old. I realize he’s a small pandora’s box of emotion and frustration. I realize he’s learning to cope with his overwhelming feelings. But he’s never, ever been that aggressive. And honestly, it scared the hell out of me. Where does that rage come from? Was naptime really, really, really that horrible of an exile? So, naturally, I blamed myself. I didn’t entertain him enough during the first half of the day. I didn’t give him a proper lunch. I didn’t warn him naptime was near. I didn’t…I didn’t…I didn’t.

When the Count woke up, we had a nice talk about what happened before naptime. I even reminded him that not so long ago (last weekend) a donkey bit HIS arm and he was sad. At first, Count Waffles looked at me like I was a lunatic. I asked him to apologize. He declined. I asked him why he bit me. He laughed and spun the wheels on his matchbox car around and around and around. I could feel myself getting angry again. I wanted my 2 year old son to discuss his emotions with me. And obviously he was on the right track when he looked at me like I was nuts. So I step back. I take a deep breath. I realize what a complete disaster of a mother I’m being and I decide to just let it go. Afterall, he was punished, and it was hours ago.

I took out the dinosaur tattoos. And as I pressed the damp sponge on his arm…he reached over and rubbed my arm. The same arm he bit. “I wuv you Mommy…I hug you Mommy…I wuv you Mommy.” The kingdom was peaceful again and I wondered why I ever got so worked up in the first place.

…that actually sit and watch VH1 Classics only to guess which video will come on next??? Oh, and if you can’t think of anything in time you automatically default to the Billy Joel pick.

…that plan days AROUND sporting events???

…that have friends who discuss and debate exactly what constitutes an “Upper Decker” at length??? -most while at work and on the clock…

just wondering outloud here. what can i say, both the count and princess are napping and the house is semi clean.

I know someone, who knows someone, who slept with Carrot Top.

The Kaiser works with a founding member of the Go Go’s AND Dave Andreychuk’s cousin.

Meathead once told me to take folic acid.

Steve Perry once showed up at my former place of work to “learn how a newscast” is put together.

John Salley and Bob Probert both checked me out (on separate occasions) when I was 16-years old.

For a brief time if you googled my professional/maiden name, the search results promised naked pictures of me. It was due to a bit part I had in this popular online short.

I forgot my breast pads last night (and there goes any hope of male readers I might have had) and I’m soaked this morning. When I had my son, the Count, I spent many months wondering why no one ever invented better breast pads and a water (milk) proof nightgown. Wait. Screw nightgown, PJ’s with pants. Anyway, I’ve got that stale milk sexy smell going this morning, complete with those stains that say “we’re stains. we’re by your boobs. we have no real color, just sort of rings around your nipples” and I hear “knock knock knock” on my BACK sliding glass door. ( I called it a “sliding glass door” strictly for the Kaiser. Normally I would say “door wall” and he hates that)

Its my gardener. And I’m pretty sure he hates me. He’s muttering something about me not turning off my sprinklers on Thursday mornings like he asked and now his feet are wet and lady why can’t you just follow simple instructions like I asked you weeks ago because I see you every Thursday morning and all you are doing is slicing oranges and putting a straw in a sippable yogurt for that kid not really making him breakfast while he watches cartoons and you paint your nails and drink coffee. To be fair, he’s really very sweet. I just can’t help but GUESS that’s what he’s thinking. Anyway I explain to him that I thought he only wanted me to turn off the sprinklers that ONE time, not every week. He politely says, no, every week, and goes about his work. Its then I notice that the reason I forgot my breast pads last night is because I had no bra on. And I stand there for a few minutes, wondering if I should actually go back outside (braless) and talk to my gardener MORE to prove to him I’m really not a complete moron/spoiled suburban housewife and I do appreciate the job he does for me and can I get you some of my freshly made starbucks coffee and offer to put your shoes in my dryer or something because I really want you to think I’m nice. Realizing that would not help my cause at all, I just smiled and waved and sat with the Count while he watched him mow. Ug.

I think this would make a great album cover.

Princess Peanut has started to crawl. She’s not even 6 months old yet. She gets on her hands and knees, shakes her butt, and pounces forward. Maybe she watched the cats too much. She seems to accidentally move the knees and hands forward from time to time. But mostly she’s still in cat mode. Wiggle butt. Wiggle butt. LEAP. Today I put her down in the office while I checked email. She was on the other side of the room. 10 minutes later, she was next to my chair, chewing on a cord. (No, it wasn’t plugged in…yes, I’m a horrible mother) Currently she’s gotten from the office door to the Kaiser’s backpack in the middle of the room. She’s making good headway gnawing on the strap. Did I mention she’s also teething? No teeth yet…but she can crawl.
She’s crawling.