A love letter to my daughter...

Dear Angel,

Having a baby is a weird and wonderful thing. You wait for nearly a year, imagining just how you'll react when your little one arrives, and then of course, it's nothing like you imagined. I loved you instantly, but on instinct. After all, you were a complete stranger to me. You with your wide unblinking eyes, bald-patched head, and wrinkled skin. You were more like a little alien than a person I could understand.

And so we began our journey, you and me, sleepless night by sleepless night, one exhausted day after the next. You rooting around my chest like a nearsighted mole, and me singing every song I could think of more times than I could count. Those were some long, fuzzy days, and not much fun for either of us I imagine. It's funny how no one tells stories of the first two months of life, and I thought perhaps it's because parenting isn't all it's cracked up to be, and then....

you smiled at me.

The most perfect smile I've ever seen. In that instant I knew, in the upturned corners of your tiny mouth, what all the fuss was about. You knew me, you knew I was your mother, and despite how bumbling my attempt, you were happy I was yours.
But little one, not nearly as happy am I was that you are mine.

Sometimes I feel sorry for your father, for my father, for every man who will never see you in the moonlight as you look up, milk-drunk but still eating, with a half-grin of recognition and, I could swear, gratitude on your sweet face. Of course, I don't feel sorry enough to trade places with them, with anyone. I'm selfish but I don't want to miss a single one of your smiles, your squeals, or your giggles. And I don't want you to love any one as much as you love me.

I guess that's the curse of motherhood. I can love you with all my heart, but in the end I have to share. Not right now though. Right now, I am the center of your universe, your very favorite person, and I will enjoy every single moment at the top.

Because I know it can't always be this way with you and me singing and playing and laughing just to laugh. One day you'll crawl and then you'll walk, you'll run and then you'll fly. And though I won't always be the center of your universe, don't worry my darling, because you will always be the center of mine.


Love always,
Mom

Guess How Much I Love You

Folks are always talking about how they love their children so much they'd get run over by a train for them....or something similarly quixotic and unlikely. Since the chances of anyone ever holding Mini Q over the tracks are pretty slim, I've been thinking of ways to express how much I love my little peanut....

So Mini Queenie.... I LOVE YOU ENOUGH....

...to interrupt my beauty sleep at 2 am...and 4am...and 6am

...to stop after only ONE glass of wine

...to give up on bikini season (forever)

...to pause General Hospital if you wake up from your nap

...to retire all my designer shirts until further notice

...to spend my shoe money on diapers

...to eat every meal one-handed, rocking back and forth, standing at the kitchen counter

...to finally get breasts... and then keep them covered up

...to never again in my life make a plan that isn't subject to the state of your mood (or diaper, or stomach, or sleep schedule)

...to wear only stud earrings and leave all necklaces in my jewelry box

...to replace at least half the pictures of me with pictures of you and me


Oh the sacrifices of motherhood....why did no one warn me!

And even after all this, at age 12 she's still gonna think I've ruined her life!!

Introducing Mini Queenie!!

Well isn't she just the PRETTIEST thing you ever-did see? (and the best accessorized at that!) Of course she is, but did you have any doubt she would be? I remind her everyday that she is indeed the prettiest little thing on earth and as such she has a responsibility to also be the the best-behaved, least-fussy child, so as to keep her Mommy pretty as well.

Cause I mean to tell you, this sleep deprivation is for the birds! I know y'all think I am naturally this good-lookin', and generally yes I am, but I do require a certain amount of beauty sleep to maintain my radiant glow, and of course my cheerful disposition;-) Heretofore, I have gotten about 9-10 hours of sleep per night, so you can imagine my surprise when I am awakened every few hours by a near-blind mole rootin' around for my nipples! And I have tried to reason with the child, but unsurprisingly, Mini Q cares not for what I say and will have everything only on her own schedule.

This began in utero when the child decided she was ready to be out, despite the weeks she had time left to cook. In fact, she was such a busy-body that she forced the doctors to push her out 3 weeks early so she could see what was goin' on out here in the world. I personally think she wanted to come early because January has a better birth stone than February and she was thinkin of our jewelry boxes. Nevermind that her baby shower was scheduled for that weekend, she decided it was time and she shot on outta there. Silly child doesn't know that we do not ever interrupt events where we get presents or cake- let alone both- but I reckon she got them all in the end anyway, the spoiled brat.

However, since she did insist upon having her arrival in a controlled manner, Mommy did get to put on her make-up and blow out her hair. The nurse looked at me like I was plum crazy touchin' up my foundation in the delivery room bathroom, I.V. pole draggin behind me, but honey I am not gonna be captured for all eternity without my face on if I can help it! I will say the one favor Mini Q did for me was to come out in a hurry. I mean I only had to push 3 times, didn't even break a sweat, which you can see in the photos as my mascara is not runnin' down my face!

But lorda mercy I wish someone had told me about the afterward! You got folks running in the room to clean up the baby, your family tryin to talk to you while your hoo-ha's split wide open under a spotlight, and they have just handed you some slippery little alien you aren't sure you should even touch, let alone take home with you! And then you got all kinds a stuff happenin' to your down-there, and ain't none if it fun. That this goes on for weeks afterward, someone might have mentioned! So now you're still too fat for your clothes, you got stuff shootin' out your nipples, you haven't slept in days, and you have a maxi-pad the size of Rhode Island between your legs -- where you never want anyone to visit again!

And the perpetrator of this assault on your body just stares up at you with large unfocused eyes, smellin' like the sweetest little piece a heaven, and you can't do nothin' but smile and snuggle her up. I swear if I haven't kissed this child's hair near-bout off her head! So much for reparations for my discomfort. It's clear that Mini Q will not be having anything close to discipline any time soon.

But that's what happens when you're the prettiest... I haven't gotten myself in trouble in years either;-)

Bon Bons and Babies!

I mean to tell you, this baby nonsense takes too long! Next time I have me one of these I'm buyin' the pre-cooked variety, like my mother tried to do with the Thanksgiving turkey. (She was guilted into cookin' the thing from scratch but I will not be so foolish.) Look at all the babies in the world that need good homes. Over in Asia they practically give them away! And anyway, having a baby the same color as you is sooo passe, just ask Angelina.

About the only reasons I can figure why women, after all this time and all these medical developments, continue to blow themselves up like the Macy's blimps are...the presents!

I mean to tell you, baby-havin' is a gift bonanza if I have ever seen one. Now your friend Queenie may not know much about birthin' no babies, but I do know about openin' some presents. I have cleverly arranged to have this kid right about 2 years from the time of my weddin', givin folks juuust enough time to forget that I squeezed 3 showers and a wedding gift outta them in the span of about 3 months.

So my very dear relatives down South threw me the bestest baby shower a Queenan could ever have. Imagine, a room filled with pressies, folks drinking champagne cocktails (though sadly I was not one of them), and instead of silly shower games...BonBons!!!

Can you even imagine an event more perfectly designed for the Queen of Carbohydrates, than a room full of chocolate-shrouded confections?

Who would have thought such a place exists this side of the Pearly Gates? Well down South there are many places close to heaven, though none so sweet as South 'n France.

Y'all have a look at their website now, they ship these de-lectable bonbons all over creation, but if you're lucky enough to live near them you can have your own BonBon party!! You get to make your own bonbons and take home the tasty treats too!


Pascal and Charlene (is there a more perfect name for a Southern Sweets Diva?) run this precious little paradise in downtown Wilmington, NC. Like all entertaining folks, they have a blog which you should check out for a couple of reasons....firstly, to see that hat she's wearin'- y'all know how I feel about hats- I aspire to wear inappropriately large hats that cause stares as I walk to my church pew. And secondly, there might just be a blog about yours truly (look for post "The More the Merrier")
Look how much fun my grandma had with the surly French chef!




Needless to say, the event was a smashing success and I made off like a bandit with the cutest outfits you've ever seen...of course, none of them fit me, which makes it a little less exciting until I remember that at least I'm ensuring that Mini Q is already a fashion plate! I mean the child ain't even born yet and has 97 pairs of socks. And she won't be walking for another year but has half a dozen pair of shoes! And the hats! Oh the hats! Hats for nearly every outfit! I can't stand it! I figure, if I start her in them from the beginning she might one day actually keep them on her head!!

So all-in-all, pressies and treats...a perfect day!! Many thanks to my wonderful Aunties, Grandmother, and the Queen Mum for making it all happen. I'd mention how they spoil me, but I reckon that goes without sayin'!!

The Order of Things

Now I'm not gettin' on any moral high-horse here, and I really don't care in what order you pass life's milestones, but I am beginning to see some rationale in the marriage-before-baby paradigm. It's not because of any antiquated notions of propriety, or because the church ladies will gossip, or even because the last name issue will be confusing and bothersome. All that crap is crap and your baby will be just as beautiful.

But I am here to tell you, pregnancy is just not the time to try to attract a man. I don't care what bullshit they feed you about pregnant women being sexy, it is just about the least sexy 10 (NOT 9 as they lead you to believe) months of your life.

I guess in the beginning it's not sooo bad, save for the constant nausea, vomiting, aversion to random scents, and general bloated feeling. At least during this time, you could still wear a descent-looking outfit to dinner, were you able to actually sit in a restaurant without running for the ladies' room every 5 minutes. Of course during this point you can't so much as have a glass of wine, so the idea of going on a date, even with someone you previously liked, lacks any real enjoyment factor.

In a few months, you just look chubby and haven't a single thing to wear. Let me tell you those maternity jeans, what a joke. Since the whole damn waistband is elastic, you can't hardly walk half a block before the denim seam is half-way down your ass and the crotch is between your knees. I paid a small fortune for a pair of designer maternity jeans and have to walk around with one hand holdin' up the seat of my pants, like a pot-bellied rap star.

And in the last few months, lord-a mercy, now there's a time to have a ring on your finger if ever there was one. Here I am, the size of a baby orca waiting to be harpooned by a near-sighted fisherman. My down-there must look like the Amazonian rain forest, though since I haven't seen it in months I can't give you an accurate description. My breast are leaking, I haven't had a good B.M. in months, and I'm pretty sure I have a hem-mo-roid. Trust me when I tell you that no one would have sex with me right now that was not legally obligated to do so.Hence the idea that one be married before one gets knocked-up seems the more intelligent choice at this point.

I mean, let's be honest, would you hang around to pry the shoes off the swollen feet of a snowman-shaped emotional basket case with an unreasonable fondness for chocolate sauce, which has no hope of being used in any sexual exploit in the foreseeable future? Only if it was too expensive to leave her. Thusly, friends, you best get somethin' in writin' before you embark down the balloon-shaped path ending in what must be the least sexy presentation of your Hoo-Ha that he will ever not want to see again.

God bless Sweetpotato, and God bless the New York Giants for giving him something to live for in the otherwise hormonally-overcharged, emotionally-unpredictable environment which is our home.

Fashion Resolutions

Happy New Year friends! We're another year older, but judging from the mess I see out on the streets, we're not a heck of a lot wiser. I just don't understand how year and after year, folks can keep committing the same fashion crimes. Have you not picked up a magazine since the Reagan administration?


So let's make a few New Year's Resolutions, shall we? Not those ridiculous "I resolve to go on a diet that ends mid-January and somehow results in the gaining of 5 pounds," resolutions, but resolutions that will actually result in the betterment of society.


Let us resolve to only wear clothes that flatter our figures. This means NOT wearing pants that fall too far below the waist, resulting in the overspill of your muffin top, nor pants that fall too far above the waist, resulting in the ballooning out of your muffin top within the fabric.

Let us resolve to only wear shirts that fall past the waistband of our pants so that there is no flap of skin showing for all the world. I don't care if you do look like Kelly Kapowski (before she got the got the boob job and chunked up for 90210), this is not Saved By the Bell, this is real life, and here in real life, we keep our midriffs covered (mostly because in real life we also don't often look like Kelly Kapowski and more like the muffin from Resolution 1)


Let us resolve to BUY CLOTHES THAT FIT!! If this year, you find that your size 10's no longer button with ease, then carry your happy ass to the store and buy you some 12's! It's alright, it happens. The crime is not in the gaining of the weight so much as in the pretending that you didn't. Even if you intend to lose the weight, and on the off-chance you are among the 5% of the population who might actually do so, you cannot go around in the meantime with your pants pleating horizontally across your thighs as the seams hold on for dear life. You'll feel so much better not having to live with the fear of ripping fabric when you sit down...not to mention the money you'll save on yeast infection cures.


Let us resolve to only wear shoes we can walk in! I don't care how amazing you look standing stalk still, if forward motion makes you look like Bambi On Ice, then get a grip and give up the heels! You can go from Hot to Hot Mess with the turn of an ankle honey, so until you can work a red carpet like Victoria Beckham, learn to look fabulous in flats!

And finally, let us resolve to Be Fabulous Every Day! I'm not sayin' you gotta dress to the nines for a quick trip to Target, but let's give it a little effort shall we? There ain't nothing sayin you can't be fabulous in a track suit (assuming you've followed all the aforementioned rules in the selection of said suit). I just can't stand these women I meet who profess to have all these clothes, shoes, handbags, and jewelry but "just don't have anywhere to wear them." Give me a break honey. Boots were made for walking and if the only place you walk is around the grocery store then wear your boots to the grocery store. Wear your diamonds to the soccer game for god's sake, but wear your damn diamonds! You have 2 choices in life- wait around for someone to take you some place fabulous, or bring the fabulous with you to some place! It's completely fine to be the best dressed person in Denny's, but it is completely unacceptable to be the worst (I mean, it's Denny's, the bar ain't set too high). And for goodness sake, put your face on before you leave the house, or at least draw your eyebrows on. You don't have to wear full-on warpaint but you absolutely cannot be fabulous without eyebrows.

If we all work together, we make a difference in 2009!
xoxox,
Q

Baby On Board

Well friends, I've got some big news...about 8lbs. of news to be exact. That's right, Sweetpotato and I are having our very first TATER TOT!!

Couldn't you just die!? Lord knows the combination of our genes will certainly produce the most delightful little specimen of humanity ever, but there's more...

The baby is a MINI QUEENIE!!! Now you can die AND go right to heaven, cantcha? I mean 'bout the only thing better than a world full of Queenie is, well, a world full of 2 Queenies. I had always meant to wait for the the big surprise, you know the moment the doctor catches the little thing and proclaims, "It's a Girl!" But then I got to thinkin', what if it's not a girl? What if, in some crazy twist of fate the universe slips from its axis and I give birth to a Y-chromosome?! ** Now this, is not to say that those of you who have little Y-chromosomes runnin around your house aren't happy as clams, and I do intend to have a little football playing mongral for Sweetpotato one day, but I have always intended to have a daughter first and I felt that if the universe had gone and screwed up my plans, I should be prepared! I mean, I have routines to choreograph and tap shoes to buy. The Queen Mum has already taken all my old sequin-covered recital costumes out of the attic, and just as soon as she can walk, the little one will be in dance classes just a tappin away! My grand plan is to pop out a few of these lil Taters, teach them all some song and dance routines, and take my show on the road! By god, I'm gonna revive the Vaudeville if it's the last thing I do...just call me Mama Rose!

Alas, all is right with the world and in early February, I am going to bestow upon the world one perfect lil' girl with one very large attitude.

How do I know she has an attitude? The obvious genetic predisposition not withstanding, this fetus has refused to cooperate for even a single instance since her conception. As I lay on the doctor's table, belly covered in blue goo and trying desperately to identify any of the organs the technician is pointing to on a screen of fuzzy grey blobs, the only thing that seems clear is that the baby is not cooperating. So they roll me and poke me and try to coax the child to turn over or uncross her legs or move her hand so we can measure her face, and she ain't having none of it. She keeps those legs locked and her face covered. I was afraid she might be shy but then I realized that she's just not ready to be seen. I mean, her momma don't go out the house without her face on and here this child's face isn't fully formed! She's certainly not posing for pictures with eyes out of place.....who know vanity was genetic?

Since then, she has proceeded to be the most disruptive house guest I've ever had. I can't hardly roll one way before she's rollin' the other, and no seated position pleases her Mini Highness. What does please her, are long bouts of jumping followed by kicking, followed by trampolining on my bladder, only at bedtime of course, unless I'm in a movie theater, restaurant, or meeting room where it might also be uncomfortable and distracting. I mean I know she's just practicing her ballet, but really, it's not workin' for me. No matter, I'm keeping a list of all the sacrifices I've made for Mini Q, of which I shall remind her daily when she is of a sufficient age to feel guilt and remorse.

Number 1 on the list....the abstention from alcohol. Now I'm not sure that this quite qualifies me for sainthood, but surviving a holiday season without booze and without alienating half my friends and family deserves some sort of recognition, to be sure. I mean, I haven't had mimosa in 8 months, and it's near to the point where I'm finding plain orange juice actually refreshing! Hell, by the time you cut out every "unrecommended" beverage, it's basically water or water and my insides are just about to rust from all that mountain spring goodness.

Alright, I'll stop my moanin', it's not that I'm not pleased as punch to be carrying this little bundle, but I didn't want y'all to think pregnancy had culled my complaining and turned me into one of those goo-goo-eyed mommies who days were filled with chirping birds and rays of sunshine. No, no, friends, I'm still hearing sirens and seeing fashion faux pas, just now from a much WIDER perspective;-)

New Year's Eve- can't be bothered

So about now, I expect all y'all are beginning your preparations for this evening's festivities: painting your nails, buffing your feet, beating your hair into some semblance of an up-do, and sausaging your bunnies into double-ply spandex in hopes of hiding the bulges in last years party dress. Well that's what I would be doing if I were participating in New Year's Eve.

But I am not. I have called it all off. Obviously I can't stop the clock from ticking and I will even attempt to remain conscious until midnight, at which point I will nudge Sweetpotato, surely snoring on the couch beside me, we will kiss, toast a glass of over-priced champagne, and quickly call it a night.

It's not that I don't appreciate Auld Lang Syne and all that end-of-year sentiment, but honey, New Year's Eve has got to be be the most over-blown holiday, or maybe tied with Valentine's Day. Billed as the most romantic nights of the year, both holidays have been created to bring maximum disappointment to women everywhere. Think about it- in both cases a single day is built up to the point where anything short of a prince on a white steed whisking you to a land far, far away is considered a failure.

Given the unfairytale-like nature of real life, there are only 3 possibly outcomes for a woman on New Year's Eve:

Option number 1... the evening ends in tears because Prince Charming never arrived.

Option number 2... the evening ends too drunk to do anything but throw up and pass out.

Or the most common ending is a hybrid of options 1 and 2 whereby the evening ends in tears because Prince Charming arrived but is too drunk to do anything but throw up and pass out. In option 3, no matter how poorly the evening ends, the morning to follow is ten times worse with more tears, more headaches, and most assuredly, more vomiting.

There simply are no "When Harry Met Sally" scenes, where men run through the streets and burst into the glamorous gala (where you're conveniently beside the door looking fabulous) to profess their undying love. The most you can hope for is a fumbling grope and a slurry attempt at a compliment as you help him into the cab.

Dress it up any way you like, but the new year will still begin hung over a toilet, bad dancing on filthy bars, sobbing confessions in bathroom stalls, professions of love to total strangers, and other cringe-worthy visions dancing in your throbbing head.

But go on with your plans for a fabulous night on the town, honey. Queenie will be waiting for you in the morning with open ears and unsympathetic tongue.

For my Mother...The NAG

My lord if that woman won't get off my behind! It's a good thing my backside has spread enough to accommodate my mother and her incessant nagging. She has been on me like a rat on a Cheeto to blog and I just can't take it anymore! Of course this is why she continues to "remind", for the rare moments when one of her children are actually nagged into submission. My brothers, having developed male-pattern deafness at a remarkably early age, are never at risk of caving to any requests, no matter how often repeated. My sister is lost in a cloud of teenage-dom that basically requires disobedience to any direct request. Leaving me, the farthest away and yet the only one who occasionally listens. One more instance of my overall perfection... but I digress.

So I know I'm neglecting y'all, and I'm real sorry but it simply can't be helped. Apparently when folks pay you to work for them, there is an expectation that you will use your hours of employ to accomplish tasks related to said folks. As the beginning of my auspicious career consisted mainly of finding ways to amuse myself on the Internet in between manicures, you can imagine the shock my system received when I realized I was runnin' the damn place and had a nigh-on a full day's work to do! Let me tell you, my fingernails are in a sad state and I fear my cuticles may never recover.

It's not that I don't think of you often. In fact, every morning on the subway I encounter some fashion tragedy, social retardation, or general stupidity and I think, "Queenie, you've got to post 'fore these fools get out of hand." And yet everyday between the subject of my disdain and power button of my computer lies a passel of problems so pressing I can't hardly check my horoscope before I gotta start savin' the world.

I do have lots to tell y'all and of course my list of complaints is miles long at this point- sufficed to say that no folks be actin right, including my damn dog who now sleeps with her head on the pillow between us like a full-out human. My hubby still puts the "sweet" in Sweetpotato, but lorda mercy if he can't find the laundry hamper with both hands and a flashlight! Someone has deemed the empire waist so last season I can't hardly find anything to cover my ass, and football has once again ruined my park-strolling plans for fall. It is a wonder I even get out of bed in the morning.

So here you are Mother.... 6 months to think and not a single nice thing to say. I might be worried about my psyche, if I could be bothered.

Cupcake Fairy

So yesterday I was just in the most foul mood, reasons unclear but hardly important anyways. And just as I'm explaining to someone how I'm on the brink of really havin' a meltdown, the clouds part, the office door opens, and there stands a delivery man holding a half-dozen cupcakes with my name on them! And suddenly, all is right with the world.

I just can't express the mood elevation powers of a well-baked cupcake with perfectly swirled icing on top. It used to be just chocolate, but now any sweet treat can just shut off my bitch switch in a second (Sweetpotato wishes someone had explained this to him 4 years ago, poor spud).

Who is this mysterious Cupcake Fairy? That it's a woman goes without saying right? I mean a Y-chromosome could never pull off such a clever trick, nor do the Y's fully appreciate how a sugar rush can change the course of your existence. I mean, there's just about nothin' the right combination of sugar and lard can't cure.

Now the truly remarkable thing about this Cupcake Fairy, is that she's British, which means that she managed to have my favorite cupcakes from my favorite bakery delivered at just the moment I was about to snap off someone's head, and she did it all from another continent! And yet, I can't get my Chinese food delivered with a pair of chopsticks from 5 blocks away. This only proves that most people are morons, but the Cupcake Fairy is a genius.

So the lesson we've learned today kids? Cupcakes cure many ills, and if you have a particularly foul-mooded co-worker, I'd say a session in the kitchen is in order. Of course my favorite recipe remains Strawberry Cake (which of course makes perfect Strawberry cupcakes), and you can find it in my lil recipe book. And if by some miracle you don't have any bitchy co-workers, most likely indicating that you work from home, take this time to practice these cupcakes for any upcoming birthdays. Someone might be havin' one in 5 days and 45 minutes and 30 seconds...approximately.

And thank you, Cupcake Fairy...you may have saved my life yesterday-- or atleast that of my computer screen. (okay, so the "saved my life" part was a tad dramatic, but the computer screen was in serious jeopardy)