Annie Valentine

You know how sometimes you’re sitting with a friend talking about how awesome General Conference was and she says how so many of the talks were on envy and wow that’s really a problem and you think meh I don’t really worry too much about that so you say it out loud and she snorts because she knows you so well?

I love April. Nothing like General Conference to reinforce gravity.

I’m happy enough with my lot. I don’t spend very much time reading about or filching details on what other people are doing/getting/spending because I’m pretty caught up in myself.

‘Cause obviously that’s so much better.

But talking to my girlfriend today she made a really good point. “I didn’t think those talks really applied to me,” she said. “I love my life, it’s not like I spend time wishing I had something else. But then when I heard that message the second time it made me think. By the third time…well, let’s just say I’ve got stuff.”

I was listening to conference in the tub tonight–with the time difference I’m not totally through all the sessions yet–and I got to thinking about what she said. Funny, all I had to do was apply a little brain power and I could think of two good handfuls of crap that I need to work on, just in that one area.

I know the Lord’s intention isn’t to bring all our ugly old sins to our remembrance with conference. Actually I take that back, I think He’s pretty anxious for us to be aware of where we’re slacking or lacking so we can step up and be ready for the Big Day (since that day could potentially be eight months away–according to the Mayans and me–I take His pokes mostly seriously. My church doesn’t actually believe any of that date crap but I like to have my bases covered).

Listening to the Prophet and his apostles speak is my favorite security blanket. Remembering all over again that God has not forgotten us, that He’s still giving us commandments and revelations and solutions to our super unique and often terrifying spin here on Earth settles me. Soothes me. Gives me a really quick look at the eternal perspective and I like it.

With some of the challenges I’m seeing come up fast right now, I needed that extra lift.

I’m not dreading my trials this week, I’m embracing them. It feels really, really good.

Mostly.

With the exception of my mother’s birthday, I’m pretty sure that March is the stupidest month ever. If you add in the train wreck mustache my man is sporting on his face (seriously, I can’t decide if I want to slap him or take him back to the bedroom) what it boils down to is the simple fact that nothing good comes out of March.

Please don’t try to sell me on anything with the word tournament in it or I will poison your computer with a Miley Cyrus Virus. Not that I don’t love a good healthy dose of basketball, but it’s considered madness for a reason.

But the very worst ever thing about March is that even without the excuse of holiday chocolate, it always makes me fatter. And yeah, I said the F-word (the three letter one) because trying to shove myself into my jeans this morning literally made me want to curse.

I am an island of reckless abandonment adrift in a sea of schnitzel and peanut butter chips. Honestly, before moving to Germany I was the world’s best eater outer ever; soup and salad with a big ice water. Now? You only live once and I’m having a secret love affair with all the dead pigs over here in Deutchland. Give me schnitzel with a side order of chubby jeans and I’m a happy frau.

But the insanity has to end. I can’t keep my three pair of leggings laundered fast enough, I’ve got to get back into my wardrobe. Quite frankly, I’m too cheap to go out and try to replace it. The exchange rate alone is forcing me to handle my problems in a more financially responsible manner. I’m cheap and oh-so-vain.

The other thing that’s come up to bite me in the surprisingly rounded tusche is the recent invention of Dr. Pepper 10. Who knew 10 calories could taste so good? It came on sale at the Commissary for 99 cents a case and Jason came home with 15 cases so we could “try it out”.

Enter serious caffeine addiction.

When you pair all these things together what you get is a really grumpy, sugar amped, puffy faced mother who’s got a Costco sized muffin top and is two weeks away from having to wear a bathing suit at the beach.

Today it ended. All of it.

Off sugar, off pop in general, hello whole foods. I have successfully restocked my refrigerator with oodles of smart calorie options that I actually like, downed 65 ounces of water today, and tossed three bags of partially opened chocolate/peanut butter/butterscotch chips.

It’s time to embrace the skinny girl lifestyle again and stop eating like a Clydesdale. Think Arabian; they have super high metabolisms.

I mostly vow, right here and now, to spend the next 15 years following a happy, heart healthy eating style that does not include large daily doses of peanut butter M&M’s (unless I’m at the movies or on vacation), liters of brown pop (except when I’m eating out or having a really bad day), or mass quantities of uncooked cookie dough (not valid on Sunday afternoons).

These extra pounds–the number of which I shall not disclose at this time–are dead meat, baby. They’re gonna melt off my skinny little butt like butter.

Now if I can somehow avoid the two plates of chocolate cookies Mr. Not-So-Wonderful baked tonight while I was out running errands. Did I mention they’re loaded with peanut butter chips? Super rude.

To those of you who are considering the pros and cons of moving four small children and a minivan across the world, I have a few simple pieces of advice. First, if you think you’re smart enough to learn a new language during your free moments between potty training and short order cooking, you’re not.

Second, German locals and police officers take their laws kind of seriously so don’t let the old lady at the end of the street see you talking on your cell phone while driving (this includes your BlueTooth).

And lastly, whatever you do, don’t be stupid and get a dog.

Like most honest hypocrites I like to dish out advice that I have no intention of following. It’s like watching myself ration cookies out to the children and wondering why I don’t apply that same simple calorie counting logic to myself. Where’s my mother when I need her?

Because my husband is quietly persuasive and I’m prone to excitement, I have recently succumbed to the pressure and thrown myself head first onto the current family bandwagon campaign–it’s either that or let them outnumber me. Either way, we’re getting a dog.

On the pro side of things, I know what I’m getting myself into. When I was pregnant with June five years ago we had a darling Goldendoodle puppy. I loved that darn dog more than just about anything. He was gentle and obedient and despite his stiletto addiction (I am still trying to rebuild my collection), he was totally worth the effort. I had no idea how much sweeping I was avoiding until he left us; he was hit by a car and we lost him after a short year. Worst experience ever.

On the flip side, this means I have to potty train someone again. I was hoping that Georgia would be my last. Frankly, I have no intention of even attempting toilet issues with her until she’s old enough to inquire after the flushing mechanism and discuss the pro’s and con’s of bleach tablets.

But getting a puppy means having another kid to train, and that responsibility is all mine. However, we’ll most likely be here half a decade and if we wait until we’re back in the states our boys will miss years of animal husbandry training.

And hey, we need to find some way to move Rex (6) from his stuffed animal fairyland into the land of living, breathing creatures. Getting a dog might convince him that there’s more to life than inanimate objects, even if they are soft and cozy and totally compliant.

Last month we made the shortlist for a litter of mini goldendoodles cooking up in the UK. They’re hard to find and my husband is determined that we need a brown one. It was the first advertised batch that looked like it might fit his high demands so we’ve been waiting with baited breath.

Totally honest? I feel like we’re getting a baby. The mother was due this week and I’ve been walking around nesting and feeling way too many sympathy pains. We’ve been completely convinced that this was it. When the email came today that the puppies were here I did a happy dance all across the kitchen…until I read that none of them were brown females and all of them have gone to other families.

So defeated.

Don’t ask me how I’m going to break it to June that Angelina Cupcake Sparkles Unicorn Rainbow was not, in fact, born this week. I’ll also have to inform Rex that Lisa wasn’t born either. Harrison will have to kiss his visions of throwing the ball to Shelly goodbye for now, and I’m going to have to go ahead and invest in a new mini broom and dustpan.

I was hoping this broom would come with a hypoallergenic coat. No such luck.

When my mom was a young divorced mother with three small kids, she picked up a book at the drug store one day. It was called, “Hurlbut’s Story of the Bible.” Since she grew up religion free and really had no opinion about God or anything associated with Him, she thought it might be an interesting read.

She could not put the book down. It was originally written in the 1030′s and breaks the Bible into a massive collection of stories “written for young and old.” She would read it to her little children during dinner so she didn’t have to eat (yes, I get my obsessive Be Skinny gene from my darling Mama). According to her all three of here kids were completely riveted.

I’ve been hearing this story for years. Two months ago I decided to get online and buy a copy of this old book. It took six weeks to get here and I’ll admit I was quite alarmed at it’s size and weight. The thing could sink a ship (then again so could God so that kind of makes sense).

Last night while my kids were sitting at the table with Jason doing an assortment of pencil related activities, I decided to distract myself from baking brownies by cracking the book open. We ended up reading the first four stories. I’ve got to admit, my kids were actually riveted and had a ton of questions about why Adam and Eve were naked and who the snake was. And the murder of Abel? Total shocker.

Scripture study can be monotonous and wordy with little children, but if you’re looking for a way to bring some of the older stories to life while simultaneously not getting fat, then I highly recommend you get yourself a copy of this fabulous old book.

Just thought I’d thump it a little while I had the chance.

Spring Break. In Europe.

Kill me now.

April is always a stressor for parents because we feel the need to vacation as a family. Living in Europe is like vacationing on crack. Sometimes it feels like if I’m not super gung-ho and slightly hyper about traveling in general I’m failing as an overseas American. It is my duty, on behalf of all the people who would like this opportunity, to get out of my house and see the world.

This kind of pressure routinely sends me back to bed and leads me to avoid certain topics of conversation. I hate feeling like we’ve been sucked into the Amazing Race. Questions like, “So what are you doing for Spring Break?” or “We just got back from France/Poland/Yugoslovia, have you been?” sound super innocent but they always give me hives under my armpits.

Last fall Jason and I decided to use our Time Share to book spring break way in advance. I swear the Time Share is the best invention ever, for a very low fee we usually eek two free weeks at a two bedroom condo plus a number of super cheap deals out of RCI (old, reliable, everywhere).

After all the going and the doing, I feel like we need a relaxing beach vacation. Jason feels like Alexander the Great–he wants to conquer the globe one city at a time. We decided to meet in the middle and booked six days on the coast of Malaga, Spain with an extra four days in Madrid to see the surrounding country side.

The best part about traveling here in Europe is the disgustingly cheap air fare. For about $30 a person you can fly roundtrip all over Europe. You just have to watch the specials.

Since my husband has been spoiled by the Time Share, he can’t seem to overcome the idea that travel should be mostly free. Pair it with super cheap flights and what you get is a dude who waits for the airline to pay us to fly.

We’ve been watching the air fare for five months. Five months and it hasn’t ever been cheap enough for Jason to finalize our plans. Here we are three weeks from the vacation and what do you think has happened? Instead of flying our entire family for about $300, it’s now going to cost us upward of $1600 to get to Spain.

It was a nice idea but thanks to our overly thrifty patience, we have successfully killed the dream.

I won’t go into the multiple lectures I’ve given Jason or the week’s worth of glares and sniffs every time someone around us mentions Spring Break in the Alps/Normandy/Venice. I almost took matters into my own hands until I realized that I hate planning vacations. I am happy to do the packing and the pictures, but excavating the details is more than I want to handle.

Finally last week, while sitting with my girl friends in the movie theater, I got a text from Jason. It said, “Super cheap airfare to Sardinia, and super cheap Time Share there as well. Any thoughts?”

I have no idea what or where Sardinia is. For all I know it’s a back alley two villages over. What I do know is that Spring Break is coming fast and I’ll be body searched before I sit at home and do laundry for ten days of pre-sunshine. “I love Sardinia!” I wrote, “It’s awesome! Book the tickets NOW!!!”

And so, according to Wikipedia we will be spending eight days on the second largest island in the Mediterranean Sea, located off the coast of Italy and butting up with Corsica (we’ll be there for part of our trip). Frankly, I don’t care what happened there. I care that my kids get to spend a week in the sunshine, relaxing and playing without being yanked around from one historic site to another. They’re good sports, but this will be so much fun for them.

I guess sometimes it’s okay to lose the race, especially if running it is giving you blisters.

Deep down we all know the real reason people have children: free child labor.

When we had our first child I knew we were in for a good ten years of crazy before things started to settle down and we could cash in on our investment. We’re nearly nine years into this parenting gig and our three oldest children (8,6,4) are fully enrolled in Learn to Work 101.

Basically that means that I clean everything twice.

I routinely feel like I’m training Curious George. They’re willingish and both my boys have hands and thumbs, but I’ve learned that there are certain things that are better left un-kid-cleaned. Like windows. I’ll take a few greasy finger and lip prints over the sticky swirly mess that my kids happily come up with. They don’t seem to realize that we’re not going for “opaque.”

I’ve decided that one of Harrison’s (8) Saturday chores is cleaning and detailing the car. If you’ve ever seen a vehicle transport that taxi’s small children around you know that all it takes is one 30 minute ride and the car is a crumb coated, plastic wrappered, school papered, hidden sippy cupped mess. And somehow the “no food” rule doesn’t seem to cover the existence of crumbs. I’m pretty sure they load up their pockets and sprinkle remnants of pop tarts and toast around the car just in case we get lost on the way home.

When you teach a kid to clean any large area you have to do it in stages, and the stages have to be stupid simple. When I send Harrison down to the car it’s on a step-by-step basis and he has to get each step cleared before moving on. For instance:

1. Open car doors

2. Climb inside car

3. Remove car seats etc.

Last week I had Harrison working on the car and had just reached step seven, remove rugs from car. “Harrison!” I called, “Are you ready for me to come check?” He threw back an extremely put out, overly grumpy “Yeah,” and I started to head down.

Then I thought, there’s no reason I should get to have all the fun around here, so I turned to Mr. Honeydo himself. One thing about my husband that warrants keeping his last name on my social security card is his rocking personal work ethic. It’s like being married to a bald Martha Stewart, he always gets the job done and usually does it well (unless it’s laundry which he hates).

“Hey Sweetheart,” I said, using our favorite now-I’m-going-to-ask-you-something-you-really-don’t-want-to-hear term of endearment, “Why don’t you go down and check on Harrison and the car, just give him the next step.”

He shrugged and set aside the large stack of cardboard boxes he was collapsing (because he rocks) then tromped down to the garage.

Five minutes later I walked into the office and found Harrison playing computer games.

“What?! Why are you here? There’s no way you finished that car already!”

“Oh,” he said, “Dad said I didn’t have to.” He smiled and I stomped down to the garage in a huff.

“Jason! What are you doing down here?” I yelled over the roar of the vacuum.

“Oh,” he said turning it off, “I’m just detailing the car.”

“But that’s Harrison’s job!”

“I know, but he’s horrible at it. I figured it would just be faster if I did it myself,” he said, flipping the switch back on and promptly ignoring me.

I almost pulled the plug and threw a fit, but we all know that the only thing harder than teaching your kids something is teaching your husband. When it comes down to it, I guess I don’t care how the car gets cleaned as long as long as I’m not the one who has to do it.

Harrison is eight. This is the age that discussion about having The Discussion is a regular topic of conversation among mothers and fathers.

It’s funny how differently people view having the sex talk with a kid. The when, the how, the if, I’m pretty sure it’s a major case of stress for any parent who considers virtue and wholesomeness highly credible attributes in young children. Sex is both the most virtuous and the least virtuous topic out there, depending upon your situation and how you decide to approach it.

Personally, I was raised on a farm. If I ever ventured into questions about creation in general my parents always suggested I take a walk in the field and observe the cattle. It wasn’t the worst way to learn about the birds and the bees, but I was practically 24 before I realized that humans did it too. A little more up front would have been helpful.

Lately one of my besties has been heavily debating the when and how to tell her daughter. She went with one of the How To Break it to Your Kid books and did the whole Special Secret, Special Hug, Special Naked bit that’s so highly suggested.

I think that method is great and wholly support parents who implement it. At the same time, I believe there is no single right way to talk to a kid about sex, and in fact I’d propose that the method should fit the child. Harrison is of an age where some kids are ready to hear a more mature description of the what-why-and-how, but both Jason and I feel like it’s not his season.

But there’s nothing like peer pressure to light a fire under a parent, if you know what I mean.

A few weeks ago I decided that perhaps it’s time to open the channels, if you will. Not fire hose the kid down, but just see if there’s any water pressure. Isn’t it funny how once we mentally entertain an idea, especially if you don’t force the issue, a moment will present itself that’s custom ordered.

Harry and I were cleaning one of the many messy rooms in my house not long after this and I had the thought that I should just casually ask him what he knows/thinks/has heard about s-e-x.

Being the total wuss that I apparently am, I dismissed it and continued on with my chore, choosing instead to probe his mind on what makes Super Mario so super.

An hour later the thought came to me again. Since I’m not completely dim witted I went ahead and casually blurted out, “So Harrison, have you heard anything about sex?” Yeah, I’m super sneaky and all kinds of prepared.

“What?!” he said, blushing scarlet. “No!” He quickly turned away and made himself busy arranging toys.

“No problem,” I said, “But just so you know, you can always just ask Dad or me if you’ve ever got any questions, or if someone says something that makes you uncomfortable. We know everything.” The room was opressively silent and I kind of wondered if I had just destroyed his innocence in one fell swoop.

“Actually,” he finally said, “There is a kid on the bus who’s always talking about…things.” Can I get a phew? This led to an awesome conversation about appropriate topics and how to handle situations where kids are being rude and crude. Options included moving, reading a book, listening to an ipod or some other music source, and always saying “please don’t talk about that,” even if they ignore your request.

Two days later Harrison came home from the bus really upset. “Buddy,” I said, “What’s up with you? Did something happen on the bus?”

“Yes!” he said and walked over to whisper in a super secret way, “Benjamin was talking on the bus…about…this (insert rapidly waving hand in front of chest)….and this (more rapid hand waving in front of zipper)….!”

I was so glad we had opened the channels of communication, and I’m glad that we didn’t tell him more than he needs to know. After asking a few carefully selected questions, I realized that he doesn’t want to know about sex, he wants to avoid having to listen to kids discuss it.

We’ve decided to periodically ask him where he’s at with his understanding and not rush into it. This would include learning right now the importance of never looking when someone with a cell phone says, “Hey, look at this picture!” or tries to show him something that might be the wrong kind of surprise. If he learns to guard what he sees right now it could really save him in a year or two when some kid tries to flash a picture of some girls you-know-what’s in his sweet little face.

I know I’m probably opening a can by writing about this, but we can’t be the only parents dealing with this topic right now, and I think it’s important to hear different methods and different ways.

My point is that just because something works for one kid doesn’t mean it will work for another, and like my sister says, what’s so wrong with baby steps? I’m more concerned with him knowing how to handle situations where kids talk about it inappropriately than making sure he knows everything about sex.

For us, he just needs to know that when he’s got questions or feels uncomfortable, we’re a safe, open place to go. Right now that’s enough.

Let’s talk about this picture for a moment, shall we?

That is my baby. In her bottle is a two-day old leftover can of flat Diet Dr. Pepper 10.

I am sure that there are dozens of highly trained mothers out there with 1, 2, even 3 children who would never in a million years consider this kind of behavior acceptable in any setting. I know because I, too, was once that mother. A wonderful, thoughtful, conscientious mama who gave my children whole foods and routinely snubbed the evils of carbonation, sugar substitutes, and Heaven forbid McDonald’s.

I can remember when Harrison was a baby and my Father in law (one of my favorite humans ever) gave him a few drops of Diet Coke from the end of his straw. I literally thought I might rip his head from his shoulders for tainting my child with poison (I wasn’t a big pop drinker back in the day). A few weeks later when Harrison got an ear infection I was pretty sure it was from the Diet Coke.

But let me tell you, I have learned a few things about survival. Take yesterday, for instance. After nearly five hours of dragging this poor child from one government office to another trying to get an official gas card for my rental (don’t even think you can just swing in and gas up around here), running from base to base to get a copy of my stolen vehicle registration, plus having to try and find a new car one the side, this baby was DONE.

Even with a weak nap she spent the afternoon in tears. Part of this is her missing father; we stopped by his office to fax a paper and I’m pretty sure she wet herself from excitement at finally seeing Daddy again. He wasn’t there. She cried when we left without him.

And I wanted to stop at the local market and get milk, but what do you do when your exhausted baby is fast asleep in the backseat and you need to go in? You skip it (unless we all think I should have just left her unattended in a foreign country so I could go get milk and avoid ruining her metabolism for-e-ever).

So forgive me if, upon her rather abrupt and overly weepy awakening, I resorted to the only thing I could find in the house that wasn’t water (which she had violently thrown across the room).

After the week I’ve had it can’t get much worse (did I mention the strep throat? No? Well let me tell you, that was fun).

I have decided that things crash in three’s: within a few short weeks I’ve lost my car, my Mac and my sewing machine.

I do not complain about my sewing machine.

She’s an ugly old girl. I got swindled on Craig’s List three years ago in an attempt to save my dearly beloved some money. Instead of getting something new and cheap, I bought myself an old Singer, circa 1983-ish. Despite my intense and immediate buyer’s remorse (why do I feel obligated to to pay top dollar for other people’s crap just to make them feel good about themselves?), I knew the only way to save face with the man was to suck it up and sew already.

And oh how I’ve sewn.

For the past three years I’ve sewn pillows and costumes and Christmas pajamas, ball gowns and pin cushions and curtains. I’ve made purses and aprons and banners, stitched up dozens of wounded stuffed animals (Rex’s animals require at least one surgical procedure a week), mended pants and crafted skirts and ran the needles until they were dull as doorknobs.

Thanks to my in house sewing station I’ve been a regular little DIY princess who routinely avoids the children so I can learn to be a “homemaker.”

And I’ve done it all on the world’s stupidest sewing machine.

Three project packed years. Talk about ploughing through, I’ve put more miles and needles and stitches on that baby than I ever expected. And not once, not once have I even allowed myself to dream of it’s death. I’ve taken great care to hone the fine art of practicality and thrift in this department. The shoe department is a different animal, but as far as sewing machines go I get an A+.

A month ago I started taking a sewing class with my girlfriends. Apparently I’ve been stuck in the 60′s with my sewing mentality; my machine isn’t the only thing that’s holding me back. Despite being three decades behind in all things mechanical I’ve allowed myself very little machine envy during class, even when my lawnmower and I have had to listen to the purr of the new computerized Singer Curvy that sits next to us.

Imagine hauling a 1986 personal computer into a college class while everyone else is using laptops. A PC that your kids have lovingly decorated with permanent pens. So not cool. And for whatever reason, I really don’t care. It gets me from stitch A to stitch B, so no complaints here.

Yesterday while working on my sewing homework my routinely loud and obnoxious machine started making a rather uncomfortable grinding noise, kind of like a chain saw. But hey, the thing was still stitching so I decided to just press through. It’s not like I can take it into my local Singer stationmaster.

And as I punched in the back button at the end of the row it gave a little hiss and slight stench and presto: nothing but a death hum.

Apparently I’m being blessed for not caring that I don’t have the coolest or the smartest or the quietest or the newest or the most convenient machine. Either that or someone dropped my machine off a balcony without telling me (why did I not think of that before?).

For once in my marriage there was absolutely no argument when I called Jason and told him that my machine was dead and I would have to buy a new one pronto. He knows, he’s seen, I’ve done my time. This isn’t a passing fancy and I have earned a grown up girl machine.

According to Amazon it shipped this morning. As Rex would say, I sure hope the Seven Little Postmen hurry.