Annie Valentine

This is the last thing I want to say about the crash. Thank you for letting me work through this in my own coincidentally public way, my blog is where I bare my heart and soul and it’s not always pretty. But writing my way through this has brought me closure, one step at a time.

Today I saw the corpse. Honestly, seeing my car sitting there all dead and crushed in the wrecking yard was big. I needed to see that car, I needed to look at what she did and how she helped save my family.

Here are a few photos for you to glimpse through while I talk. I’m also including a picture of Rex in his self-induced coma. Such a kill. Also kind of freaky.

I need you to notice a few things. First, the fact that the semi truck literally ripped the guts out of my car and splattered them all over the road. Second, the fact that there is a very deliberate and beautiful line of demarkation: From the exact point where Harrison sat in the front seat and beyond our car was pristine. Not a scratch.

Looking at my little Mazda 5, I can’t understand why the windshield didn’t shatter. And considering the angle and the speed with which we smashed into the stupid semi, we should have rolled clear to Bulgaria.

We didn’t just survive this thing, we walked away completely unscathed. All those mornings of family prayer, and the mornings where we added another prayer for safety in the car, it’s like they’ve been building up in some sort of Safety Account just waiting for us to cash it in. Looks like we had prayers to spare.

My kids are all dealing with their shock and grief in different ways. This morning I woke up with Harrison stuck to the side of me like some kind of industrial velcro. Evenings and mornings are the hardest for him, he had a bad dream this morning and had to puke his anxiety out in the toilet. Very hard for me to watch.

The hardest part of all this is having my captain on the other side of the world. My boy Jason single-handedly keeps my world turning. Really, I’m just a glorified child who gets a really awesome allowance. He’s the responsible party and I’m…well, I’m just the party. When things go wrong, Jason handles the paper work and I rent the movie. I’m also very good at home made bread.

I hate having him gone. I need him, I need his arms and his voice and his fax machine know-how. The aftermath alone is stretching me in ways I would rather not be stretched. I can do it, but I hate it.

On the night of the accident, right before I left the hospital, our Bishop and one of my neighbors took me aside and sat me down for a priesthood blessing. The moment they anointed my head I felt power flow through my body like a live current of electricity. It literally took my breath away.

The blessing was beautiful, especially when it promised me that I would be in tune with my children and their individual needs this next week, that I’d know how to comfort and help them in their moments of fear and grief and anxiety.

Laying in bed that night I realized that during almost every moment of our ordeal, up until the kids were tucked safely in their beds, there was a priesthood holder within arm’s reach. In Germany, that’s a miracle of it’s own. When we pulled into the hospital, it was no surprise to find our home teacher just happened to be delivering a baby upstairs and was to there to see us within no time.

I’ve had dozens of calls, multiple dinners, people who stopped by to whisk my kids away or help me put them to bed. In three days I’ve felt more love and support and strength than I can comprehend. I love everyone who has cared enough to call and comment and thank God on our behalf that we were so beautifully spared.

And hey, we even made the German newspaper. They didn’t know our names but the accident was considered a local miracle. Love those Germans, they know Heavenly intervention when they see it.

So this is me wrapping the nightmare up. I guess I shouldn’t call it that. If there’s one thing I’ve decided, it’s that if I ever get in another accident I hope it’s exactly like this one.

Today I dug into my shoe basket and pulled out a forgotten pair of flats. Heels just sounded way too risky.

When they piled the kids and I into the ambulance after the crash last night (30-45 minutes later? An hour?) my oldest three sat huddled in a group, clinging and crying and all wanting to sit on my lap/shoulders/head, anything to feel better (Gigi was fine as long as she could sit in her stroller). The neighbor kid got a little white so they took him to one of the waiting ambulances.

Finally the German doc leaned in and anxiously told me that we would have to split all the children up, there was no way we could move out in that condition. They did quick evaluations starting with June. It will come as no surprise that my little spit fire was the first calm one of the bunch.

“June,” I said as the doctor finished checking her, “do you think you can go with that nice German man right there and ride in another ambulance? Are you brave?” She smiled at me, gave me a big hug and kiss and hopped into his arms with a little happy wave goodbye.

It about killed me. Not that I didn’t have enough to worry about with the boys, they were sobbing next to me on the bed like a couple of girl scouts. I sat between them trying to think of how I could convince Harrison to leave my side.

With Jason gone my kids and I have implemented the Team Valentine (we use my real last name but I try to avoid using it publicly as much as possible–it’s about the only thing I keep private) to help us when Daddy’s away. It means that we all pitch in to pick up the slack; that could be a hug, or helping Mom with chores, or reading a book to someone. We have a jar that we’re filling with fuzzy balls in order to earn a totally awesome Saturday out with Mommy next week.

I looked at my beautiful terrified eight-year-old crying his heart out next to me. “Harrison,” I said, “Can you look at me?” He turned his big green eyes up at my face and I smiled. “Buddy, I need your help. We can’t leave until we’re all in different ambulances,” I said as he started to cry harder and burried his sweet face in my chest. “Harry, I need you to do something for me: Dad isn’t here to help, but do you think you can be brave and ride alone so Rex can stay with me? Team Valentine, Buddy, can you do it?”

I wish I could describe watching him take that last big sniff, blow it out and wipe his eyes. He looked up at me, pressed his lips together and gave a solid nod of the head. Then he hugged me and jumped off the gurney to go with the strange Germans waiting to take him away. My little boy, such a wonderful man in the making. He didn’t shed another tear the rest of the night, and in fact was totally into the neck brace and gurney scene by the time we pulled up to the ER.

But oh, my little Rexy. Sobbing, certain that we were all going to die and just waiting for the last big bang. The doctor did a quick physical check and found that Rex had hit his head on the side of the car, a nice bump was already blooming. Side bumps are something to watch, so it won’t come as a shock that when Rex started to pass out in his seat I about peed my pants.

Of all my kids, the only one I’m afraid is too good for this Earth is Rex. June? She’ll live forever, but Rex I routinely worry is too guileless and kind for his own good.

“Hey!” I said to the doctor (they had two full-on physicians there) “Is he okay? He’s passing out!” They rushed to him and checked his vitals, laying him on the bed like a little limp rag doll. Within a few minutes they stood back and looked at me.

“Um,” said the doctor, “We think he’s asleep. Does he do this when he’s frightened?”

Then I remembered, it’s exactly what he does when he gets sick, goes to bed and sleeps until he’s well. Still, I felt slightly anxious that there could be more to it. I glanced out of the ambulance and saw Brother Ford standing there, waiting through the entire ordeal and making rounds on the other kids. I motioned him in and asked if he would give my Rex a blessing.

Let me tell you right now, having him stand next to me and lay his hands on Rex’s head was the most powerful, comforting experience I had had. My husband might be on the other side of the world, but Heavenly Father surrounded us that night with worthy, priesthood holding men, ready to step in and bless my children at a moment’s notice.

After the blessing and a little more reassurance from the medics that Rex was perfectly fine, I couldn’t help admiring the kid. When the docs would periodically pry his little eye lids open to check his pupils they’d snap shut again like taught little rubber bands. He slept through the next four hours of procedures, including a CAT scan. In fact, the tech was all prepped to put him under until they realized he was self-medicating. They said Rex was an absolute dream to work with.

I have more to say, but again I am emotionally spent. I can’t sleep and I’m totally exhausted. Regurgitating my experience in print seems to be the most effective method I’ve found of moving through the whole thing. More later, forgive me for spilling it out so coarsely.

Today I feel like I just might be a colossal failure.

Due to my inflated ego and obnoxiously overconfident attitude about almost everything, I don’t think about failure much. Fear in general isn’t part of my chemical makeup and I’m not used to dealing with it.

But for the first time in my life I lay in bed at night and silently quake at the thought that not only am I possibly going to fail at something really big, but the people who will suffer most from my failure aren’t me. Me I can handle, it’s the thought of failing my child and how deeply that will affect his life that is so devastating.

I have four kids. Of my four kids three of them are demanding enough to ensure that they receive whatever it is they need most from me. Harrison (8) is constantly after hugs and lengthy conversations about the fine characteristics of Mario and why plumbers have the best jobs ever, June (4) forces me to take her with me any time I leave the house for “girls only” trips, and Georgia (1) spends all day on my lap/hip/bed begging me to read her a “booh.”

And then there’s Rex.

In case you don’t know about Rex, he’s six and is currently enrolled in the German schule here in our village. This has been…overwhelming. For all of us.

Rex is there and continues to remain there because when I ask God what to do about Rex’s schooling He repeatedly thumps me on the head and tells me to stop asking and give this time and attention.

The time bit I’m handling. But as far as extra attention, Rex comes home and slips right through the cracks. He’s so happy to be back with all his toys and animal friends and sisters and brother that I don’t have the heart to rip him away from his comfort zone and tutor him.

I am also lazy.

Put the two together and you get a kid who isn’t learning anything from his loser mother. How is he ever going to learn to read and write English if I don’t teach it to him? How is he supposed to move ahead and start speaking German (nothing yet, it’s been six months) if he’s not getting extra one on one help at home? He is almost seven and doesn’t even know any sight words. What am I doing???

Last night I spent the 30 minute car ride to the adult session of Stake Conference talking to our good friend and brilliant pediatrician, Eric. Eric usually takes a few minutes with Rex when he gets the chance to do quick spot evaulations and observations and then keeps us updated on his thoughts.

It was brutal.

In talking to him and assessing where Rex is at with school, it’s pretty clear that he has a bit of a language problem and not just with German. He spoke very late, his conversation and use of English is a year or two behind (as is his maturity level), and according to the professional he needs to be bombarded with language, both English and German, on a structured daily basis.

This means I have to nail his butt to the table and structure some kind of program for him. I’ve avoided it because he’s so tired after eight hours of German a day, but I think Eric is absolutely right. I’ve got to dig in my heels and get it done.

Sitting in Stake Conference last night was an emotional experience. Every talk seemed to enforce the thought that I was failing in the home, not doing enough for my children, being a passive member of the household. It’s great that I stay home and sew and cook, but homemade skirts and three (okay six) meals a day never got a kid through the German school system.

Finally toward the end of the meeting I put my head between my knees. You know when you feel too lame to pray so instead you kind of send your worthless thoughts up to Heaven, hoping that maybe they’ll be heard but not really willing to force the issue? I thought to myself, what am I doing? I suck at this job. I’m lazy and weak and not up to being the kind of mother my children need. I can’t do this, I’m not even worthy of it…

Those are the words that ran through my mind. And as I said them, the speaker (who I wasn’t really listening to at that point) read this quote from Elder Packer: “We need everyone. The tired or worn out or lazy and even those who are bound down with guilt…”

I felt like Heaven was speaking back to me and couldn’t help laughing through my tears, that Father in Heaven would be so generous and quick to answer my sorry little plea for help and strength. And as the speaker closed we sang “How Firm a Foundation,” and the third verse rang through my soul like some kind Heavenly balm:

“Fear not, I am with thee, oh be not dismayed

For I am thy God and will still give thee aid

I’ll strengthen thee, help thee and cause thee to stand

Upheld by my righteous omnipotent hand.”

The word omnipotent is what really stuck. He knows. He knows how this can work, how it should work, how it will work. I don’t have to do this alone, help is out there and I’m going to find it.

My sweet girlfriend’s husband has been deployed for the past year.

Ashley is 23. She’s only been married for a few years and her man has been gone for a big percentage of them. They moved here to Germany last winter and he deployed almost immediately; we’ve never actually met him.

For the past year she’s been waiting and doing and being and trying to keep his side of the bed warm all by her little old self.

By far the most painful part of his absence has been the not knowing his return date. The troops have been coming home in droves, bus after bus of fathers and husbands and boys back from really long deployments. She’s known he was coming “soon” for weeks now. I’ve decided the word “soon” is a new four letter word, the waiting has been so miserable.

Today she finally got The Call. His is the very last troop coming in to return from deployment at their base.

Standing on the top bleacher with her tonight waiting for the orange doors to open and send her life back to her was beyond intense. All I could think about was Peggy Lee singing, “Waiting for the train to come in…waiting for my man to come home…” She sings that song way too calmly.

“Wow,” Ashley said, “I don’t even think I’m going to cry. I feel so…numb.” Um, yeah, that’s what happens when your entire nervous system finally shuts down because it can’t handle all the adrenaline.

I sat on the bleachers with my family and watched all the wives and mothers waiting for their husbands. They were beautiful. Each had taken great pains to look however it was their man wanted them to look, and no two outfits were even remotely the same. I saw women dressed for prom, women dressed office classy, retro-40′s with super cleavage (cleavage was the one constant in the group), and sassy mall getup. Every head had been hit hard with the straightener, curling iron, and aerosol, and the shoes were fabulous straight across the board.

The moment the orange doors opened and the microphone went hot it was like being at an eighth grade dance and knowing Justin Beiber was about to make an entrance. Talk about heart pounding.

And then the soldiers flooded through. 324 of them and Ashley was so scared and excited and nervous and terrified that not only did she lose complete use of her hands (we had to hold her “We Love Lt. Wall” sign for her), but she couldn’t find him. Anywhere. I personally haven’t met him, plus watching all the children pointing out daddys was kind of making me bawl my head off so I was mostly worthless.

The anthems played, the prayer was given, and with less than ten words the men were dismissed.

And she still couldn’t find him.

After all these months and last few weeks of waiting and worrying and anxiously wondering if it was ever going to happen, those moments were eternal and excruciating for all of us. She stood there frantic, tears pouring down her cheeks, “I don’t see him, I can’t find him, is he here? Why didn’t I wear my glasses?!”

And then as the soldiers started to move the sea of tan parted and there he was.

I don’t think her feet even touched the bleachers she flew down those steps so fast, high heels and all. Into his arms, faces buried together, they stood on the gym floor and I’m pretty sure the world went invisible for a moment.

We stood back and let them meld. Because that’s what it’s like when you’ve been apart for any serious space in time. You have to regain a sense of independence and self-reliance. You start to wonder, can we be a couple again? Will we work the same? What if we’ve both changed?

And if you’re lucky, the answer is yes you can, yes you will, and yes you have. Absence doesn’t always break you, it can make you stronger where you need it. Ashley grew in leaps and bounds this year and I’m sure her man did as well. And seeing them tonight, I have no doubt that their growth, in the long run, is going to make their little family unit stronger and brighter and better.

I am a closet sewing freak. Any time I fall off the radar and I’m not on vacation you can guess that I’m up to my clavicle bone in a sewing project.

Also I don’t always know what I’m doing.

So my girlfriend told me two months ago about the Military Daddy Daughter Princess Ball scheduled for February. It’s an insanely expensive excuse for little girls to dress up in their finest, and not something Jason would approve on any level whatsoever. But June? June spends at least 10 hours a day in princess attire. How could I not sign her up?

I might or might not have been living vicariously through her as well while making this decision.

Instead of calling Jason for permission I decided to exercise my financial agency, took the bull by the horns, and bought them a ticket. I kind of also got on ebay and ordered Jason a tuxedo (don’t judge, he’s needed one the past few years and it was only $70…okay you can judge a little).

Then I had to decide what to do about the dress.

I got online and found some great little princess dresses (all of June’s are thoroughly loved, not a one is rip and stain free) but the price was up there. Besides, my sewing machine was calling to me.

When I saw this one I knew it had to happen.

So I did what any financially responsible and routinely delusional adult would do and decided I could make it cheaper (HAHAHAHA). I enlisted my amazing sister-in-law who has only boys and loves to sew, gave her a very loose idea of what I needed for the project, and just over a week later the box arrived in the mail. Thank you, Lindsey.

And then I had to do something with it. No pattern, just me and yard after yard of really slippery fabric.

Just about this time Jason saw the charge for the tux on our debit account. I’ll be honest, my whole surprise-him-and-he’ll-be-happy pipe dream wasn’t exactly spot on. He was kind of furious. Yes he loves June, and yes he’s willing to do memory building activities with her, but the bottom line just about sunk my ship and for sure my grocery budget.

Save yourself some money so your husband isn’t furious with you with these great Target coupons available for your arts and crafts projects, including sewing.

I am now going to save you three weeks of arguing and sewing mishaps and jump to the finished result.

The day of the dance I was very possibly the most overworked, under deodorized fairy godmother you’ve ever seen in your life. Why? Because I didn’t just make one Cinderella dress, I made two. My girlfriend’s daughter needed one desperately and they couldn’t find one in time. As luck would have it I found four yards of pink satin stashed in the bottom of one of my bins.

The night before the dance was horrible. Jason’s tux still hadn’t come in the mail, the dresses were unfinished and none of the accessories were made. And then in my eleventh hour June got strep throat and scarlet fever, so we spent the night in the ER hoping they could get her well enough for the Princess Ball (she’d asked every day for three weeks if this was “the day”).

With very little magic the next day dawned bright and June was a modern medical miracle. Thank you penicillin. At one o’clock my not-so-enthusiastic prince charming called from the base.

“My tux just came in the mail,” he said.

“Are you kidding me?” I couldn’t decide if it was Heaven sent or my worst night mare. That meant I had to add hemming his pants to my list.

“Do you have a bow tie for me?” he asked.

“Um…” I so did not have a bow tie ready. I thought he’d just be wearing his regular suit. “Almost..”

“You owe me big time,” he said before hanging up.

Honestly, the moment they were finally out the door I wanted to collapse on my kitchen floor and die a quiet death in my pajama pants.

Here is the finished product. Thanks to my darling Caitlin for coming to the rescue with June’s hair and makeup so I could finish sewing and tacking, plus my almost neighbor Stephanie who provided shoes and a back up sewing machine in my hour of need. And my sewing lifeline, Corinne, who talked me through some of my biggest snags. I made all of June’s accessories, and never ever ask me about the bow tie. I’ve still got PTSD from it. Those were four hours that I’ll never get back.

June added the purple tutu around her waist at the last minute and refused to take it off.

Waiting for the big entrance

See the red carpet and all the swords? Slightly intimidating...

Let’s just say that it was awesome, they had a fantastic time and made a great memory, and it will be three years before I’m willing to go through this kind of ordeal again.

The other day I got an email from Harrison’s third grade teacher informing me that he had been caught in a homework lie. He told her I’d taken it out of his backpack. He told me the night before that he didn’t have any homework.

Something was afoot.

The moment Harrison walked in the door he knew he was in trouble. “Hi, Mom,” he said shuffling into the kitchen.

“Hi, Son.” I gave him a big hug and pulled up a chair so we could talk face to face. “So you got in trouble for lying about your homework today, huh?” I said.

“Yeah. Well, I didn’t really lie…I mean just a little one…” we talked about it for a moment and he admitted he’d fibbed. After apologizing he headed to his room.

I watched him walk away and spied his green backpack dumped on the floor.

Grabbing it by the strap, the thing felt like it weighed a good 25 pounds. I plopped it on the table and unzipped the mystery.

One by one I pulled out crumpled, unfinished homework sheets. Pages and pages, an entire quarter of untouched worksheets. Why hadn’t his teacher said anything? I was horrified to see over 20 sheets of neglected homework crumpled on the counter.

And then I found the first moldy lunch.

I’m careful with money so I usually make Harrison a cold lunch for school. He has a running hot lunch account for emergencies, but we only use it occasionally; lunches cost $2.40 and that really adds up.

By the fifth moldy lunch sack I was in total awe. The apples alone were hefty, not to mention all the water bottles. No wonder his bag was weighing him down.

“Harrison,” I called up the stairs, “I need you in the kitchen.”

He turned the corner and stopped in his tracks, eyes locked on the table. The lunches. The homework. The terrible awful truth.

You know when your kid is in so much trouble that you can’t even yell because they’re such a pitiful sight? Imediately he crumpled into a heap, crying about what a terrible person he was. “I’m just a liar, Mom! A liar! I’m gonna have to live with the Devil! I know you guys hate me, you hate me! Can I have a hug, please?” He sobbed and cried, explaining that he didn’t mean to stop doing his homework, he only lied once because he was tired and then it just got easy. No one noticed.

We talked about the lunches, and how his best friends get hot lunch and they make the cold lunch kids sit on one side of the cafeteria, and he was feeling left out.

Just about then his father walked in he door early from work. Harrison ran to his room to hide his guilt and I brought Father up to speed. We decided it would be necessary for Harrison to reimburse us for the lunches. He would also lose all electronic privileges (minus light fixtures) for the week while he finished the overdue homework.

He came down and peeked his head around the corner. Jason gently talked to him for a moment, telling him to please go get his money so he could pay for the missing lunches. We knew this would be the hardest part. He’s been saving up to get the newest Mario game, and at two dollars a week it’s been a slow process. He was only days away from that last allowance and victory.

He ran up the stairs and was back in the kitchen twenty seconds later.

“Here Dad,” he said, holding his hand painted money box in front of him. “Just take it, take it all. I’m so sorry I lied to you about the homework and the lunches, there’s almost thirty dollars in there and I want you to take it.” Jason smiled and hugged him, telling him that we only needed enough for the six lunches.

The next morning before school I watched him grab his backpack and throw it over his shoulder. “Hey!” he said with a smile, “It’s so light!” He hugged me. “Bye Mom, I love you!”

His backpack wasn’t the only thing that was lighter.

It’s Valentine’s Day. I feel a personal responsibility to uphold the value of this particular holiday.

Also, for all you readers, here are some delightful Amazon coupons to provide discounts for your Valentine’s Day.

Here’s the thing about today. I know there are parents out there who strive to make it a “family” holiday, something where we talk about how much we luv each other, and luv our friends, and luv our pets, and luv Sponge Bob. I should not roll my eyes at this. I should not make fun of this. I should recognize that yes, Jesus wants us to luv everyone so why not make today about everyone?

Because I can’t. I can’t pretend that putting your children/dog/remote in the middle of your marriage, the pew at church (of which I’m totally guilty), or your bed is okay 365 days of the year. I’ll give you 364 of them with absolutely not much judgement, but I’ve got to hold out and uphold the value of today.

If you’d rather spend your Valentine’s Day Eve with a bunch of little rugrats instead of the man who gave them to you, it just might be time to reevaluate.

Tonight, just as Jason started the dishwasher (ahem, big hint there fellas) Englebert Humperdink came on KIXI AM 880 out of Seattle with, “Quando Quando Quando.” I love this song and I love the way he sings it. And my man? He asked me to dance. Doesn’t happen very often and I never turn it down.

And while we held one another inappropriately close, Jason and I confessed something to each other:

For the first time in 13 years we don’t have a darn thing planned for Valentine’s Day.

It kind of rocks.

We have not invested in cards, flowers, or reservations of any kind. There will be no hidden balloons, singing telegrams waiting in the frigid bushes, or naughty poetry. Heck, I haven’t even stopped to think of an outfit. I’ll probably just show up in my birthday suit and call it a day. I have the feeling that will work out just fine.

I am sure that in it’s way this year will be as memorable as any other; we do have the babysitter scheduled and plan to leave the house unaccompanied. Who knows? We might hit the drive through and go make out in the car.

Standing in his really nice arms tonight smelling today’s leftover cologne, with Englebert and the hum of the dishwasher in the background, I don’t think I could have loved that man any more.

Crazy are we. With all the miscommunications and bad habits and public yelling matches (always one-sided, guess which one?) we still love to crawl in bed with each other at the end of the day.

This year for Valentine’s Day I’m giving Jason a song. It’s an old one, and I bet you never stopped to think about how romantic it really is. But after this many years together the fact that I still feel like this on such a regular basis is nothing short of magical. (If you’re stateside you can listen to it on YouTube, but I can’t link it).

“Heavenly shades of night are falling, it’s twilight time

Out of the mist your voice is calling, ’tis twilight time
When purple-colored curtains mark the end of day
I’ll hear you, my dear, at twilight time

Deepening shadows gather splendor as day is done
Fingers of night will soon surrender the setting sun
I count the moments darling till you’re here with me
Together at last at twilight time

Here, in the afterglow of day, we keep our rendezvous beneath the blue
And, in the same and sweet old way I fall in love again as I did then

Deep in the dark your kiss will thrill me like days of old
Lighting the spark of love that fills me with dreams untold
Each day I pray for evening just to be with you
Together at last at twilight time”

Those last two lines say it all. Jason, I am crazy for you. See you at five.

Apparently I’m a liar. This is highly disappointing since I tell my little children regularly that “liars live with the Devil.” And then I cackle and threaten to get them vaccinated.

My husband is big on the budget. I recently won a particularly empowering budget war and took home a cleaning lady.

A week ago she was scheduled for her big debut. After four hours pre-cleaning for the cleaning lady not a sock was out of place. I had toys and books and clothing organized, found homes for things that were still camping in boxes, and pre-spotted my kitchen floor. By the time Wednesday night rolled around I was wiped (so was my house) and ready for someone to handle all the messy work–mopping, vacuuming, bathrooms, etc.

Thursday morning I woke with giddy excitement, but ten minutes before her ETA she called in sick. It was completely deflating.

Today was her much anticipated revamped debut. I have waited with baited breath and stubbornly dirty bathrooms for over two weeks. Last night I put another two plus hours into refitting and reorganizing the flotsam and jetsam so she wouldn’t be scared off.

“Hallo!” I said, opening my door with a smile. She looked nice enough, early forties, German, over dressed. Over dressed?

I ushered her inside and we began the tour of the house. When we had finally made our way back to the kitchen I handed her my list and pointed out the supplies neatly laid out on the table.

“Oh!” she said with a little start, “No no, I can’t clean today. My daughter has a meeting at school, she told me yesterday so I can’t stay. Sorry! Next week for sure,” she said.

I closed the door as she left with a little extra force and looked around my seriously dirty house. It hasn’t seen a real mop job in I don’t know how long, the toilets are unmentionable, and I kind of wanted to cry.

To make matters worse, that meant I’d have to return the cleaning budget cash to the bank account. I’ve totally overspent this pay period (it’s called magic diet juice and was a necessary investment) and hate to think of that much needed paper fuel going to waste.

Unless…

What if I cleaned the house? I looked at my watch. Two hours before my husband’s arrival, could I really do a four hour job that fast? And what if he asked me about it? Then again, if he asked if the cleaning lady came, I could honestly smile and say, “Yep!”

And without another thought I was off. I plunged in and started at the top, squeegying my way down four floors of windows and dusting and bathrooms and mopping. I took extra care to make it look like someone far more talented than myself did the actual cleaning.

Just as I wiped down the last toilet seat Mr. Prompt walked in the front door next to the bathroom. I shut off the light, shoved my supplies into the corner and casually emerged.

“Hey baby,” he said, “Did the cleaning lady come today?”

“Mmhm.”

“So how did she do?” he asked. How did she do? What kind of question was that? I hadn’t thought that far into my deceit. That was also the moment I remembered the countless hours my man has logged practicing and learning the fine art of human lie detection.

“Oh…you know.” I said, trying to avoid outright dishonesty and jail time.

“What do you mean? Did she do a good job or didn’t she?”

“Honey, you’ve got to give these people time. A person can’t really tell anything this early on…”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, “How much did you pay this woman?”

And that’s when I knew there was no way I could look my husband in the eye and tell such a big, fat, live-with-the-Devil lie. I sat down on the bench, put my head in my hands and spilled the whole sorrid tale.

The worst part? He thinks the house looks amazing and wants to know why I don’t just do this every week. I think my sister’s mantra is right: Lying makes it worse.