So yesterday we took our family to downtown Portland and met up with a bunch of Jason’s old cronies from high school. It was almost perfect; almost a fantastic memory. If only we had left the kids at home.

It’s like they had a meeting ahead of time to plan out exactly how they’d take turns torturing us. We took the tram into downtown and visited a very cool toy store. I have to admit, they were pretty good up to that point. Then everyone had to use the bathroom. In Nordstrom. Then they had to ride the escalator. In Nordstrom. Then the Nordstrom police escorted us from the premise because my children started swinging from the chandeliers.

We rode the amazing tram up to the hospital and decided to stroll through to the new skywalk. I have realized that the only time June should ever be allowed in a hospital is when she needs to be hospitalized. Personally, I was this close to asking them to admit and keep me until the baby comes.

But the real kicker was Harrison. That kid didn’t even need spilled milk, he cried over anything and everything worth his salt. It took us a few episodes to figure out the problem. Finally, looking at him huddled in a ball in the far corner of our friend’s back yard, it hit me.

Jason is leaving tomorrow, and Harrison knows it.

I probably shouldn’t have written that because now I’m going to cry. See, last December before we found out we were pregnant, Jason got excepted into a very critical, very difficult training program. We were totally stoked, it will be an awesome experience for him and really help us in the future.

When we found out about the baby and looked at the calendar, we were shocked to see that he’ll get back on Saturday, August 28th. In the past, I would have had the baby by then, since I’m due Sept. 2nd. We prayed about it, and I insisted that he should go because it’s the right thing. If he misses this course, he’ll have to do it online at night over 18 months from home. I’d rather have him gone for five weeks than unavailable every evening for a year and a half. He’s asked me about three dozen times to let him cancel, but I keep feeling like everything happens for a reason and he’s supposed to do this.

So here we are, and he’s about to go. Looking down at my little boy yesterday, there was no doubt in my mind that he’s feeling emotional about his dad leaving. Jason and I immideatly pow-wowed, andDad went down and scooped him up. He’s seven, he’s heavy, but he’s still just a little boy who needs his daddy to hug him and tell him everything will be all right.

And it will. I just need everyone to keep reminding me.

Here’s this week’s Regarding Annie Column, if you’re interested.

“There comes a time in every marriage when you find out exactly what you’ve ended up with. I’ve reached that point.

Unfortunately, I’ve been laid up for the past two weeks of gestation, mostly unable to do anything worthwhile that doesn’t involve television or pointing and yelling. During this time I’ve come to a very scary conclusion: I miss cleaning my house. It’s gotten to the point where I sit on the couch and leak tears of total frustration at my inability to do anything of value.

So last week I called Jason at work and said something like this (with a lot more exclamation marks and possibly a few mild curse words).

“Hi honey, I would greatly appreciate it if you’d let me call the Ladies From Church now so I can get some help with the house/kids/food situation. I am feeling panicky and slightly volatile at the moment, perhaps you’d consider consenting to this very rational and reasonable plan?”

Why did I ask permission? Because at the moment, he is completely determined to do it all himself. Translation: he thinks he can come home and do my job, mow the lawn, run the scouts, feed the kids, be on call for work–you get the picture. The boy rarely puts his foot down on me, but this time he’s been adamant: thou shalt not put anybody else out.

“Honey, no,” he says. “Be patient with me, I’ll take care of everything tonight when I get home. This is my family, I can do this.”

“But darling,” I say with possibly a little more emphasis on the “but” and maybe no “darling”, “If I wait until tonight, you might have to commit me to an asylum for crazy housewives who can’t get anything done and start calling themselves Sara Sylvia Synthia Stout and spend their days reciting creepy poetry. The Ladies From Church can do more than toll painting, you know.”

“Look,” he says, “Please, I can do this. You just have to let me do it on my terms. Now I have to get back to work, and Honey, it’s going to be okay.”

Then he hung up and I freaked out at the wall.

That night when he came home we had a nice, warm (heated) discussion about our current situation and his limitations. In the end, I agreed to let him give it a go for a week and see how he survived. I’ve changed our grocery list to pre-made foods he can throw together in a country minute, and have since employed my children in back-breaking labor on a daily basis to keep me from going insane.

The biggest shocker? One week into the new setup and I hate to admit it, but he was right. He walks in at night and asks for his “list” (which I  may or may not pad with unimportant mindless tasks just to test him), then goes after it like a freight train.

And I’ve realized something big. He loves me. A lot. No guilt, only the occasional sigh, and plenty of back breaking, loving labor on his part.

You know, I think I could get used to this.”

Sometimes mercy is such a pain.

So the last three days we’ve been a one car family and have had to take Daddy to work. On the way home from work the yellow brick road takes us by Tasty’s, a local donut shop. By some sheer coincidence, I have a gift certificate in my purse for Tasty’s that Jason has insisted we use on the children. Poor children. (Also a very convenient yellow brick road.)

Being the nutritionista that I am, I’ve been insisting that the kids each have a bowl of oatmeal this week before choking down their bar of lard. It’s worked great–until today. Rex knew the donut was coming and refused to have anything to do with his oatmeal.

Like any good mother, I happily let him know he would be forfeiting his ticket to the grease factory, and dragged him kicking and screaming to the car.

Now, any normal sibling would revel in their little brother’s misery, would take joy in nya–nya–nya-nya–nya-ing all the way home that someone wasn’t getting a donut. But do you think my kids cooperated this morning? No. They begged and pleaded on Rex’s behalf. And then when Junie started kicking Harrison and struck out, losing her own donut privilege as well, it was almost more than Harry could handle.

In the end, I bartered with him and agreed that if June could keep her limbs to herself for the remainder of the trip, and if Rex was willing to commit to his bowl of cold oatmeal once we got home, perhaps I would relent.

And everyone got their donut.

(Personally, I did not have a donut, but I did impose a donut tax on all the children, equivalent to one really big bite. But I did NOT have a donut.)

I have hit that point in my pregnancy where I can no longer sit through three hours of church without feeling slightly hostile and more than a little snappy. I had a meeting yesterday morning that lasted an hour and a half, and by the time it was done, my church going tolerance for the day was all used up.

It would be wrong if I didn’t admit that this comes as a little bit of a blessing. This way I don’t have to listen to anyone ask the very old and repetitive question, “When are you gonna have that baby?”

The thing that really irks me is that I waited forever to let the world know I was pregnant, and even then never officially announced it to the ladies at church. Up to about three weeks ago I still ran into people who had no idea about the bun. My reason? Because I don’t want to be pregnant forever. I’d rather people think, “Boy, that sure went fast!” than sit around wondering why I’ve been pregnant since 2008.

Sadly, I have realized that it doesn’t work that way. Once you get to the popping point, people want to count down the days with you. They want to talk about labor and delivery and oh-crap-I-have-to-breastfeed-again.

My SIL had her little baby last week and I saw them last night. She’s lucky, she’s got a perfect nursing champ there who sleeps when she’s supposed to and never misses a poopy diaper.

Please, send me one that has a knack for nursing. I don’t know how I’ll do it if I get another tight-lipped little sucker. (Of course, the sucker in question is currently dancing around my chair like a princess, so I guess I’ll survive and love this kid either way.)

Here is this week’s Regarding Annie column. The man will never learn.

“Sometimes the difference between men and women absolutely astounds me.

We all know that as far as “What Not to Say” is concerned, Mr. Rico Suave is usually about as sharp as a butter knife. If you could only see his face, you’d realize that 97% of the time he is completely ignorant of any insensitivity and considers his truth telling to be one of his greatest attributes.

Personally, I’d take a liar any day.

So the other day we’re walking through a department store doing a little birthday shopping for our now five-year-old, Rex. It had been a lovely evening, no kids, no stress, just us and the toy aisle. I was feeling all warm and cozy toward him, thinking to myself that I’d really found a gem the day I convinced him to marry me.

Then he started to talk.

“Hey!” he says, “I want to tell you something, but you have to know that I mean it in the best way…”

You’ve heard of red flags? I should have realized that this preliminary warning was more like a nuclear explosion. Unfortunately, I was feeling all gooey and lovey toward him and figured that my sweet, adoring husband would know better than to say anything in the non-relationship-building category.

“What is it?” I ask with a smile.

“So,” he says, “I was looking on the computer at some old pictures from last year, and man, I’ve gotta tell you, you used to be so skinny!”

Translation: I was looking at some old pictures of you and realized that you are no longer so skinny. Wow. Could a man lose his ticket to the practice of procreation faster?

“I mean,” he says, “Right now you’re pregnant, and I know you eat a lot more these days, and that’s totally okay–” Permission to eat, thank you kind sir, “But I had forgotten how skinny you used to be! I mean, you were really tiny back then, I hadn’t realized how much you’d…changed.”

Changed, gained, it’s all the same thing.

The most unsettling part of this conversation was the fact that the boy was seriously just paying me a compliment. In his mind, why wouldn’t a woman want to hear that she used to be desirable? Why wouldn’t you want to know that you used to be thin and lovely? Yeah, sure you currently look something akin to a beached whale, and eat more than the Green Giant, but wow, you used to be hot.

At this point, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to laugh or cry. He thought he was being so chivalrous, piling on historic compliments and not realizing just how moldy the conversation was sounding. I knew the only road to take was the path of least resistence.

“You’re right,” I say, “I sure used to be thin. Those were the good old days, eh? But hey, I won’t always be pregnant, right?”

“Sure, sweetie,” he says, giving me a squeeze that said something to the effect of “I kind of think you’ll be pregnant forever, but I’ll love you anyway.”

Sometimes I worry he’s right. Eight weeks has never felt more eternal in my life.”

There is an advantage that comes with having five older sisters: Two dozen Guinea pigs for them to screw up on so I can see what works and what doesn’t.

My sister Jen recently called and instructed me on her most recent bit of brilliance. She has invented “Responsibility Chores”. While it might be another version of the wheel, it sure sounded good to me. The way it works is simple: give your kids their list. If they whine, cry, complain, or stall, they get a Responsibility Chore.

Now, while their regular list might include things like “put clothes away” or “vacuum living room”, Responsibility Chores are much more intense. They’re things like, “Clean out the cupboard under the utility sink, the one with mouse droppings and really big spiders.”

So last week seven-year-old Harrison went on vacation with his grandparents. Closely followed was a three-day weekend and too much fun away from home to think about his lonely chore chart.

“Honey,” I said the day he got home, “I need you to do your chores for the last three days, since you’ve been gone so long.” Keep in mind this list only included three simple things that weren’t in the “Brush your Teeth” category. All three would have taken a total of fifteen minutes.

“NYO!” he screamed, throwing himself on the floor in true, spolied-from-too-much-vacation form.

“Oh really?” I said casually. “Looks to me like you need a Responsibility Chore.”

“What?! No!! I won’t! I’m sick! You CAN’T MAKE ME!” Then he ran to his room, slammed the door and hid under his bed.

I very calmly walked into his room, gently took hold of his ear, and quietly coerced him from his cave. With a firm hold, I steered him down to the basement. It was absolutely trashed. In my overly-pregnant state that includes more bedrest than I’m happy about, these are the kind of projects I simply can’t do.

Hallelujah for fits.

“Honey,” I said with just a touch of sugar, “You have twenty  minutes to clean these two rooms. If you aren’t finished when the timer goes off, you can go outside and pick a switch. Is that clear?”

“NO! I won’t! Wait, what’s a switch?” he asked.

“A switch is a very thin tree branch that I will use to spank your bare behind with, should you fail to finish. Trust me, it hurts. I know from personal experience.”

Keep in mind that spanking is not actually my thing, but for a seven-year-old in the throes of a toddler tantrum, I believe there’s nothing wrong with a little gentle persuasion.

As I watched him sniffle and drag his feet to the play room, I had to smile. Visions of  my oldest sister (26 years my senior) came rushing back like sweet Karma. I can remember being a kid and thinking I’d find a really thin  branch, because the small ones probably wouldn’t hurt so bad.

Switchery is a beautiful thing.

The best part? He had that basement finished in 15 minutes, then went on with absolutely no persuasion whatsoever to finish every single chore on his list.

Now tell me that wasn’t a good bit of non-violent parenting.

Why is it that just because I read the book, I automatically think the movie won’t totally freak me out?

I’m currently sitting in the dining room, getting a play by play from Jason on the very scary movie, The Lovely Bones.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no thrill seeker. Give me a musical or a good action comedy any day, you can keep your suspense roller coasters (with the exception of Deceived with Goldie Hawn–classic). But for some reason the books aren’t usually as scary as the movies, or maybe it’s just the lack of extremely freaky music with my paperbacks that makes me think I can handle a PG-13 screamer.

Because that’s what I just did. I screamed.

Not only did I scream, but between Jason and the music, I finally had to run back in just in time to see the girl jump out of the window, narrowly escaping the bad guy with her life and proof of his truly terrible evilness. So. Terrifying.

Apparently, Jason said that I was jumping around the living room for about nine seconds in an extremely agile way–something whiny pregnant women aren’t usually inclined to do. He also said that I was almost cute, but mostly dorky. Then he pointed out that it was for sure the most exercise I’ve had in the last 32 weeks.

The movie is over and I have learned my lesson. Pregnant women should not exercise or watch scary movies.

(Jason is now wishing he’d had a video camera. Such a shame.)

You know what I love about reality TV? I love being able to recklessly cast judgements upon people I do not know.

For instance, what’s the deal with all these first time mothers on A Baby Story who are hell bent on having natural labor? I know, with soon to be four Gut Sections under my belt, I’m in no position to have an opinion here, but you’d think that a little logical deduction would sway women to at least keep their options open.

I mean, I can understand a woman wanting to go the way of the Natives on her second or third birth, because she’s got a clearer understanding of how her body is going to react to baby induced trauma (plus she’s already greased the tracks which has to help in some cases). But the first time? I had such big plans with numero uno, wanted to labor at home with soft music and scented candles until my body was at a nine, then run in real fast like to the hospital and pop it out just like my mama did.

Of course, I didn’t know at that time that my body doesn’t work that way, and had I been left alone on the plains without modern conveniences I would have been D.E.A.D. I was in active, count the minutes back labor for a solid 24 hours before I reached a three. Let me tell you, three has never sounded less impressive in my life than it did in that moment. Kind of wanted to die, right there.

When it comes down to it, the thing I’ve learned through all my careful research (thank you TLC) is that the best plan a girl can have with a baby, ANY baby, is to be pliable like the banana peel. You never know what kind of glitch might come up, best to be ready for anything so it doesn’t ruin your big moment, you know?

(And yes, I’m sure I’ll get tons of positive responses to this post because everyone always agrees with the woman who’s never pushed a baby out.)

Since I feel entitled to whatever might make me happy these days, I swung into one of those make-it-yourself frozen yogurt shops yesterday.

In case you haven’t experienced the joys of Frogurt, or Yogurtland, or one of their many, many yogurt related relatives, here’s the deal. For a cool thirty-something cents an ounce, you choose a yogurt and pile on as many toppings as you’d like, with no one around to skimp you or go too light on the peanut butter cups. It’s brilliant, and also costs a small fortune. Who says gluttony doesn’t have a price?

So I’m making my current favorite concoction of peanut butter and strawberry ice creams with Reeses cups, peanut butter chips, and fresh strawberries (I know, my ice cream brilliance astounds you), and I start in with the strawberry ice cream. Now, the secret to these hand crafted beauties is not getting too much of anything so they can’t overcharge you. I like just a little tiny bit of everything, mixed together. I do not need to fill the five gallon container they make available.

I turn on the strawberry and what do you think happens? It gets stuck. That’s right, in the blink of an eye I had three times as much strawberry as I wanted at 35 cents an ounce.

“Um, excuse me, but this machine got stuck and gave me way more than I wanted,” I say to the ten-year-old behind the counter.

“Oh, yeah, it does that.”

“Really? Because I’m now paying for your faulty machine.”

What did she do? She shrugged and went back to picking her nails. That’s right, picking her nails. Stupid ice cream cost me nearly four dollars and tasted terrible. I even glared at her over my pregnant belly. I should have demanded a refund and a sign saying, “This machine gets stuck. User beware.”

I hate getting ripped off.

And now I need frozen yogurt. (Hey, at least I’ve got some motivation to finally get dressed today, right?)

Apparently, if you spend three days laughing your belly button off, you are then required to balance it out with an equal amount of sporadic and rather constant crying.

I. Can’t. Stop. Crying.

Songs on the country station, urine tests at the OB’s office, Design Star–you name it, I’ll bawl about it. And this isn’t the nice little teary up crying, this is the full blown, sob down the front of my shirt, cry fest.

I have realized in the past week that I most certainly need to stop having babies. Apparently, all those side aches and stomach cramps in Vegas weren’t as related to the laughter as I thought they were. I can’t seem to sit in an upright position for more than about twenty minutes without this baby snuggling up to my left kidney.

(For the record, kidney’s are not made to be cuddled. They are made to be left alone so the owner of said kidneys are free to do little things like walk from one side of the house to the other without hollering out in pain.)

And so, to add to my current state of Niagra, I am now living with the very scary realization that I am incapable of taking care of anyone. My sweetheart is hell bent on being both mom and pop, but I can’t seem to convince him that the mom part needs more than an hour a night. Not sure what I’m going to do about that, no doubt I’ll think of something. A blow up doll to make lunches and accompany June to time-out, that would probably do it.

If you’re in the mood to pray for someone today, consider including my kidney. I know at least one of us would appreciate it.