Here’s this week’s Regarding Annie column, pasted in for your click-free ease and enjoyment.

“So, you know how I’m always spouting off about talking to coaches when there’s a problem, but then all I end up doing is sitting in the car with a book because I don’t want to cause a ruckus? Yeah, that ended tonight.

Here’s the thing about my husband. He’s rather passive when it comes to public parenting, especially where coaches are concerned. He’s as far from an in your face parent as a fellow can get; the coaches probably wonder who the scary guy stalking the game is, and why he carries a gun.

But Mr. Athletic is out of town and has left all baseball and soccer related activities in my ever so capable, unsupervised, pregnant hands. Oh the power.

So tonight Harry had a baseball game. Here’s the thing about Harrison and baseball. He loves it, he’s a fantastic little hitter, but when it comes to field time, he gets totally distracted. This is why the outfield is a great place for him. He’s the youngest on his team, leave the infield playing to the big boys who aren’t afraid to catch a fast ball. It is a machine pitching league, and he is barely seven. That can be intimidating.

But when my kid sits out two of five innings in a seven and eight-year-old “equal opportunity” league, with only two kids on the bench, it irks me. Yes, I know he stares at clouds, but it’s freaking right field. Who cares.

And so, after the game, I approached the coach.

“Coach, do you have a second?” I asked.

“Sure,” he says with a smile, completely unaware of who I am or what my problem might be. Poor fellow.

“I’m just wondering if it was my fault tonight that My Boy sat out two innings. I know we were a few minutes late–” first time ever this year “–because I thought it was at another field, but I felt like with a team this big, that was a little excessive.”

I can’t help it, when I get up on my high horse, I can be kind of…frightening. Especially when I’m pregnant and I puff my stomach and chest out, put my hands on my hips, and stare a big grown man in the eye like I’m his mother. The result is always the same: naked fear.

“Oh, uh, that must have been an oversight,” he says.

Now if the man had half a brain, he’d have left it there and not said the next few words. “Well, actually, I should back up,” he says, getting totally defensive. “I mean, I don’t want to have to babysit anyone…”

Babysit? You’re working with seven-year-olds and you don’t want to babysit? Welcome to my life, buddy.

Instead of ripping him a new one, I looked him straight in the eye and said, “No problem, I think outfield is the perfect place for him at this age. But sitting out two innings was unnecessary.” Then leaned forward a bit and crowded his personal space, just so he’d see that I was perfectly capable of giving him a black eye.

At this point he very sheepishly took a step back and replied again that yes, it must have “been an oversight” (oversight my eye) and that it certainly wouldn’t happen again.

And that, my friends, is how you get your kid equal opportunities, whether the coaches like it or not.”

You know, I love that my husband loves his job. I love that it gives him opportunities to go learn amazing tough guy skills, things that could potentially save his life and are also really, really fun. I even love that his work pays for all of this necessary training.

But why does it have to be in Florida?

Not only is he on his second family-free week, surrounded by amazing teachers and partaking of action and adventure and new knowledge every single day, but he’s spending his afternoons on the beach, with a book. And when the sun dips down below the ocean, he retreats to his room to dress for dinner. Dinner spent at whatever local seafood restaurant catches his team’s eye.

I know it’s work, and I know he supposedly like us best, but seriously, I feel like I have this wave of unexplainable frustration building up inside my body that wants to shoot irrational comments all over the phone line. No matter how much he might say that we’re preferable, I can’t help feeling like it’s a lie. Because right now, I would trade him places in a heart beat.

Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t had me time for a while. Maybe it’s the fact that even though I get to go to the Casual Blogger Conference this weekend, I’ll still be working, and I’ve still been bending over backwards to find people to shuffle my kids here and there so they’re properly supervised while I’m away. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ll have to come home a little early every night so I can save on babysitting, which is costing me a cool fortune this week.

Oh gosh, I am actually crying over this. Stupid pregnant hormones.

All I know is Monday is Memorial Day, and if I don’t get away for multiple hours of honest to goodness pampering, I think I might scream. I feel like I need a good half a day where I’m alone with myself (well, myself and a pedicurist), knowing that Jason is watching the kids. Jason is changing the diapers. Jason is folding the whites. Jason dragging June to time-out every ten minutes.

I don’t remember the last time anyone offered me that kind respite. It’s been over two years since I’ve had a pedicure, I can’t even remember whether it involves my feet or my hands. And frankly, Dave Ramsey can shove it.

(Luckily, I’m pretty sure Jason will gladly give me whatever I want because he’s smart like that. No one wants to live with a pregnant woman on the edge. Well, not this close to the edge, anyway.)

So I was visiting with one of my girlfriends last night about her exciting kid-free life. You know the case, she gets to work with big people who talk in complete sentences and rarely discuss things like urine or breast pads. Oh, the days.

She was telling me about a friend of hers who has recently become a stay-at-home mom. With the birth of her first child, their relationship has changed. It seems like her friend is suddenly on a witch hunt for drama, creating problems where there are none and making assumptions that aren’t even in the ballpark of sane. Like any civilized adult, my darling girlfriend was totally perplexed and confused. What’s happening?

Let’s just say she asked the right girl. See, when a woman spends her days in a conversation-free environment where all she does is mindless busy work interspersed with bouts of discipline and tantrums, she has a lot of time with Zelda. Zelda is that girl that lives in our brain. She’s overdramatic, melodramatic, and does not see things clearly. She is also bored.

In fact, without another sane adult around all day to neutralize her wild brain concoctions, Zelda has this amazing ability to convince us that our lives are much more frightening/upsetting/stressful/emotional than they really are. Zelda wants all of us to be basket cases because she is a basket case.

New moms who spend their days alone with an infant are particularly susceptible to Zelda’s influence. Without a strong support of other women to talk to, Zelda kind of takes over until we become weepy, offended wrecks who are sure the entire world is out to get us. (Of course, we no longer have much contact with the world, so how it can be out to get us is beyond me.)

The trick for stay-at-home mom’s is to have a support of some kind, virtual or telephonal or neighboral, who can help us laugh at the stupid things and nip our insanity in the bud. Trust me, it’s the only way to survive.

(Also, I have a little song I sing in my head or out loud when I start silent monologuing about something inconsequential. I sing it until my train of thought is securely off track and Zelda has been officially evicted. Get yourself a song, it’s only a little crazy.)

Today I’m guest posting over at alwaysaomethingtotalkabout.com, a great site with some wonderful contributors. And hey, we know I’m always looking for a place to be extra-opinionated. Check out my take on pornography.

You’re going to be really proud of me when I tell you this. Jason was gone all last week, and is gone again this week, and I didn’t whine once (here).

You’ll be especially impressed when you hear that June made it her mission in life to destroy our home and family one bottle of chocolate syrup at a time. To name just a few, there was the Pearler Beads incident, the dresser incident, the urine incident, and with an added emphasis on sassy talk and violence, I’m living with a monster. The fact that she had a cold didn’t slow her down, it exacerbated the problem.

And every single person we saw or talked to on the phone, the first thing she told them was, “My daddy’s gone and I’m sad.” She failed to add, “I’ve decided the best way to handle this is to ruin my mother’s life.”

After a particularly bad episode last Thursday afternoon, I went in my room and crumpled to my knees by the side of the bed. I wanted to bawl about how miserable she was making everyone and how hard my stewardship felt, but once I got down there and started blubbering, I felt like an idiot. Of all the challenges people face, of all the trials I see others go through, from health crisis to marriage catastrophes to financial ruin, I’m bawling because my two year old ruined my carpet?

I don’t know, I couldn’t even bring myself to tell the Lord about my troubles, they felt so insignificant and foolish. And it wasn’t a bad foolish, I think I was supposed to feel that way. In fact, if I were to take a guess, I’d say Someone was reprimanding me for my uber whineyness. Someone was telling me to sniff it up, get a grip and go clean the carpet.

I’m all about pouring your heart out to God and the internet, but this was one instance where I don’t think that would have helped me. And hey, when it came right down to it, I wasn’t left alone. I had my laundry pile, two days of Tivo to watch, and a coca cola classic. Who could ask for anything more?

While spending most of yesterday lounging in my bed and ignoring things like wet training pants and food for my offspring, I came up with a brilliant parenting scheme to ensure my children have an enlightening summer filled with character promoting lessons.

We are going to take President Hinckley’s Be Attitudes and focus our morning devotional/scripture study around them. Also I might incorporate some uplifting field trips and perhaps posters, depending on my energy level. Really, it’s such a great idea,  just think of all the places I could go with this and how amazing my children will be come September.

For instance, the first is “Be Grateful”. I’m planning on going an entire week without doing any laundry or fixing my kids any food. With my additional morning motivational pep talk, by the end of the week, they’ll have a clear understanding of exactly why we tell Mother, “Thank you, beautiful bountiful wise one, for without you we are nothing but stinky, whiny pions.” I am planning on having them practice this phrase throughout the week.

The third Be Attitude is “Be Clean”. I have great plans for this one. I’ve decided that it’s time my children learned to wash their hands. We’re actually going to practice washing our hands and faces at least twice a day. I know, you’re impressed. It’s asking a lot, since the combination of water and soap seems to repel them like some kind of toxic death trap, but I’m certain that this exercise will teach them the joys of cleanliness. Also they will learn to scrub toilets, lift the lid, and flush. We’re planning on spending the entire week in the bathroom.

The one I’m most excited about is “Be Still”. I’ve decided the best way to teach them this attribute is to tie them up, gag them, and leave them in their rooms. Of course, we’ll incorporate our morning character building sessions, and they will have appropriately spaced bathroom breaks intermingled with sufficient portions of toast and luke warm water, but for the most part, I’ve decided that the only way m kids will ever learn to be still is through physical restraint. Luckily, I love them enough to follow through here.

Feel free to join me this summer as we take our children on a tour of the prophet’s “Be’s”. I’m sure they’ll be cleaner, quieter children if we all follow my plan.

Toasted cheese sandwiches on white bread with processed cheese and loads of butter. And I just ate two of them.

Let’s all congratulate me, today I hit my goal weight. That’s right, with three plus months left on the baby timer, I just reached my delivery weight. How awesome is that. Let’s go get a cheeseburger!

I’ve been thinking about it, and in all actuality, how much more weight do I need to gain these next three months? Five pounds? Six? How much does a newborn need to weigh to be in the non-colic club? And if I go back to salads and soup and skip those waffles with pools of butter in the morning, I could technically keep the scale from moving ahead too much more. Of course, I’ll also have to give up my daily 32 oz. Coca Cola Classic, a crutch I blame entirely on my cute pregnant SIL.

Oh man I need a coke.

The one good thing here is that my husband is out of town this week and next, and during the last five weeks of this gestational vacation I’ll be flying solo. In fact, he comes home the day before my scheduled c-section (if I can manage to keep my knees closed before then, since in the past the baby is out and named a good week prior to my upcoming delivery date).

But when Jason is gone, I’m the low-cal queen of the universe. I stock the freezer with my lean cuisines, make sure to have plenty of summer sausage and almonds on hand, and voila! Total skinniness. (Except I’m not usually pregnant, and I’m not usually quite this unstable, and my kitchen doesn’t usually have packages of oreo’s stashed in places that my children can’t reach. Also there might be mint truffles.)

Oh well, get me through this pregnancy without any casualties and it will be a miracle. If the scale has to suffer a little, so be it.

Here’s this week’s Regarding Annie from the paper. Seriously, it was probably one of the most unfair things ever. There should be a law, seriously.

“So I’m big on having no expectations for Mother’s Day. I’ve learned over the past few years that Mother’s Day is best left on the back burner. If something shows up on my plate, I consider it a nice little bonus. No expectations, no let down.

Perhaps one of the reasons I feel this way is because I’m married to a man who makes sure to run the kids to the dollar store on Saturday night, and always lets me sleep in on Sunday morning. Really, how much better can it get?

So I’m in the family room folding clothes last Saturday and there’s a knock at the door. Harrison runs up and opens it wide as I finish stacking the whites and haul myself off the leather. As I pass the windows at the front of my house, a glimpse of something bright and beautiful catches my eye.

That’s right, it’s the flower man, and he has brought me flowers. And not just any flowers, stargazer lilies, my favorite flowers in the entire world. Man, my husband is good. Talk about an unexpected moment of joy.

“Oh my gosh!” I gushed, “Those are so beautiful! I can’t believe him; that man never ceases to surprise me. Where do I sign?”

The man smiled at me and looked down at his clipboard. “So you’re Phylis?” he asks.

Phylis? Who in the heck is Phylis?

“Um, no. I’m Annie.”

“Oh,” he says, frantically checking the address and confirming the house number. The house is right, the flowers are right, but where is Phylis?

“Yeah,” he says, “I uh, I guess I have the wrong address.”

Now, is it just me, or does it seem totally unethical and inherently wrong for a florist to bring flowers to the wrong door, the day before Mother’s Day, meet a young mother, barefoot and pregnant with three scrawling little children pulling on her shirttails and then leave her empty-handed?

Couldn’t he have just said, “Whoops! Annie, yeah, definitely Annie. These flowers are totally for you, because you obviously deserve them and need them, and boy, do you want him drawing on your walls like that?” Isn’t it obvious that Phylis doesn’t exist? Isn’t it obvious that fate wants me to have those flowers, planned for me to have those flowers, would like to give me those flowers?

As he started to walk away, something inside my very fragile brain snapped.

“You know what?” I said, “Please make a note, for future reference, that taking flowers to a woman’s door the day before Mother’s Day, then ripping them from her overworked, dish-soaked hands just because her name isn’t Phylis is a mean and cruel trick. Aren’t you the guy who’s supposed to spread joy and happiness to the world? Aren’t you the Santa Clause of all young mothers who feel neglected and forgotten? Isn’t it your job to bring me flowers? Where are my flowers?? I WANT FLOWERS!”

Okay, so maybe I didn’t say all of that, but I did let him know that life isn’t fair, and I did return to my humble abode with empty arms.

Well, not completely empty. Without so much as a prod, my little children threw their arms around my legs and hugged me.

And quite frankly, in that moment, it was enough. Almost.”

I hate Pamela Anderson.

So the fam and I have been soaking up the southern Utah rays the past few days (hence my blog free foray). Sounds great right? All rainbows and sunburns.

Honestly, I was so excited to go to the pool. I know, pregnant albino whales don’t usually feel anxious to don a bikini with a maternity tank top and float around in public places, but I really thought I was over it. I mean, I’m a confident gestating woman, right? I have no problem rocking the tummy panel and changing out my stilettos for flats (okay, so that one has been hard.) But when it comes right down to it, I have no current pregnant complaints.

(We all know that last statement was a lie.)

So just when I’m feeling all light and buoyant, checking my top for tan lines, this stupid Pamela Anderson Minus Ten Years woman walks into the water area. Not only is she skinny and tan and blond and bikini clad, but her oil saturated body was followed by no less than four children.

Oh my gosh, she even took my excuse away. Those blasted kids.

In point two seconds I went from feeling like a prima-donna fertile goddess of the sun, to a pasty roly-poly newly emerged from under her winter rock. All I could think of was, “How can I disappear without anyone noticing I’m gone?” I’ve never wanted to get my hair wet so badly. I think I spent the majority of the following hour completely submerged in I Hate That Girl horror.

And yeah, I’m vain. If I’m being really honest, the only reason I hated her was because more than anything in the world, at that moment, I kind of wanted to be her, boob job and all.

The only slightly redeemable aspect to this entire self-confidence crushing fiasco was the fact that somehow, my husband managed to not look at her (or at least he did it undetected). Trust me, I glared and glowered at him from across the pool for nearly ten minutes, with just my angry eyes peeking out from the depths of the kiddie section.

I don’t know if it’s his super special secret agent training or what, but during that very green spell of my life, he managed to almost fool me into believing that he hadn’t seen her, and that she wasn’t hot enough to warrant a glance from him.

He did lovingly pat my thigh later and tell me that I was the most beautiful albino whale he’d ever seen. Yeah. And we all know how well that comment went over.

So I wrote this week’s Standard article as a spin off from last week’s blog post about children playing sports. (In case you’re wondering, I might have changed some names to protect the innocent, aka my son. Hey, you never know who is going to read it and hate you through him.)

Shortly after writing the article, I read this post by Vanessa over at I Never Grew Up. She voices the concern we all face as mothers: how much is too much? Since then I’ve been thinking of ways to combat this whole Must Do Extracurricular Activities mentality, and earlier this week I came up with something that I think might work for us.

I’ve decided that if we want our kids to learn baseball and soccer and tennis and basketball and singing and dance and yoga, we need to play with them. As a family. Jason and I are athletic (okay, maybe just Jason) and talented (ahem), why shouldn’t we be the ones to teach them? Why should we depend on little league and camps and lessons for everything when we’ve both got the time and energy (again, mostly Jason) to do it ourselves?

The thing is, by teaching your kids to play sports in your own backyard, you accomplish three things. First, you save money. Second, you learn to play together and have fun as a family. And third, no one is going to give your kids the time and attention they need like you will. Besides, it will mean more to them that you were the one to teach them. What kid doesn’t want that kind of attention from their folks?

To solidify this idea in my mind, I received an awesome email today from a dad who’s done just that. In response to my article, he emailed to tell me that since his kids were little, he’s organized family pickup baseball games at their local park–parents included. They’ve never depended on organized athletics to teach their kids sports, and their family has been richly blessed because of it.

His email not only impressed me, it reminded me that no one can teach them to have fun and play sports better than I can. Probably because I am the Fun Queen of the Universe. When I’m not yelling. You get the point.