Let’s be frank. Family home evening isn’t my best bit of mothering. Don’t get me wrong, 80% of the time we manage a prayer, a song, some random bit of lesson that may or may not be scripturally based, almost always followed by a rousing game of charades.

I am bad at FHE. I know it’s one of the most important things we can do, and I feel desperate to fulfill this part of parenting, but I didn’t grow up with it. It’s hard to do something that you only did on the random occasion when you were all locked in the car waiting for Dad to finish his business deal, and Mom had a church magazine handy.

But last night I had a full blown revelation. Actually, I got it last week and it stuck around, so I thought that for once, it must be a valid idea.

We decided to do a Title of Tintle’s, kind of like Moroni’s Title of Liberty. Actually, it was nothing like the Title of Liberty, but I wanted some kind of scriptural reference so my kids wouldn’t think us complete heathens.

We took a big piece of poster board, gave everyone crayons, and proceeded to come up with words and phrases that describe our family (only the good/hopeful ones, not the bad/realistic ones). We talked about loyalty and listening, paying compliments and showing affection. We wrote about patience, love, Jesus, playing games, being together, vacationing, playing in the backyard, jokes, and paint. The paint was Harrison’s idea.

It is currently posted in my kitchen, and every time I walk by it, I feel this little stirring of hope that maybe, just maybe, my kids will turn out okay. Maybe they’ll eventually stop hitting each other and lying to us, and maybe they’ll actually learn to like cleaning toilets (I slipped that one in when no one was watching).

The point is, we can’t predict what our family will be, but if I’ve learned anything from famous goal setters and dreamers, it’s that we can do more than hope for the best, we can and should reach for it.

(I’ll let you know how the toilet cleaning works out._

Is it mean that I don’t want to share my leftover pineapple orange juice from Mother’s Day with my children?

Here’s the thing. I’m willing to give them just about anything they could possibly need, and plenty of what they want. I would include here my makeup and personal hygiene paraphernalia, as well as morning television viewing time (like I want to watch PBS kids?), any and all spare change they find in the bottom of my purse, and on a rare occasion, my Russell Stover Sugar Free Mints.

But you know what? I don’t want to share my juice. I don’t care if we never have juice in the house. I don’t care if they look at me with those great big cow eyes and salivate all over my shoes. I don’t even care that they’re thirsty. It’s called water, people. Help yourself.

Because when it comes to this annual drink (I only have it on Mother’s Day), I want to savor every stinking drop of my calorie inflated sugary bliss. Keep the eggs and the toast, go to town on my chocolate bar from Church, but leave my juice alone.

Right now I have very of anything that I can truly call my own, body included. But when it comes to my pineapple orange juice, hands off unless you want to lose them. Seriously.

It’s Mother’s Day this weekend, and I have to tell you, this might be my favorite holiday. Why? Because I always think Jason will forget about it or ignore it, and he always exceeds my non-expectations. Somewhere in the last few years I realized that the trick to a fabulous Mother’s Day is just that–go expectationless.

Don’t get me wrong, my gifts usually come from the dollar store, and it’s not like he brings in a marching band, but when you’re not expecting anything, dollar store gifts kind of rock. Besides, I’ll take an omlet in bed over a brass band any day.

When it comes right down to it, my favorite thing about Mother’s Day is the fact that I have kids. Sure, sometimes I want to run away to Mexico, and it’s no secret that I tend to curse in the laundry room on a regular basis, but I like them, stains and all. They’re independent and intelligent, and most of all, they make me want to get to Heaven because I know all three of them will probably be there (actually, the jury’s still out on the June Bug).

So I’ll put up with tantrum’s during church and routine poopy diapers, and I’ll try to breathe through Harrison’s sassy phases without smacking him. I can even brave these last few months of incubation with number four because I know that in the end, we’re going to get one more willful little angel out of it all.

My job is divine. My kids are amazing only becuase they’re mine. I have no idea what they’ll look like in twenty years, but I don’t doubt that I’ll learn more about love and forgiveness and patience and humor than I ever wanted to know.

Whether you’ve been there, are there, or hope to someday be there, may your Mother’s Day be filled with unexpected moments of joy, and if you’re lucky, a dish-free sink. Hey, we take what we can get, right?

Here is this week’s Regarding Annie column. It was killer not to post it straight to the blog, but I do have deadlines and all that jazz. Gotta give them something that makes the word count. Enjoy, because I certainly didn’t.

“So, nearly two weeks ago I went in for my monthly baby doctor appointment and left a nice little yellow sample for them to splash around in. During my visit, I mentioned to the doctor that I was a little concerned that I might be coming down with a UTI. (If you don’t know what UTI stands for, I hate you.) He said they’d run some lab work on it and get back to me.

Of course, we all know that I never check messages. In fact, last I checked my home phone had 97 new messages, despite the “Please DON’T leave us a message because I’m too cranky to check them,” verbal warning on our machine.

So seven days after my appointment I checked my cell phone messages, only to find out that I had been supposed to pick up a prescription a week ago. But I wasn’t feeling sick, so it was probably nothing. I called the nurse, and we decided that if I should feel even the slightest twinge, I needed to call for a prescription pronto.

Of course, the next morning I woke up feeling … infectiony. I called in, they ordered my prescription, and then I forgot about it completely, left it sitting at my neighborhood Wal-Mart, and left for Women’s Conference, a two-day religious revolution for girls, an hour and a half from my home.

By Thursday I was nervous. Not only was I frequently urinating (bad sign when a pregnant woman pees more than usual), but I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable, if you know what I mean. (If you don’t know, then I hate you.) I chugged some cranberry juice and decided I could probably hold out until Friday night, that was only two more days. How bad could it get?

Friday morning I woke up in a fog. It was day two of Women’s Conference, and I knew the classes I wanted to attend would all potentially get me into Heaven. I shuffled to the bathroom and could barely find the energy to brush my teeth.

“You need to go home,” said a little voice over my shoulder. Instantly I knew it was the devil, because there was no way he wanted me to hear about Jesus today, right? Stupid devil.

For the next hour, I fought his insistent nagging, certain that Satan himself was trying to drag me to hell, minus one Jesus class at a time. How dare he interfere with my salvation? Did he really think I was that stupid?

Don’t ask me how I made it to campus and out of my vehicle, or how I managed to walk nearly a mile, then sit through an entire class, before it finally dawned on me. I was ill. Very ill. And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the devil, but a little angel that was screaming at me to get myself home and get some medication before I ended up dead.

So here I sit with a full blown kidney infection. Talk about getting my wires crossed. Let me tell you, sometimes the voice you hear loudest is the one that loves you best.”

Sorry, sweetheart, but the girls have got to go.

Let me tell you, I’m not sure if it’s been my impressive weight gain or my impressive pregnant hormones, but the girls are literally getting bigger every day. At first I was all, “Woo-hoo! Go bigger bra size!” Now? Not loving my ginormous enhancement.

It’s funny, because when I was in high school and even beyond, I envied my well endowed sisters. Like the inability to go running was some sign of True Womanhood? Like having a large chest makes you feel more qualified to handle life in general? Let me tell you, as of this week I have realized something: it doesn’t. Back pain? Yes. Eternal wisdom? No.

I’ve realized that big boobs make me feel fat (along with my gradually growing gut). Between all these massive mounds I’m now sporting, I feel like a walking mountain range, not a glowing statue of fertility. If fertility means I can no longer button a single jacket, then I’m not one bit sad about giving it up after this baby. (Not that I’m dogging fertility, Heaven knows how many years I’ve spent running after that train. First Class is never as good as you think it is, by the way.)

And so, much to my husband’s total heartbreak, when the time comes for me to have my tummy professionally tucked (oh, do not doubt that I shall, I shall), I think I’ll leave the rest of my goods alone. I am missing my barely there B cup. Sure, when my nursing days are said and done I’ll be left with nothing more than a ghost of these blazing glory days, but frankly, it’s a nice, manageable little ghost.

My son is in baseball.

This should be a fun, exciting time of life for me, being the mother of a budding athlete, but it’s not. Watching Harrison (almost 7) play baseball brings back an onslaught of painful memories from being a kid who thought sports were the only road to true, lifetime happiness–happiness that was unattainable to me because no matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t going to be that athlete.

So, for the past week, I’ve watched my beautiful son get stuck in the outfield and be last every time to bat. It’s not that he’s bad at sports, it’s that he’s the youngest and the smallest on his team. And I feel like throwing up.

Yesterday I went to a funeral. It was for a boy in our ward who has spent his life struggling with muscular dystrophy, the disease that finally took his life.

Kevin has a huge family of mostly brothers, and these boys love to play sports. They love to play them, watch them, breathe them–they’re about the most passionate bunch of athletes you’ve ever seen. And this sweet, wonderful boy spent his life on the sidelines, watching and cheering. Nobody loved sports more than Kevin.

During the few years he was able to play when he was a small child, he never got on base, never scored a run. And still he was happy.

My friends, I have realized that these things we choose to agonize over as mothers have just about as much validity as spit. Harrison loves baseball, he doesn’t even know the outfield isn’t the best place on the field. He loves his glove, he loves practice, he loves his uniform. He may never be the best at anything, but who in the world cares?

My boy can run. My boy can play. He can hit the ball and make it from first to home, without a thought in this sweet little head. We can hug without worrying about the confines of a wheelchair. I will thank Heavenly Father every day of my life that he’s still here, and he’s still ours.

If you have the time, check out this new video of Stephanie Nielsen, aka Nie Nie. Very inspiring.

My scale is completely out of control.

Non-pregnant annie is a thoughtful eater. She eats small amounts, plenty of veggies, and avoids the white stuff. When she wants a brownie she has one, but not the whole pan. She checks her weight a few times a week and stays within a five pound area.

Frankly, I have no idea who that person is because she’s so far from this pregnant whale sitting before you.

I am 24 weeks pregnant, and quite frankly, I have no problem with gaining 30 pounds during pregnancy. 30 pounds is healthy, it’s more than substantial, and it’s expected. Just not at 24 weeks.

This is what happens when you pretend for a month that your scale is broken, and only venture to step on it when you’ve been sick and fasting for the past two days, because you’re sure that you’ll get the best possible result. But what do you do when the best possible result is at least six pounds more than you thought it would be?

Up to this point I’ve been kidding myself with lectures on how this is my last one, I’ll never do this again, just enjoy the pregnancy. But how can I enjoy the pregnancy when my tummy panels are now tight? What kind of happiness is that bringing me? I’m already waddling, for crying out loud.

When all is said and done, I don’t want to have a seven pound newborn and a twenty-pound brownie on my back. That does not sound like postpartum fun. I’ve got to get a grip sometime, today is as good as tomorrow.

And so, as of this morning, I am starting fresh and getting reacquainted with that girl who used to say no more than yes. There’s no reason for me to feel any worse about myself than I feel right now (which is pretty bad). I am suddenly remembering how much more I like myself when I use the brake handle and exercise a little taste bud discipline.

In case you’re worried, I am not going on a diet. I am not trying to lose weight. I just need to stay where I am for a while–like the next 14 weeks. If I can firmly hold back the tide of my ravenous appetite, I think we’ll all be a lot happier. (All, meaning me and the people who have to live with me/socialize with me/help me in stores.)

Because there’s two of them.

So last Saturday I spent the afternoon at the Women’s Expo with my dearest friend Elisa, the great brain behind the Casual Blogger Conference and Mormon Mommy Blogs, plugging all things blog worthy to every passing female that stopped to steal candy from us. (Seriously, there were some major sticky fingers out there.)

After getting myself comfortable, I turned to the table of bloggers next to us. Once I said hi and took a good look, I was shocked to find myself seated next to none other than Marie Osmond, minus a decade or two.

So I started chatting with her in my usual let-me-give-you-way-too-much-information-about-myself kind of way, and suddenly I had to do a double take because, get this,  there’s freaking two of them.

That’s right, Marie-Osmond-Only-Better: Twins.

These girls are amazing. Not only are they gorgeous, but they’re fun and talented in a way I can’t personally fathom. They’re the creators of The DIY Dish, one of the best blog crafting how-to site’s I’ve found, and unlike Marie, their creative ability actually stretches beyond doll manufacturing (although I don’t doubt they could do that as well).

And not only do they regularly come up with how-to tutorials, but they actually film a demonstration every week and post it on their blog. For idiots like me who need to see it in action to understand it, this is ideal.

I know, I just met twin, Marie Osmond, crafting movie star geniuses.

So pop on over there, meet my new creative let’s-do-lunch twin girlfriends, and get your how-to fix for the day.

Check out yesterday’s segment on Studio 5. We talked about demoralized men and their power hungry wives.

Puh-lease.

First, I’m on Studio 5 this morning at eleven here in Utah on KSL TV. I think they’ve got me scheduled for two segments, so be on guard. We’re talking about marriage, and since mine is still functioning, and I’m totally opinionated, I get to represent the universal modern day wife. Or Something. If nothing else, watch to see how huge I’ve gotten in the past month.

Secondly, I’m going to be at Women’s Conference down at BYU tomorrow and Friday. If you’re there and want to grab some dinner, Elisa (Motherboard) and I are now arranging a Come-Eat-At-The-Caffeteria-Where-We-Don’t-Have-To-Tip get together for any and all bloggers who’d like to hook up with us. So far, there will be two of us. Come and make it three! We’ll meet at five on Thursday evening outside the Wilk Ballroom on the couches at the top of the stairs. I’ll be the one who looks nine months pregnant. Seriously.

Here’s this week’s Regarding Annie Column. (Also available any time simply by clicking my face over there.)

“So last night my husband said The Wrong Thing.

In case you haven’t lived in a house with other people in it, laundry is kind of a huge issue. It’s taken me 10 years to figure out how to successfully incorporate this necessary evil into my days — an evil, by the way, that multiplies right along with my posterity.

Recently I did a little reworking in our bedroom to find a better laundry place.
We have no walk-in closet, and over the years I’ve realized that if I hide it all away in a hamper, it won’t ever get done until I’m so far behind there’s no catch up. I prefer a quiet corner and a laundry basket/pile that speaks to me when I walk by. It says things like, “Wow, I sure hope you have clean underwear tomorrow,” and “How many days have you worn that T-shirt now?”
“I’m sick of seeing the laundry pile in our room,” Jason says last night. “We need some kind of a hamper.”

To most sane adults, this is a simple comment with a simply proposed solution.

But I’m not sane; I’m pregnant. What my pregnant mind heard was, “You stink at laundry, you have no control of this household and I want a new and better wife who’s younger and hotter and less pregnant than you.”

So what did I do? I entered into what we like to call a Gestational Out of Body Experience. I started to yell. And each time I yelled, I thought to myself, “Whoa, Sister, that was really loud and kind of rude, he was just making a suggestion …” and then I would defend myself to myself by yelling a little louder and getting a little snarkier.

Within about 10 minutes of said behavior, I’d managed to stir my slow to anger husband into, well, anger. And the second he got angry, I got all calm and listeny. Like I wasn’t that crazy woman accusing him of not appreciating me, or criticizing my life and my laundry schedule (a schedule which cannot function with a stupid hamper)
.
And that’s when he said it. Those fatal words that he casually tossed out, making me instantly want to rip his throat out.

“You know, you talk about housework like it’s a job that only you can do. It’s not like it takes any training, I could do it just as well as you tomorrow if I had to, it’s not like my job which takes actual skill.”

I got very quiet (for a second). It was one of those moments where I knew this disagreement was a hair’s breath away from a full-fledged, hammer throwing fight, or a truce with a bad aftertaste.

It was also one of those moments where my hormones hit a lull and I got smart.

I decided to let his comment go, because I am bigger than this laundry pile, and my knowledge goes deeper than a box of dryer sheets. And for all of the women out there who have made this a profession, I pity the man who has to step into our shoes, because them stilettos are freaking back breaking. Don’t you tell me that kind of footwear doesn’t take skill.

I hope, because I love him dearly, that he never has to crowd his big fat size eleven into one of my skinny little, four-inch-high, eight and a half’s. Now that would be the day.”