In case you would like to call and ream me out about saying that all mom’s are lazy on live television, now is your chance. That’s right, I was on Studio 5 this morning and in hindsight, I think I was way too comfortable. Seriously, I should probably have gone for something a little more professional, but I can’t help it. I am what I am, and we all know that sometimes I am lazy.

If you can get someone else to put your kids to bed tonight, join these uber cool bloggers and my little old self on a girls night out conference call where you can ask us all sorts of inappropriate personal questions.

Because they do absolutely. Nothing.

So I’ve recently joined forces with a group of women who feel guilty for all the hours wasted perusing blogs on the web. In order to make ourselves feel like contributing members of the physical world (versus our virtual dish-free, no laundry allowed zone we like to roll around in), we’ve put together a little group and given ourselves a totally hip name. We’re Service Soapbox and we’re out to save the world, one diaper at a time.

In an attempt to be all cool and helpful, I volunteered my gestating self to help out with the upcoming event on April 24th, a baby shower for the March of Dimes Teddy Bear Den Program. Actually, I think I was the one who insisted we do this particular event, and therefore felt obliged to sweat a little, thus offering my services.

Let’s just make one thing clear. Apparently, I’m incapable right now of sweating over anything other than the fact that come August, my oven and coordinating bun are going to be on overload. Oh gosh, there go my pits. Just the word August and I’m all glowy in all the wrong areas.

So, after a number of weeks and a number of emails from highly motivated, amazing blog committee members, I have had to very non-gracefully tell the world that I suck. In fact, if I actually remember to show up for this thing I’m going to be really lucky.

I’m currently looking for people willing to email and remind me that I have an event to attend next month. A ride down there would be great as well. (Actually, it’s going to be at Noah’s and I’ve been dying to get my little self in there for the past year, so I really don’t want to miss it. Or the chance to serve…whatever.)

So sign up and check out this amazing upcoming event. Bring yourself and something to help the babies. Read all about it right here. We want you and your guilt, so come join the Service Soapbox and help us make a little difference.

So Thursday morning around elevenish I’ll be making my routine monthly statement on Studio 5, our local NBC morning show.

In my desire to keep it real, I wanted call the segment, “Tips for the Lazy Parent”. In their desire to keep child services from coming after me, Darin feels more comfortable with “How to be Present When you Can’t be Present.”

See, the thing is, we’re all lazy sometimes, somewhere in our parenting. There’s not a parent out there who doesn’t find himself or herself slacking now and then (if not more often than that); there really aren’t any rules here, it’s kind of a Choose Your Own Adventure.

So I’d like to break this down into three areas of parenting, and I want to hear your ideas. I have a few of my own, but I’ll bet some of those less-pregnant brains out there might work a little harder and faster than mine.

1. Stay-at-home parents,

2. Part-time, full-time working parents,

3. Parents who are not currently living with their children for whatever reason, whether personal or national.

I would love to hear any tips and tricks you’ve learned/gleaned/tried/considered that might make us step up our game. The trick is how to find the moments that really count. (And yes, we know quantity is best, but sometimes quantity is our biggest enemy.)

The best ideas will be spouted about on television, which makes you almost famous. Just think, all your brilliant ideas, but you won’t have to get on camera knowing you’ve gained 12 pounds since the last time they saw you. (That’s like 100 pounds, camera talk.) Can’t wait until Thursday. Do you think potato sacks are back in style yet?

(Oh yeah, HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOTHER DARLING! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE SO OLD!)

Because I’m obviously such a superior parent who never, ever screws anything up, I think I’m in the perfect position to judge everybody else. Check out this week’s Top of Utah Voices column with the Standard Examiner to see my current beef about parenting.

(If you’re new here, read back a bit and you’ll see that in all honesty, I probably scar my children on a regular basis with my screeching and beatings. I’m sure they’ll survive.)

Is there anything more lovely than virtual retribution? Poor Jason, the kid doesn’t have a chance. Yes, I sing his praises when he’s earned it, but he lives with the knowledge that his wife is just waiting for him to screw up so she has something good to write about. This one was a doozy. Check out this week’s Regarding Annie column for his latest marital transgression.

So my kids have this thing for the Lightening McQueen version of “Life is a Highway” (I have no idea who sings anything, so that’s the best reference I can give). They love it, I want nothing more than to bang my head against the dashboard until the repeat button breaks.

Today the kids and I were in the car and Rex (um, that’s not his real name, his real name is Frankincense–I changed it for security purposes) asked me to please play “The Chicken Song”. The what? I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, since their choices are usually Englebert Humperdink or The Carpenters. As a default, I went for Lightening McQueen and Rex yells out, “Yay! The Chicken Song!”

I couldn’t figure out where the chickens figured in, until the guitar started riffing. Apparently, Rex thinks the guitar is a chicken. He sat in the back seat “bawking” with the guitar–excuse me, chicken–happy as boiled egg.

Next time I hear a guitar, I won’t be able to help myself from saying it: “Sounds like chicken.” Yes, poultry is taking over the world.

I think I’m suffering from facebook fobia.

So two weeks ago at church, my girlfriend Tricia’s husband, Mike, gave this big huge lesson on media. He basically touched on all the scariest things about blogging and facebooking and twittering–it was enough to give me the total and complete computer willies.

Because let’s face it, I make my living by talking about my most personal life (okay, maybe not a living, but enough petty cash to get a new blouse every month). And when he started talking about just how not private facebook is, it really put me over the edge.

See, I don’t spend a whole lot of time perusing the internet or drooling over old boyfriends on facebook (okay, maybe just a little time), but I do have plenty of myself in plenty of public places. And it’s not such a big deal for me, but my husband? Probably not so healthy that his life is such an accessible piece of business.

However, after ruminating on this very tricky subject for a good 42 minutes, I realized something important: I have yet to hear of a mommy blogger who has had her kids abducted because she wrote about them on a regular basis. In fact, anyone who actually reads about my parenting woes would probably be more than happy to let me keep the little dumplings–it’s not like I live in a world of clean faces and streak free undies, you know what I mean?

I think the real problem we face isn’t internet privacy (since in today’s world, you basically have to be computer free to keep your personal information under wraps), it’s letting the computer take over our lives. I have really strict internet rules for myself, because part of me instinctively knows that this little piece of synthetic material has the potential to be more detrimental to my mommying than a full-time job. I’m not about to let that happen.

So I never spend more than one hour a day on the computer (usually not all at once). Because let’s face it, the laundry isn’t going to wash itself. What about you?

Is there anything worse than the self revelation that way down deep where it counts, you’re trashy?

So I’ve been searching for a new signature perfume for the past few years. Perfume is tricky business. We’re not just talking about something that smells nice on paper, it has to love your skin, stay on your skin, and send a message to the world in general that you are a happy, confident, sexy woman.

(It should also have the power to turn a shower-free day into Springtime in the Rockies, cover up any bad house smells before company comes through the door, and make every man in your path beg to do your bidding.)

I’ve tried a number of high-end brands and decent mid-graders, from Ralph Laurens to Gucci to L’eau d’Izzey, there’s nothing I would like more than to wear something and fall in love with it.

And it can go totally wrong. I remember in high school finding a fragrance I loved and talking my mom into getting me the big bottle. The first day I was wearing it, a cute guy in my choir class told me I smelled just like his mother. He might as well have complimented my granny panties, I never touched the stuff again.

Perfume is a big commitment, especially where the budget is concerned. We all know that Dave Ramsey doesn’t support things like fresh fruit and cologne, I’m supposed to be living on rice and beans and shower gel right now. Still, I can’t fight this feeling that somewhere out there is a perfume that’s just waiting to give me magical powers.

Because that’s what happens when you find The One. You go from feeling fat and pregnant to knocked-up and sexy, it’s miraculous. Who knew that a bottle of perfume could give a girl a better hair day?

And so, after years of going perfumeless (seriously, the last bottle I bought was Cool Waters and that was five years ago), I walked into Pefumania the other day, and what do you think my skin accidentally discovered? That’s right, Paris Hilton, the classiest white trash heiress to ever hit the perfume aisle. One spray of her pheremone-induced potion of power and it was like magic.

And in case you’re wondering, Jason loves it, I swear I can’t put too much on. (He also suggested we keep the box because it has a “nice picture” on it, to which he then suggested we “get you a dress like that”. Right, because a dress like that’s going to be a real hit at church on Sunday.)

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

No, not Jason. Check out this week’s article before it’s gone (even if it’s outdated in the blogosphere). It was one of those parenting moments that makes us feel like for once, we’re doing something right.

Okay, so I’ve been away from my computer since Wednesday night, and we all know the only thing in the world that could keep my attention for that long is my main man, Rambo. He has returned from the Great Wilderness sporting a full beard and a military grade rifle. So hot.

Seriously, I would love nothing more right now than to lock myself in our bedroom and play Adam and Eve for the next twelve years. Unfortunately, we have 3.4 children who seem to think they should be attended to every 3.4 minutes.

So I’ve been engrossed with all the feedback on my Dr. Fiasco post, and I’ve made a very important decision: I called on Thursday morning and fired my OB. He doesn’t know it yet, and to be perfectly honest, he probably isn’t going to care one bit and I would venture a guess that he’ll never even know if I don’t point it out to him.

But I feel that this is an appropriate place to say where I will no longer be going. Here, the Circle of Life Women’s Center in South Ogden.

Let me just tell you, this place is like a first class spa. All leather seating, you get a buzzer when you sign in, there’s a huge play place, they give ultrasounds with every visit (lower death rays than the sonogram) and make you a CD–it’s the glossiest, glamiest, gucciest place you’ve ever dreamed of removing your pants at for medicinal purposes.

With June, I saw Dave Bierer. Nice, friendly, never remembered my name. I don’t know about you, but I kind of feel like a doctor should hear my voice from down the hall, break into a grin, and practically skip his way to my visit. I say this because my OB in Maryland was like that. He loved me, I loved him.

I can forgive the whole never remembering my name bit, but when you let your client get herself into a serious medical condition and don’t even take the time to call and see how she is or ever check up on her, I fire you. Hence, my move to Dr. Housel, who I have now fired for THE EXACT SAME REASONS.

Here’s the thing. I am not cattle. Circle of Life is apparently so great, so fancy schmancy, and so yuppy, the doctors have replaced eye contact and first name memory with shiny floors and monthly ultrasounds. Sorry, but I’d rather go see an antiquated family doc who can say, “Hi Annie!” without checking my chart first.

So yeah, Circle of Life, you’re fired. I am pregnant woman, hear me roar (and all the other lovely bodily noises that go with gestation).

Hey, I have five months left. I’m sure I can find someone willing to cut this kid out of me, right?