A friend of mine lost her daughter to high school graduation last week. We were visiting the other day and she spoke longingly of the days when her kids were little and into everything.

It’s a good thing we’re friends so I can remind her that she doesn’t want small children again, she’s only experiencing temporary insanity. Her youngest is eleven and all her kids can use the bathroom, make their beds, and feed themselves without bibs or choking hazards.

I guarantee, one week with three little kids and she would gladly trade them in for a nice book and a bottle of ibuprofen. Don’t get me wrong, it can be fun. They call that grand kids.

Speaking of feeding themselves, when is it the June bug will stop dumping the little glass of water she insists on having all over whatever food she’s eating? And how do I keep her off the counters? She’s worse than a cat, running for the butter and dish soap every chance she gets. Too big for the high chair, too naughty for the bar stools.

Hear me now, Oh World, I will not miss this.

Today is Harrison’s last day of kindergarten. Funny, I think I’m sadder that kindergarten is over than I was that it started. Instead of, “Oh, my baby’s gone!” I’m now feeling like, “Great. The kid’s coming home.”

I am pleased to announce, however, that thanks to something I heard on Dr. Laura last week I have revamped an old parenting plan with phenomenal results. (This is not a show I usually listen to. She sometimes makes me want to take a toothpick to my eyeballs. Come on, like people who are in love can go years without getting married or having sex?  It’s one or the other, baby, and don’t I know it. She’s never practiced it and she has no clue what she’s talking about.)

So anyway, she’s reading this email from a mom who does a point system with her kids. They get points for all sorts of good behavior, and at the end of the week, if they’ve earned 20 points, they get one hour of Mom Time–she plays with them, whatever they want to play, for an entire hour (which we all know would be better exercise than a two hour kick boxing class).

A few years back a girlfriend told me about their family Bean Jar. Anytime her kids worked together to behave well, they got beans in the jar. If EVERYONE got their shoes on in time, they got beans. If the little kids were quiet and let the bigger ones practice piano, they got beans. It was a group effort and really encouraged her kids to get along.

Putting the two together, on Sunday I introduced Harrison to his new Bean Jar. When he says, “Yes Mom!” with a smile, or sighs and says, “Okay, Mom” when he’d rather throw his little self on the floor and kick and scream, or when he refrains from pummeling his little slap happy brother (who regularly abuses him) and instead let’s me give Rex a time-out…you get the picture. He gets beans. Lots and lots of beans.

The reward? When the jar is full, I’m giving him a cheap (Dave Ramsey would be so proud) reward. One hour of play time with me that includes a water balloon fight.

Lucky for me, it takes almost an hour to fill enough water balloons to be worth anything, so by the time they’re all tossed, I’ll be finished. Cause I’m sneaky like that.

But the point is, I now have an angel living in my house. For an entire week he has graced my demands with “Yes Mom!” and “Okay.” Of course, each kind response he dishes is followed by a hopeful, “Beans? Two handfuls this time?” I’m serious, he’s turned into such a polite, willing young man who fanatically watches the level on his bean jar rise.

Now, if only I could train the rest of them. Do you think June would behave if I offered an hour of unsupervised toilet water play time?

I’ve lost my bras. All of them. I cannot find a single, stupid boulder holder (although these days they’re more like pebbles) to reign the girls in this morning.

Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is to try and get ready without a bra? I feel like I’m just bumping around, looking under cushions, wasting time, unable to make my brain work until everyone is settled down for the day.

I can’t seem to do my hair or fold clothes or feed the kids. All I do is wander around hoping one of my missing catch-all’s will show up in a likely place, like the dryer or the backseat of the car.

The June Bug seems to be especially interested in them these days, maybe she ran off with one. Don’t ask me how a person loses all her working bras without noticing. I guess I could pull out something fancy and uncomfortable, but come on. That would be like spending the day in a dance costume. I’d rather wear a girdle.

You know, it would be just like my husband to hide them and think he was really funny. He’s not funny. And I’m telling you right now, if I find out he’s the responsible party, he won’t be invited to the “party” any time soon.

So I finally started watching all my recorded Bachelorette’s last night. I can’t stand it, that show gives me serious anxiety.

I don’t know if I feel worse for Jillian or the steaks (because let’s face it, that’s what they are). What’s was up with her getting rid of John H. from Boise the first week? He was so cute and liked her so much. It made me seriously question her judgement. And the nasty country singer who’s only there for the free publicity (don’t tell me if he gets voted off, I’m only halfway through the second episode)? Sa-limy.

Let me tell you, if I were a contestant on The Bachelor, I would show up to the first night in a ratty old bathrobe with curlers in my hair and a clay mask on my face. Then I’d tell him that I only get better from here, and this is the worst it gets. (Although we all know that would be a lie. Until a man has seen you nine months pregnant with a carton of ice cream on your lap bawling your eyes out over some AT&T commercial, he has no idea what he’s really in for.)

Frankly, being single is tough enough. Going on some show where you sacrifice your heart and dignity in the name of true love (i.e. ratings) only to walk away with an entire nation women who know all your flaws…that kind of dooms a person to “eternal singleness”. If you’re a guy, they don’t want you, and if you’re a girl, they won’t let their brother/cousin/son ever date you.

I think I’d rather be privately single, thank you very much.

HELP ME.

With the New Moon premiere only six months away, I’m restocking my booth at the Quilted Bear with my “Stupid Twilight T-shirts” and I want to add a new one. (No, I’m not a hyper-fan, just out to  make a buck.) I want to use a quote from the book. Here are the three choices I’ve narrowed it down to:

1. “Why are you apologizing for bleeding?”

2. “I’m an easy bleeder. It’s not nearly as dire as it looks.”

3. “Bears don’t want to eat people. We don’t taste that good. Of course, you might be an exception…I bet you’d taste good.”

One, Two, or Three? I’m doing “I Like Wet Dogs”, a cute quote about a Perfectly Sculpted Immortal, a new Team Edward, and whatever the above quote is. It’s so hard to choose. I an anxious to hear your opinions, if you have one let me know, even if it’s not one of the above quotes.

Eight minutes. I don’t think I can stand the torture.

Today is Color My Roots day. That means that for 40 minutes I get to sit around with chemical head, trying not to itch my poor abused scalp as the dye burns away the color from my dirty blond hair. I like to think of it as a cleansing process, a purification of my hair color and soul, if you will.

And I am miserable.

Beauty is misery. If only Jack Bauer knew about all the available torture out there. Pouring bleach on someone’s scalp, getting a “salt rub” on your feet (which is possibly one of the most miserable and uncomfortable things I’ve ever experienced. I can never decide if I want to scream from pain or from laughter), bikini waxes–the possibilities are endless.

Today I decided that if my head was going to be miserable, we might as well be miserable all the way, so I slapped on a clay  mask to cleanse my recent outbreak of zits (seriously? I’m 30. Why is this still happening??). So not only is my head on fire, but my face is frozen as well. I can’t even cry about it.

One minute forty-nine seconds. That gives me just enough time to start a movie for the kids and walk very slowly to the shower. Oh hot Heavenly water, I salute you.

(Rex just came up and said, “What you got on your face? What you got on your nose and your face and your head,  huh Mommy?” Too bad my face is frozen and I can’t answer him. Just call me Tin Man.)

I’ve come to a horrifying realization today: my children are lazy.

It’s not really them, it’s me. Since my return from vacation our TV hours have crept up to almost constant, interspersed with computer games and Wii play. Considering my recent book fog and the fact that weaning my little addicts from manufactured entertainment takes serious effort, I’ve been trying to keep this reality away from my conscious thinking.

But today there is no escaping it. With summer right around the corner, I’m realizing that it’s time to step up my parenting game and actually do something with them (other than feed, water, and try to leave the room before they see me).

So I’ve come up with a system. This has worked in the past, and I think it’s the perfect time to implement it. Everyday the k ids get movie passes. I’m giving them three passes a day, good for one program or movie each. Harrison also gets one 1/2 hour gaming pass a day as well.

I know, some of you might be shocked that I’m letting them watch that much TV, but remember, they (we) have to be weaned off gently. Besides, we all know that if you can just get them to actually play, they’ll eventually forget that they would rather watch a movie.

And in case any of you are overambitious, my visiting teaching companion (a grandmother) told me that her daughter has their entire summer broken into weekly themes, complete with field trips. Since I’ll only be here through mid-July, I’m going to see if I can do this on a very simplified basis. I am also forcing my girlfriend Tricia to participate. Here is our “I Can Be A Good Mommy” schedule:

Starting with the first week out of school, and including our field trip schedule, we have:  Transportation (riding the train), Cowboy Life (sleeping under the stars with a campfire), Air and Space (going to the Gateway exhibit), Farm Life (visiting a local farm), Sports and Fitness (something that will make them sweat their pants off), Cinematography (we’re making a movie), and Gardening (they get to weed).

We also considered a few other options like Dead People (visiting the mortuary), Homeless Week (soup kitchens), and Gangsta 101 (West Valley, anyone?), but I think I’ll wait until they’re a little older.

Remember when we went to Vegas? I mentioned that we made a not-so-quick trip to the Instacare. If you’re interested, click on my face to read this week’s column.

No comments today, folks. Go enjoy the sunshine.

So I woke up and made myself a nice long list of all the things I need to do today. Then I promptly grabbed a new book off my leftover vacation stash and crashed on the couch. See what I mean? Total holic.

Here’s the thing. I bought this book, Marked, at Walmart because it was only $5.49 and looked like promising teen literature (translastion: it was a teen book about vampires. Hello?). I like to do regular research on what teenagers are reading in today’s world, just to stay on top of the current trends (did I mention it had vampires?).

Now, in high school I read plenty of the classics (and will admit to some lame-0 high school romances like Caitlin books and Scarlet which I still love), but if these books were tame and relatively safe vehicles of summer entertainment.

It took about two hours for me to put the stupid book down today and get back to my list, and not because I’m a responsible adult. What has happened to teen literature? Is nothing clean anymore? Why must there be the token gay kid and unmentionable acts of fornication? I don’t care what the media says, there are plenty of girls that would know very little about that kind of stuff were it not for teenage authors throwing that kind of information around and making it sound normal.

There is very little I can do about this, but I will do this:  In case you missed my post a while back about Becca Wilhite’s darling teen novel, Bright Blue Miracle, let me take a moment to push that kind of literature on you and your daughter(s). If we don’t promote good, entertaining books that have some actual meat in the message (not blood), our kids will buy and read crap like the House of Night series.

We need to take up the torch, if you have a blog and you find a good clean book that appeals to teenagers, list it! The best way to challenge that kind of crap is to offer up something better, and we all know it’s out there. It’s one thing

We went to visit Jason’s grandpa this morning. Considering the fact that he currently resides somewhere in Kolob, he didn’t have much to say.

I love Memorial Day. When I was a kid my mom would cut huge bunches of lilacs and snowballs from the trees in our yard and we’d drop them off at the local cemetary. The smell of lilacs still reminds me of dead people.

So this morning we roused the kids bright and early and piled into the car to visit Jason’s only deceased relative (now that I think about it, he’s probably got a few more of them). It’s a gorgeous day and we attempted to tell the kids a few things about their great-grandfather on the drive to Ogden.

They definitely didn’t get it. I think they thought they were going to get to meet him in person. We told them about his bread truck, as a younger man he drove a delivery route for General Mills. They thought that was extremely cool. I think they pictured a big loaf of bread sitting on the back of a truck (too much Magic School Bus).

But here’s the thing about Memorial Day. You make this big deal to the kids, all “party at the cemetery” like, get everyone stoked to put flowers on the grave, tons of hype. But you get there, walk over, drop off the flowers, and spend the next seven minutes of the visit trying to keep your children from playing leap frog across the headstones.

I think next year we’d do a better job of paying our respects by keeping the kiddies at home. Of course we won’t. This is training for future years when we’re dead and gone. I want my kids to hold a grave side Memorial Day service each year, complete with weeping, wailing and bratwurst. Now that will be a good party.