Here’s this week’s Standard Examiner column, pasted in. I need new clothes.

“Last Sunday I experienced a typical pre-church morning. The entire hour before blast-off was spent chasing down shoes, diapers, hair bows and ties. There were shirts to press, teeth to brush, quiet toys to track down–it was a beautiful example of just how far a little procrastination can take you: right to the edge of patience.

Per our usual morning ritual, we had eight minutes left on the clock when I suddenly realized I was running around in nylons and a slip. My hair was not brushed, my makeup consisted of the previous evening’s smudged mascara, and I had nothing to wear. When I say nothing, I mean one skirt that I’m seriously sick of.

This has been a rough year on my closet. I went and gained 50 pounds in the course of growing a baby, and unfortunately the fetus came out weighing 7, instead of the much anticipated 42 pound kindergardener I had half convinced myself of. The consequences have put a serious strain on my zippers. It’s been four months and I might have lost the initial 40, but these last ten might as well be Mt. Kilimanjaro.

With 42 seconds left on the clock and my husband honking the horn, I stared with desperate vanity at my limited selection. Gray skirt, white blouse. Gray skirt, black blouse. Could January be more depressing?

It was at that particular moment my eye lit upon an old green number from days gone by. If I remembered correctly, it had always been a little roomy, maybe I could squeeze myself into it.

I grabbed the sheath dress, scrambled through the opening, and presto! We had liftoff. Zipping the back up to the top, I looked in the mirror and saw a glimpse of the girl I used to be before girdles and support hose took over my wardrobe. I thought, who needs to lose ten pounds when you can fit into a dress this cute? I grabbed a sweater, earrings, a couple diapers (for the baby), and we were off like a well starched suit.

I sat in the first meeting with the baby on my lap, feeling way too cute for comfort. Mothers aren’t supposed to feel too good about how they look, it’s part of the job description. We’re supposed to feel frumpy and outdated at least 85% of the time (minus date night). This thought alone made me slightly nervous. The baby sat on my lap like a happy little puppy, blowing spit bubbles at the teacher and cooing at the girl next to me.

I looked at my cute little dumpling and thought about how much I love being a mother, what a wonderful, selfless job it is, how this little child depends on me for her very existence, her well-being, her…food. Wait, she depends on me for her food. The food that I keep in my shirt. Not my dress, my shirt.

It was at that moment that I realized the fatal flaw in my sabbath getup. I had forgotten the number one fashion rule that all breast feeding mothers must never overlook: no matter what you wear, you must make sure you can feed the baby. One look down and it was all too clear that there was no getting into that dress. Three hours of church to go with a four-month-old who think she’s going to starve when the clock hits 120 minutes, and I’m locked into my dress like a snug little sausage.

For the last thirty minutes of class I sat and tried to think up a solution that didn’t involve public nudity. Sheath dresses are cut high at the top, and straight at the bottom–getting into them without completely removing the dress is a trick I’d like to see Houdini master.

After class, I headed out to find my husband. The only solution I could think of involved a trip home and a change of clothes. Waiting for him to come out of class, I stood and visited with a few of the teenage girls who wanted to hold the baby (the baby who was suddenly getting hungry and fussy).

“Girls, I don’t know what I’m going to do, I’ve got to get keys from my husband so I can go home and change my clothes. There’s no way I can feed the baby in this dress.”

Without skipping a beat, those brilliant little women took one look at my outfit, another look at my baby and said, almost in unison, “Why don’t you just turn your dress around?”

And that is how I ended up wearing my clothing backwards on Sunday. My baby thought I looked fabulous.

With a little nudge from Rex’s child psychologist, we decided to enroll him in a number of extracurricular activities this winter. He’s five, but his anxiety really holds him back emotionally. He’s more like a three-year-old in a lot of ways, so I basically have three-year-old twins, which means I’d like to bang my head against the door knob at least fourteen times a day.

Last week we started karate at a highly recommended Dojo here in Layton. Unfortunately, they were running a special (which we didn’t realize) so 57 other 5-7 year-old’s decided to sign up as well. Talk about karate chaos.

Watching Rex try to do Karate is kind of like watching a gold fish try to dance the polka. He’s so cute, and so funny, and so kicking around in left field. I’m already seeing a huge improvement (tonight was his fourth class), but even so he’s always at least one Ki ai (hi-ya) behind the rest of the class, and prone to somersaults and standing on his head when he’s supposed to be watching the Sensei. I think he gives the teacher hives, he’s so polar opposite your typical little soldier.

To be honest, it’s funny and slightly painful to watch him. I want him to have a blast. I want him to learn to listen. I want him to get some energy out. I want him to act his age. There are a million things I want him to get out of this experience, and there’s not a thing I can do about it.

Like all things we try to teach our kids, I’m experiencing a learning curve. This karate business is showing me that I can’t make people like my kid. I adore him. He’s hysterically funny, totally quirky, and all about hakuna matata.

But no matter how hard the karate teachers try to enforce seriousity, Rex is more than a little too loosey goosey for their comfort level. I can see and feel their irritation, I know first hand how exasperating it is. Yesterday there were a few moments when I just wanted to cover my face with my hooter hider and go out to the car.

I also see how much better he’s doing in just four classes, and how great this has been for him. I don’t want to take that away just because it makes me cringe to watch.

There’s nothing I can do to make them see how compassionate and tender-hearted and sweet tempered he is. My little boy is special, and fun, and doesn’t really care too much about conformity.

It’s hard to watch other people dislike my boy.

So, you know how some times I give too much information? Now that this has gone out in print to X number of readers who didn’t ask for it, I’m wondering if it was such a good idea. Oh well, it’s fish paper by now. Here’s last week’s column.

“I am sick. And tired. For the last four days I’ve been fighting the nastiest cold this side of the Great Meltdown, and it’s winning. I finally came down with an ear infection last night and am pleased to announce that I can now justify antibiotics. (Feel free to insert any homeopathic methods in my comment box).

But the worst part of this cold has been my sinus problems. I can’t smell a thing. On the one hand, this rocks. I have zero appetite because everything tastes like paste. On the other hand, I can’t smell. Anything. In just a moment, you will see that this is a major problem.

So yesterday morning I dragged myself out of bed at seven and spent an hour getting everyone fed, nursed, brushed, coated, and out the door so I could make my 8:15 doctor’s appointment. It will not surprise you that this meant no shower for Mommy; with four children who range from completely incompetent to frequently obstinate, that’s no surprise.

I visited the doctor (note to self: next time don’t wear girdle to doctor’s appointment), then ran like a demon to meet some of my girlies for an early playdate. We crowded into a table at McDonald’s and spent the morning talking about how stupid they think it is that I’m moving to Germany. I will miss my wonderful girls.

I went about the day with my usual list of to do’s and didn’t actually make it home until 2:30. By then I decided the shower was a distant dream, and my hair would have to wait one more day for a good wash (it was day five–one of the upsides of extremely damaged hair is its inability to produce enough oil to matter. I love shower caps.).

Harry came in an hour later crying with an ear infection, so we threw everyone in the car and snuck into the pediatrician’s office just under the wire–me and all four of my children. It was a good thing we went, Gigi also has an ear infection.

By the time I dropped off all our prescriptions at the pharmacy, it was dinner time. We went to Wendy’s, picked up our meds, and raced home to make Harry’s 6:30 piano lesson.

When I finally saw Jason at 7:00 I was completely frazzled. I took my hungry baby downstairs, crashed on the couch to nurse, and let him handle bedtime.

He walked into the basement at 7:30 and looked across the room at me.

“Um, honey?” he said, “So, did you make it to the shower today?”

“Are you kidding? Do you have any idea how crazy my day has been? Why? Do I look that bad?” I thought of my thrashed hair, smudged makeup, and shirt covered in spit-up. Yeah, I looked horrible. It happens.

“I hate to tell you this,” he said, “But I can smell you from here.”

And that is why sinus infections stink.”

So you know how the whole world is doing P90X to get skinny? I’m not sure why, but I would rather move bowling balls for a living than put myself through that kind of torture.

After Harrison got on the bus this morning, I took the baby downstairs to “work out” (aka breast feeding). While I was sitting on the couch staying hydrated (because we all know how important hydration is when you “work out”), I happened upon an infomercial for Turbo Fire. It took five minutes and before I knew what was happening, I was begging and pleading Jason to let me spend a small fortune on this guaranteed life changing set of DVD’s.

And what do you think he said?

“Give it a week, if you still want to order it ,it’s yours.”

Um, hello? A week? In another week I’m going to be too lazy to click on the bookmarked website. I need to do it now, while all these young mothers are testifying of it’s body sculpting powers and life altering influence. Give me three months and in less than 55 minutes a day, I could potentially look like Halle Barry as Catwoman. Hey, I bet I could even find a catwoman suit on the internet to celebrate my Total Transformation. Doesn’t he want me to look like Catwoman?!

The thing is, I’m doing a decent job with the weight loss. I’m down to my last nine postpartum pounds (from 50) and I’m happy that the scale is dropping, but the thinner I get, the more I realize that there’s nothing under all this fat but more fat. I’m kind of an atrophied mommy mess, who’s only definition appears to be in my arms, because my baby is chubby and spoiled and wants to be carried all the time.

So please, please remind me next week to put down the remote and order this fitness stuff…wait, what’s it called again? Oh look! Golden Girls is on!

(Mel, also known as Melinda, also had a baby a few months ago. She looks fabulous, life is unfair, yada yada yada. Check out Melinda who’s way too cute right here.)

Thank you thank you THANK YOU, for all the moral support and subsequent puns from yesterday’s pooping meltdown. I’m feeling a little less emotional constipation.

June has browned two pair of undies today already (both of which she happily rinsed out herself, and both went in the trash–to which she didn’t bat an eye), so I’ve made an executive decision.

“Junie,” I said calmly after folding the load of stained undies that was fresh out of the dryer, “We’re not putting these undies back in your drawer. They’re going up in your closet, and you can have them back when you’re ready to poop in the potty.”

“Okay,” she said, “Cause they’re for big girls, and I’m just a little girl. I’m not a big girl yet, so I can just wear my diapers.” Then she plunked herself down in the baby carrier and said, “Goo goo ga ga!”

Uncle.

(See Melinda’s blog right here.)

Get CPS on speed dial, because I am a terrible mother. And after you call them, you can go ahead and call me an ambulance because I’m ready to shove toothpicks into my eyeballs. I’m pretty sure that would be more pleasant than my current situation.

Today my BFF and I went to Ikea. After our initial free hour of childcare, we took the kiddies (3 of mine, 1 of hers) to lunch (free right now, check it out) and were about to head to the car…when we thought of something. Else. Because at Ikea, there’s always Something Else.

Just as we got over to the media shelving stuff, June looked up at me with her baby blues, smiled into my loving eyes, and said, “Mommy, I pooped my pants!”

Now I know you’ve all told me that there’s nothing I can do about this, and I know from personal experience that you’re right. It’s been two months, and every stinking day I take time out of my afternoon to clean out a pair of stained undies. Why? Because if I put her in a pull up, she stops using the toilet completely, and I’m not about to give up on the totally potty trained ground we’ve got under our feet. She’s good to go…until it’s time to poop. Then, no matter what motivating factor we throw her, she squats down and does her business right in her tighty whitey’s (or brownies).

I’ve been patient, I’ve refused to react. I don’t beat her, leave her by the side of the road, lock her in the bathroom–my reactions these past few weeks have bounced between total nonchalance and slight irritation. I try my hardest not to react (and she’s begging me to react, by the way).

Until today.

For some reason, today I realized that I kind of don’t like her right now. She’s so smart, she’s so capable, and she’s doing this on purpose. I’ve given her a little potty that’s not scary, I’ve asked her to just put a pull-up on when she needs to poop. Do you think she’ll do any of those things? No. She poops in her pants so that I can clean them out. I went an entire week where she spent a half hour in her room every time she pooped without using a pull-up or the little potty. She didn’t even blink about it.

So, much to my regret, today I told my daughter that I don’t like her right now. I looked her right in the eyes, and with all the frustration I’ve been feeling, I told her that when she poops, I don’t like her, I don’t want to be her mommy, and I don’t even want her around.

And then she cried, and I wanted to die.

I know what I’m supposed to learn here, and I’m learning it. I have no control over her choices. Whether it’s pooping or smoking pot, my kids are going to live their own lives, and sometimes their choices will affect me. This is part of parenting, and I guess it’s better that I accept it right now than act surprised in ten years.

Sometimes parenting is a really crappy job.

(Be sure to check out Melinda’s non-crappy blog today, I’m sure she’s got something way more uplifting for you.)

Here’s last week’s column. Basketball, here we come.

“The holidays might be over, but the games sure aren’t.

This is my husband’s favorite time of year. He’s got a few days off work, he’s got cable, and college teams everywhere are filling his bowl with football.

“Hey,” he said the other day, walking into the kitchen. “Would you mind if I spent Saturday afternoon with my brothers watching games? I’d like to leave around noon, and won’t be back until late. We’re going to catch a late movie and make a day of it.”

Now, I’m all for supporting his football cravings, but this has been a big couple of weeks. Trying to keep it together with all my kids home for the break is like trying to move soup with my fingers.

“Again?” I asked. “Didn’t you guys just do that a few weeks ago?”

“Well, yeah, but this is the last big football day of the season, and I’d really like to spend it with my dad and brothers.”

What’s a girl supposed to say to that? No? Stay home and be miserable with me all day? I couldn’t even come up with a good reason in my own head to hold him off. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Two days later we left the babies with a sitter for some much needed alone time. Things were going smoothly until the game day excursion came up.

“So, you’re still okay with me going on Saturday, right?” he asked.

“You know,” I said, “I wish you wouldn’t. You’ve gone to every home game this season, plus a few soccer games, and I’m tired. The kids wipe me out during the week, and Saturdays are the worst. Besides, it’s not like I have anywhere to escape to…”

And right there date night was ruined. It turned into one of those potato potato discussions where everyone has a valid point, but the judge and jury can’t quite decide which right is most right. I played the poor housewife card, he played the brotherhood bonding card, and on and on it went.

Ten minutes into our surprisingly civil discussion (I highly recommend Cafe Rio for hot topics, you’d be amazed at how well behaved you both are when you’ve got neighbors sitting six inches away) there was no end in sight. I was determined to be right.

Things were escalating and the conversation was almost to the “let’s finish this in the car” phase, when I thought of something.

My husband, doing dishes. Every. Single. Night. My husband, walking in from work and straight through the door, taking the screaming baby out of my arms. My  husband, fighting his way through bath time. Fetching the baby for me in the middle of the night, cleaning up puke from the back of the car, shoveling the snow that I’m always so delighted by (personally, I’m not actually sure where the shovels are kept), and so on and so forth.

In that moment, I realized that I was being nothing short of a total and complete jackass. My husband asked for an afternoon off. If you count the entire football season, that made a total of eight afternoons in four months. My really great guy, who routinely puts the kids to bed so I can go to the grocery store for some soothing elevator music, wanted a moment to himself, and I was acting like a bulldog with a dirty sock to play with.

In one split postpartum second (something he’s surprisingly used to), I was humbled. There are moments in every relationship when we have to decide, do we want to be happy, or do we want to be right? Sometimes being happy is totally it.

In marriage, there are hills, and there are hills. Some we climb, some we die on, and sometimes if we’re smart, we let our spouse be king for a day and stay home with the kids.”

*Remember to check out Melinda’s blog as many times as humanly possible between now and the day you die. Yes, she is that awesome.

This has been the best contest ever. For those of you who missed it, our family Let’s Get to Heaven theme for the year is Charity. In order to come up with the best possible slogan, I put it out into the blogiverse and watched the suggested tag lines pour in. They were all so good, just reading through them made me a better person.

Of course, some of you took your creativity above and beyond. There was Pam’s suggested slogan, “I’ve upped my charity, now UP YOURS!” That was tempting. If nothing else, it’s definitely something I’ll pocked and pull out during my next marital spat. Talk about getting in the last word.

Oops redone Melanie spoke right to my heart with her contribution, “Charity makes you skinny.” To think I’ve been killing myself off to avoid chocolate when all I had to do was stop yelling.

Pattyann gave a ton of good quotes, one in particular I loved for it’s brevity. “See the need, do the deed.” I’ll probably hang that one up somewhere.

As these suggested slogans came in, I practiced using them on my kids. I was looking for something that would sound nice when yelled, would motivate them to act, and would stick in my brain like a jolly rancher.

My second runner up, Lindsey, really took it to the next level and suggested something way better than a sticker chart. Per her suggestion, we have a “Charity Champions” theme that goes hand in hand with our new slogan. We’ve also got a tub that we’re filling with warm fuzzy balls (Pres. Monson told about them in a talk) each time someone exhibits charity. Big shout out to Lindsey, thanks for your idea.

First runner up was read and write Melanie, which doesn’t surprise any of us. She put out “Choose Charity.” I know I’m going to be saying (screaming) these two little words over and over and over this year.

But the moment I heard the winning slogan, I knew it was meant to be. Thank you, Melinda from Bloggy Blather, for your contribution. I’ve been telling my kids all week that “Charity makes Mom happy,” and we’ve altered it slightly so our theme is actually, “Charity makes me happy.” It’s short, it’s sweet, and my kids all love it.

Thanks to everyone, your ideas were absolutely awesome. Any other family themes out there?

It’s January. If you’re a woman and you’ve a) had a child, b) passed the age of 35, or c) really like chocolate, you’ve probably got a New Year’s resolution that has something to do with getting healthier.

Unfortunately for you and your very healthy resolution, it’s also very likely that you own a car. If your car is like my car, it knows the fastest route to every McDonalds, Taco Bell, Wendy’s, and Arctic Circle in a thirty mile radius. This can be a serious problem.

And yes, I’ve seen that documentary on fast food. I know it’s horrible for us and our children, and I should probably be shot for supporting such an evil eating establishment. So don’t go there.

But if you do, here are a few healthier tricks.

In the past year or two, I’ve developed some cheap fast food tricks that keep me happy and satisfied, but don’t require many calories (at least not bad ones) and won’t break the bank. If you’re interested, here’s how to survive on a fast food diet.

McDonald’s – Instead of getting their grilled chicken wrap (which is a good idea), I like to order one plain grilled chicken breast and dip it in their buffalo sauce. A nice big piece of seasoned grilled chicken is just over a dollar (at most McDonald’s), and the sauce is free. When I’m hungry, I get two.

Wendy’s – This is a no brainer, just get their chili and have them hold the cheese and sour cream. It’s filling, it’s fiber, and you feel like you just did something really smart for under two bucks. It’s all about quantity, those big salads are fun but who needs all those calories?

Arctic Circle – This is my favorite one, and you can order this anywhere that sells a mini salad. I get their side salad with some chicken on the side. Either three of their chicken rings (I give the rest to the little disposals in the back seat), or grilled chicken on the side (rings are cheaper).

Basically, just because it’s fast food doesn’t mean you can’t order whatever you want a la cart. When in doubt, drop the buns, fries, greasy coatings and get some grilled chicken with dipping sauce. You’ll feel like a fast food rock star. Plus, your kids will start following your example.

PS – Awesome charity ideas on my last post, I’m closing it on Friday and posting the winner (who will be treated to links all next week).

It’s over. Here I sit, surrounded by stale decorations and obnoxious lights. Why is it that the second the holidays are through, all my lovely decor feels like gaudy clutter?

With the new year come new resolutions. Who am I kidding? This year’s list looks suspiciously like last year’s. The only difference is the fact that we’ve decided to scale it back a bit. Regression is the name of the game.

My mother reminded me of something we did growing up that I think we’re going to try. When I was a kid, there were a few years there where our family had a yearly “theme”. I personally can’t remember a single one of them, but it was apparently really good for my mom. I guess sometimes the stuff we try so hard to drill into our kids is really just good fodder for us parents. To teach is to learn twice.

So with no more ado, this year’s theme is going to focus on Charity. But I need a catchy phrase, something like, “Charity, just do it,” or “Charity is just a nice way of saying don’t hit your brother.” You get the idea. Since you’re all usually far more creative than I am at this kind of thing, I thought I’d throw it out there to you. I’m sure Kristina can’t wait, she’s such a charitable soul.

I’ll be looking for your suggestions in my comment box. If someone hits it just right and comes up with a catchy phrase that I really love (kid appropriate), I’ll do a blog review with a week’s worth of links (that means that for one week, every time I blog I’ll link to you and suggest people go over and visit your amazing site).

Can’t wait to see what you’ve got.