Here’s this week’s little diddy. Happy New Year, try not to be too impulsive tonight.

We’re up in Elma for the holidays, soaking up family and perpetual moisture. There’s nothing like a good old soggy Christmas to get me in the holiday mood.

Every Christmas eve, my parents host a family party at their home for all the kids who don’t want to cook. It’s nothing too fancy, but the body count certainly stacks up. This year we had 52 packed into their home. Last year that number wasn’t such a big deal, but suddenly we have an entire group of kids who are old enough to claim a seat.

It was kind of like musical chair torture. Once you’d found a seat, forget seconds or missing forks. If your rear end even thought about traveling, you were out of the running, left with the “standing room only” crowd. It was every man for himself, forget saving your spouse a seat. (In my case, I pulled the nursing mother card on any male relative in my path and guilted them into offering me a seat/a second helping/a piece of chocolate pie.)

But it’s after the meal that the party really gets going. For the past 55 years, our family has received a visit from Santa during the big Christmas Eve party. And for the last 18 , the grown-ups have managed to pull off the greatest hoax ever. The children have absolutely no idea who plays the Man in Red.

Trust me, this is no small feat. To keep even the older kids stumped means we’ve done our job well. But this year, it almost came back to bite us. Those little hooligans nearly blew the lid off our entire operation.

“Santa” dresses in the back of the house, in a darkened room, surrounded by bags of suspense laden gifts. He gets eyebrows and rosy cheeks, stuffing in the appropriate places, and takes on a persona you’d never guess could come from this particular stand-in. Truly, the man could be on Broadway with his holiday acting skills.

He exits out a back door, makes his way around the side of the house, while Grandpa Rex simultaneously plays “Santa Clause is Coming to Town”. We hear the bells, there comes a knock, and voila! Belief!

We had 12 minutes to go when my sister Kerry came up to me.

“You’d better tell Jen to find her boys, I heard them talking about some kind of Santa ambush.”

I turned around to scan the room for my sister, when I saw her six-year-old stealthily slip out the front door. I caught him just as as he was assuming belly crawling ninja position on the front porch.

Do you know what would happen to the fragile Santa religion if a group of middle-aged children exposed Mr. C as a fraud? We have over fifteen little  kids who would lose faith in the entire system, leaving us parents with nothing to hold over their easily manipulated heads. Total and complete holiday chaos.

The next ten minutes were touch and go. We had three boys unaccounted for, and Santa was almost in position. Finally, with forty-two seconds to spare, the children were retrieved.

I’ve decided that Santa is a lot like Jesus. Even after their failed defamation attack, he still brought the little runts presents. Go figure.

Last night I had six pieces of corn bread. I went to bed, vowing to never, ever allow that baked yellow mash to enter my system and thwart my way of life again. Then I got up at six this morning and ran downstairs to snarf up the rest of it.

I’ve decided to get over it. It’s just cornbread (and peanut butter cups and cheap pizza and homemade clam chowder), no need to beat anybody up over it (except my mother, who really needs to stop with phenomenal cooking).

We’re here for three more days and I have every intention of drinking lots of water and eating things like turkey and lettuce and wheat germ. If I wait until January first, I’m going to be in big trouble. The five pounds I managed to lose after Thanksgiving has already made it’s way home, no need throw open the barn doors and welcome the rest of it home.

Must run, it looks like Mother Dearest just pulled out the breakfast casserole.

In all actuality, Christmas had nothing to do with Charlie Brown (unless you count the Snoopy wrapping paper that my kids went gaga for).

You know, sometimes the best memories happen by lucky accident. December 25th was one of those days.

Christmas morning was far too wonderful, kids aren’t supposed to be that happy. It took us an hour and a half to open gifts, because they spent so much time loving each and every Walmart/Dollar Store special. It was awesome. I say this with total assurance that someday very soon they’ll all grow up and get picky/emotional/selfish on Christmas morning.

At noon, we put the June Bug down for a nap and took the other kids to see “Tangled”. Big mistake, she should have come with us. I cried twice (so did Harrison).

After lunch we drove through most of Grays Harbor County (we’re up in Washington) looking for some kind of open eating establishment. Finally, as we came to the tail end of Elma, we saw life in the Elma Lanes bowling alley. Lucky for us, they have a working bar with really good bar food. We ate, we bowled, we laughed–it is my best Christmas memory ever.

I hope you all have a wonderful week between, filled with whatever it is that makes you happy. Here’s this week’s column. I love you all! Happy New Year to my nearest and dearest, thank you for all the virtual friendship.

Check out my new “About” page photo. Digital photography and Veronica are amazing; this last minute photo came hot on the heels of a seriously stressful kid-only Christmas card photo shoot (I just had a baby, cut me some slack). That look on my face? Sheer panic. This was one of my first big outings with all four kids and no wing man. That look is a classic “Dear Abby, What Have I Done?” expression. Thankfully, no infants were harmed in the shooting of this picture–only older children.

Last night Jason and I took the children to visit their great Granny, Jason’s lovely elderly grandmother. She’s in her nineties and lives alone, so we spent an hour entertaining her with visits to the potty and random facts about dragons.

While we were there, I asked the children to sing Granny a song. Growing up, my folks were constantly putting us on the spot to sing with my father, at parties, at the Grange, at church, around the piano on any given Sunday–it’s just the Valentine way. Naturally, my children must have come to earth knowing that this is something we do, right?

Our version of Rudolph included Harrison standing straight and tall, singing his heart out, while June (3) ran circles around him and stood on her head, and Rex (5) hid behind a chair. We were a Christmas musical catastrophe.

I have failed my children.

Today the kids and I spent the morning shopping for Jason and talking about their musical future. Starting small, I suggested that we put a “show” on for all of Rex’s animals. Hey, I’m not an idiot; we’re light years away from warm bodies.

They talked it up and practiced in the car. When we got home Rex ran straight for the playroom to round up his gang. He came up and started placing them strategically on the couch so we could have our “Animal Africa Christmas Show”. Harrison sat down to practice the piano, and Rex freaked out.

“NO!!! We’re not ready! You can’t play it until we’re ready!!!” I tried to explain it to him, but it was too upsetting so I suggested he take a time-out and calm down. It worked, but only temporarily.

I am too tired to tell you how the rest of the afternoon went. Suffice it to say that for an entire hour our scattered practice was peppered with frequent panic attacks by Rex (so much pressure), frequent torments by June (name calling, animal stealing, etc.), frequent blow-outs by Georgia (seriously?) and frequent trips to hide in the bathroom by me.

One day down and I’ve decided that if we give musical performance practice ten minutes a day, at least three times a week, they might actually learn to stand and sing without spontaneously combusting. I think.

Here’s this week’s post, thank you to all the wonderful and wise women who contributed.

“I recently wrote an online post about the decline of the double-decade marriage (right around 20 years) and how my man and I are planning to thwart it. Quite frankly, we’ve seen too many close friends lose their relationships over stupid decisions and selfish ideas.

Our list is simple: Make eye contact regularly, close down the restaurant talking on date night, don’t let issues fester, be intimate and pray together daily.

I posted these ideas and received an onslaught of way better ones. Here are a few of the brilliant things some amazing women had to say about their relationships:

“Remember that even though you look at each other and sometimes wonder, we’re in it for the long haul. Period. Sometimes that is what keeps us going until we can turn that corner, and then it’s even better than it was before. It’s worth not turning our backs on the whole kit and kaboodle, it really is.” Sues2u2

“There’s a certain fearlessness required in long-term relationships; the willingness to snoop in the dark corners where conflict lurks, haul it out into the light and stare it down (or give it a hug).” Christie

“I would add, ‘never start a marriage-altering conversation after 10 p.m.’ and ‘go somewhere alone together for at least 4 days, once every couple of years.’ Also, develop an independent interest in which your partner can support you without having to participate. This keeps your conversations lively with new experiences and information, and helps each partner bring a healthier, more ‘complete’ self to the marriage.” DeNae

“You know that chore you hate, the one that you think they should help out with occasionally, the one you stew over sometimes that just makes you so mad?  Stop, realize how much you love them, and even though they may not show appreciation for what you are doing, they do appreciate you. You take care of [each other] because you love [each other].” Jenny

“One thing our therapist told us was you can’t possibly over-communicate. (Except for when my husband tells me I do, in fact, look fat in those jeans. Then, less is more.) Another helpful thing would be: have a gazillion dollars.” Amber

“I think a little easy spontaneity helps. Sometimes it backfires if you plan something huge and the reality is a letdown. But little things, every day, mean a lot. To me, anyway.” Melanie

“One of my favorite quotes is, ‘We’ve been through a lot together, and most of it is your fault.’ My husband and I promised each other when we first got married that we’d never purposely hurt the other one’s feelings. That way, when one of us does it on accident (and maybe doesn’t realize it), the hurt person at least has that promise to fall back on until we can talk about it.” Lindsey

Marriage is wonderful. It’s also exasperating and frustrating and boring and challenging. Every marriage has highs, and every marriage has lows. Finding your groove and working through the difficult times, no matter how long you’ve been married, is the secret to commitment.

The world tells us we don’t have to do hard things. I disagree. Anything worth having is worth fighting for, and marriage should be at the top of that list.”

Because it’s the holidays, and because I’m only human, I must share a recipe that I unfortunately came up with this week. (Thank you, Emily, for posting recipes on your blog, this is all your fault.)

This week I’ve been sick like the dog and unable to do anything worthwhile. But, like all poor sad souls with severe head colds, I wanted comfort food. And what, I ask, is the most comforting of all comfy sick person foods? Why, Chicken pot pie, of course.

And so, much to my scale’s dismay (because it’s been three days and we still haven’t recovered), I assembled the most decadent, fattening, over the top Chicken pot pie you’ve ever tasted. My man said it made Marie Calendar’s taste like paste. Even with my current inability to taste I couldn’t stop eating it.

So here you go, Annie’s Most Sinful Chicken Pot Pie, or The Pie Your Scale Will Hate, or How To Gain Five Pounds In One Meal And Not Feel Bad About It Because It Was So Good Chicken Pot Pie. (I know some of those words shouldn’t have been capped, but the pie is really that good.)

Crust: (Needs to chill in fridge for at least an hour) I think this recipe will make about two small 9″ pies. I made it in a 10/10 polish pottery deep casserole dish. A 9/13 casserole would work as well. Spray the pan.

2 1/2 cups flour, 1 cup softened butter, 8 oz softened cream cheese, 1/2 tsp salt. Blend butter and cream cheese. Add salt and flour 1/2 cup at a time, separate into balls (one slightly larger than the other) and chill. When ready, roll dough between wax or parchment paper nice and thin (it’s a little fragile) and very carefully place bottom crusts. Poke all over with a fork. Bake bottom crust in oven 10 min, 350. Set aside. (Don’t worry if the crust shrinks a little. It will all work out.)

Filling:

2 cooked chicken breasts, cubed, 1 cup peas, 1 cup carrots sliced or diced, 1 cup celery diced, 1 cup corn. Boil in chicken broth 15 minutes or until tender. Drain.  Lightly salt and pepper mixture. (You can substitute water with a few chicken boullion cubes for the broth.)

Gravy:

1/3 cup onion, 1/4 cup butter, 1/3 cup flour, 1 1/2 cups chicken broth, 2/3 cup milk (I add a little heavy cream to the milk), 1 tsp salt, 1/2 tsp pepper, 1/2 tsp celery seed, dash garlic salt, dash Accent (optional). Melt butter, add onion, cook till tender. Add flour, make roux, add chicken broth, milk and seasonings. Bring to a boil and simmer over med-low heat stirring until thick.

THEN:

Put filling in bottom of crusts. Pour gravy over top (don’t overdo it). Add top of crust, try to make it connect, then cut two slits. Bake 30 minutes at 350. Cool 10-14 minutes before serving.

This is so good, your husband will immediately want to whisk you away to the bedroom to make passionate love to you because of your ingenious culinary talents. He’ll also do the dishes.

Has anyone else had an insanely difficult time getting their cards out? I just mailed mine yesterday, and someone told me Christmas is in a week. Holy manger, I’m not ready.

Speaking of not being ready, I’m looking for some really cool/fun/simple holiday traditions to do with my kids this next week before we leave for Washington. We did gingerbread houses, but I’d like to have a few easy things that will add to the buildup. If we drive around looking at Christmas lights one more time we won’t have enough gas to get home for the holidays. Let me know what you’ve got, I’d rather hear it from you, my friends, than google.

I just realized that I wasn’t totally clear; it’s Germany, not Turkey. We’re going to Germany!!! Hooray!!!!

We’re moving!!! Away!!! From Utah!!! YAAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!

Let me step back. I know that many of my dear friends all over the country would kill to be here, and I don’t blame them. The weather is fantastic (to me), the people are swell, and just about every mormon on the planet has connections somewhere in the Salt Lake Valley.

But I. Have. Wanderlust. I’ve lived in this house, on this street, for four whole years. In my world, that’s a really long time. We’re young, we’re healthy, our kids haven’t developed any opinions yet–either we get a little adventure in right now, or we’ll have to wait until they’re grown up and gone (we’d like to do both).

So my husband put our short list in last month, Germany was at the top of our list. We were there when Harrison was a baby for just shy of two months on a TDY, and have been dying to get back ever since. Both Jason and I love to travel, and it’s time to cross the pond and see what’s on the other side.

Last week the Man in Charge (not Santa) called Jason to inform him that we’d been assigned to Turkey. Personally, when Jason called me I thought he was joking. We’d half-heartedly put Turkey on our list, thinking that Germany was the obvious choice for us, only to discover that only idiots put down Turkey, because they’ll send you there every time.

It was touch and go there for a few days, as I fretted and stressed about my babies in a country that “doesn’t have that much terrorism”. When I heard I couldn’t hold hands with Jason in public, I knew we were in trouble.

But, the big prayers worked, and we’ve been stationed at Little America (aka Ramstein Germany). We were hoping for a smaller base, but let’s be honest: this is great news! (I’m using exclamation marks, I never use exclamation marks.)

We leave in July. I guess my biggest struggle will be staying dialed in until we move. I’m already there in my head.

I love there.