Today I discovered a little piece of unappreciated Heaven.

Due to the budget, and all the small sticky hands constantly clinging to my apron strings (no really, June has a thing for pulling on them), I don’t really do the whole pedicure/manicure/masage bit. In the past three years, I’ve had one pedicure. Doesn’t happen often.

But today the stars alligned, and I snuck twenty minutes to reacquaint myself with that wonderful, Heavenly gift that comes out of the bathroom. My shower.

Honestly, I am kind of in love with showers right now. Who needs a massage when you can stand, buck naked, under a shower of hot, steaming water, slathering your body with delicious smelling Equate knock-off body wash, completely uninterrupted? (For the record, the uninterrupted part only happens occasionally, but when it does, it so rocks.)

See, as girls there’s nothing better than a weekend shower to excuse us from all parenting. “Oh, sorry honey, I just have to shave my legs. You’ll have to change her…” Me and showers are Jason’s least favorite combination right now. Girls have so many excuses to stay in the shower, so many opportunities for necessary hygene, men can’t hope to compete.

And the best part? When you’re unwillingly about to step out but you suddenly remember: You forgot to condition your hair. Awesome. That’s at least another five minutes (because we all know conditioner needs time).

You can keep your massages, I get to shower on Jason’s dime at least five times a week.

(If I’m lucky.)

I have been dying to post this ever since it happened. Here is this week’s column, and possibly the best mommy memory of my life.

“You know, sometimes there’s nothing like a good undeserved pity party to brighten a girl’s mood. Like when you stand around thinking about how much they’ll all miss you if you get hit by a bus, or die from a case of lethal Mastitis.

As a disclaimer, I’ve got to say that since number four has come along, my man has really stepped up his game. When he’s home, he’s my right hand. It feels good to depend on him and know that he’s willing to take a turn with the baby at 4 am when she’s ready to be social. He’ll change any poopy diaper in the house, take the kids twilight hiking just to give me some space, pick up dinner if I’m freaking out–I have no complaints, only compliments.

That’s the logical response. But we all know that I’m neither logical, nor particularly careful with my responses these days, so I’m going to go ahead and tell you how ungrateful and horrible I am.

Last night my man had to miss dinner for work. Unfortunately I had a houseful of company over and kind of wanted him here, but an undisclosed work situation detained him. I smiled and played supportive, knowing he well deserves a good, understanding wife.

Grrr.

Tonight was a repeat situation, only this time he got held up an extra hour and a half with the Scouts. They were doing a Ropes Course and it took longer than expected. The other leaders all had to leave, so Jason stayed so the boys could finish. Good, honorable servant of the People.

Me? The last two nights have wiped me out. Not only did I throw a dinner party for nearly a dozen people last night (WHAT WAS I THINKING??), but tonight was equally difficult. Stuck at the soccer field, both baby girls stinky, the five-year-old ready to do a number in his own pants, me far from the car and further from home–by the time we walked in the door all Hell had broken loose and was doing the Bunny Hop on my kitchen counter. I spent an hour listening to my starving baby scream her head off while I tried to feed and bathe and bed down the tribe. Tragic.

As I finally made my way back to the kitchen, I suddenly thought of my husband, with his big secret fancy job, and his “service” calling that consisted of things like water skiing and rock climbing. In a fit of angst, I turned to my seven-year-old, Harrison.

“You know,” I said, “Just be glad you’re a boy, because that means you get to grow up and be a dad, not a mom.”

“Why’s it better to be a dad?” he asked.

“Because dad’s get to have cool jobs, and drive cool cars, and go hiking and have fun. Mom’s? Mom’s don’t get to do anything.”

“Well, why don’t you just go with dad?”

“Who’s going to take care of the kids? Who’s going to clean the house? No, mom’s get to stay home and work.”

(Yes, I’m a horrible person.)

I stomped around the kitchen, furiously wiping counters and trying to keep from crying.

“Mom?” I heard my boy say, “Would you teach me how to do the dishes?”

I spun around and looked at my little seven-year-old, standing at the sink looking up at me with nothing short of concerned love all over his face. “And maybe the laundry? I could do laundry…”

And in that instant, I knew there wasn’t a job on this Earth that could take me away from these children. My poor sweet husband, away at work, missing out on all the love. Because that’s what I saw, looking into my child’s eyes, love. Love for me and my chosen profession, enough to tie me to this wonderful bit of life for as long as the Lord will let me live it.

Thank you, Heaven, for dirty dishes.”

Hooray! It’s my birthday and I’m happy.

Yesterday my sweetheart took me to lunch a day early. He told me over Chinese food (healthy, skinny-inducing Chinese food) that I’ve been really happy the past two weeks. He wanted to know if this was a phase, and should he prepare himself for the fall-out?

And you know what I realized? I am happy. I’m not on bed rest, my back no longer hurts, my kidneys both function properly, I have feet that fit in all my shoes (we won’t mention whether or not anything else fits), my baby is gorgeous and healthy, I can do simple household chores again–life is so very good.

So this year on my birthday, I’m thankful to be right where I am. I’m 32, and the Lord hasn’t given up on me yet.

If you’re reading this, make my day by wishing me a Happy Birthday! I’m not going to pretend that I wouldn’t love it, I want a crapload of good birthday wishes this year.

Because who needs an orange Kitchen Aid when you have so many wonderful friends?

There comes a point in every woman’s life when she has to ask herself that dreaded question: Do I want to do laundry, or go buy everybody socks?

It’s not that I haven’t been doing the big stuff, I’ve just been avoiding the under the bed clothes, the pieces that get mixed in with the toys and the camping gear. The behind-the-couch crap, all those bits we like to pretend no longer exist.

But, since I’m a frugal soul who doesn’t want to drop an easy $20 on any more socks (since I’ve been buying them weekly), I embarked this morning on The Great Sock Hunt. Wow do we have a ton of forgotten socks. I found socks from when Jason was a baby, it’s been so long since I looked.

(Also, I like to have an excuse to go to Ross.)

And I might as well tell you all where I’m at with my awesome post-pregnancy weight loss. It’s been five weeks and I’m losing it so fast (lie), I can’t believe how skinny I feel (big fat lie). It’s like the baby weight is just melting off me faster than I know what to do with (oh crap, there goes my nose again).

This is me practicing the fine art of, “If you say it enough times, it will come to pass.”

Okay, I can’t sit here burning nap time any longer. The sty is calling.

This morning the kids were up at their usual cheerful six am. Since I spent two hours walking and feeding the baby in the middle of the night, my husband most graciously handled the chipper chickens and let me sleep.

He had to be at work by seven-thirty for an important meeting, and gave me as long as possible before handing over the reins. On his way out the door he checked his bag for the essentials; bullets, badge, mace, credentials–wait, where were his creds? Back into the bedroom he ran, tearing things apart in a frantic search for his ID.

I don’t know about your husband, but mine hates to misplace things. It’s probably one of the few things that can really upset him, and let me tell you, he was on his way from seriously ruffled to full-blown panicked. He’d had to change clothes last night at Scouts, and who knows what fell out where?

Since it’s wisest to leave him alone in these situations, I quickly decided that instead of studying the scriptures, the kids and I we were going to have an object lesson.

“Kids!” I called, “Dad lost his creds and we have to say a prayer to help him find them.  Kneel!” They dropped down around me and all three started praying at once (actually it was four since Rex’s bird was praying too).

We managed a fervent prayer on his unknown behalf, then scattered. I headed straight to his extremely spotless car that had already been searched twice. I opened the backdoor, reached under the passenger seat, and voila! Creds. Took about 26 seconds from the “amen”.

I don’t know how much this experience will teach or affect my kids, but I was once again astounded at the power of a little prayer and faith on another’s behalf. There is help all around us, why are we so stubborn about utilizing our resources? Whether it’s feelings of frustration with your kids, concern over a child’s health, or even lack of inspiration in your career, I have the feeling that as far as the long run goes, a little more prayer and a little more faith might change my world.

I read a quote once that said, “There is a vast difference between saying prayers and praying.” There is power when we get down to the nitty gritty of things and just pray.

Dear Jason,

Happy eleventh anniversary, myboy. You’re still the one I want to reach for in the middle of the night, and with all the people who want me during those hours, that’s really saying something. Thank you for eleven years of thoughtfulness, forgiveness, willingness and tenderness. I’m bossy and moody and cry way more than you deserve, but I’m also madly in love with you. Neither wild horses nor screaming newborns could make me want you less, I can’t wait for these kids to beat it so I can have you all to myself.

Here’s this week’s column, posted yesterday.

Love you too, bud.

annie

“Tomorrow is my eleventh wedding anniversary.

Eleven years into this, not a day goes by that I don’t thank the Lord for gifting me with such a good man (okay, maybe a day or two here and there). My mother always says that a girl doesn’t know what she’s really gotten herself into until she’s got a good three years of marriage under her belt. With a decade of marriage and four children to boot, I am the luckiest girl I know.

Call us old-fashioned, but on our wedding day my sweetheart and I didn’t know each other, biblically speaking. Trust me, it made for a very eventful and momentous occasion. We were married in the afternoon, had a large dinner party with our closest family and friends, then climbed into the car for a two and a half hour drive to our hotel.

And that’s when my wonderful new husband turned on The Game.

Here’s the thing. We had never spent a football season together. In fact, we’d met over the summer, I left to study overseas for a number of months in the fall, came home in the winter, and started seriously dating him at the tail end of basketball season. We were engaged over the summer and married in October. I had no idea that I was marrying a Fan. (Girls, this is why you need to know a guy through all four seasons before getting yourself committed.)

It will come as no surprise to you that we spent the entire drive from Portland to Olympia listening to his team. He would ever so politely turn down the volume during the commercials, attempt small talk, then quickly smile and shush me once the ball was in action.

This was, without a doubt, the most miserable two hours of my life. What had I gone and done? Who was this oaf? Where was the sensitive man that was supposed to qualm my wedding night jitters, or at least try to make vehicular advances to me during the pre-game car trip? Unfortunately, I was too nervous and nice to tell him to turn off the game and pay attention to where the real action was–in the passenger seat.

So last week Mr. Fan casually walks into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he said, “You’re never going to believe what’s happening on our anniversary!”

“What?” I asked, sure he’s going to tell me about some romantic dinner theater or equally appropriate celebratory event.

“We’re playing Utah State!”

“And?”

“Don’t you remember, the night we got married? It was a Friday night, and we listened to the Utah State game in the car on the way to Olympia. It’s the same night, same place, same game! Isn’t that awesome?”

“Uh, yeah. Awesome.” About as awesome as getting sprayed by a skunk. He slowly exited the kitchen, shoulders drooping. After eleven years of marriage, he’s learned that football is not this girl’s idea of a good time.

“Wait!” I said, knowing full well that any wife worth her salt wouldn’t let him down here. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and asked the one thing I thought I’d never ask him: “Wanna go to the game with me?”

“No, you don’t want to go to a football game for your anniversary…”

“Of course I do! This is our game, there’s no way we can miss it.”

“Really? You’d do that for me?”

“Baby, I’d do anything for you.” Once I said it, I realized that it was true. Making that man happy is the most important job I’ve got, hands down.

And so we’ll be spending tomorrow night sitting in the stands, cheering for our team. Hey, it will sure beat driving around in the car for two hours.

The other morning we were doing our little daily devotional and reading a story by President Monson from The Friend. It was a memory from his childhood, about a boy who had lost his mother. As I started to read and got to the part where it mentioned the mother dying, my Junie Bug, who’s two and a half, says, “Mommy! Are you gonna die? Don’t die, Mommy! We’ll be tho thad!” (She can’t say her s’s.)

A couple of things. First, I was shocked that she could make that connection so quickly. I am not bragging here, we’re still trying to explain to Rex who Jesus is, and that no, he isn’t going to dress up as Santa and bring us presents.

Second, I felt kind of good.

This got me thinking about my job. Let’s face it, what I do doesn’t affect the greater good in general. I do a lot of laundry (or should be doing), spend every other hour being milked, try to throw out something decent for dinner at least twice a week, and consider myself an overachiever if I manage to actually read to the kids before screaming them off to bed. As far as my achievements go, there are moments when I feel extremely insignificant.

At one time I had big plans for my life. Once upon a time I was all bent on making my way to New York City, hitting the acting scene. Then I was going to travel the world before I settled down, you know, learn a few languages, kiss a few foreigners. I considered being a spy but we all know I can’t keep a secret. Whatever it was, I was going to do something and it was going to be big.

And now? Since my daughter’s comment the other day, I’ve been paying attention to the big things around me. Holding three kids on my lap at once while nursing the baby so no one feels overshadowed is big. Inviting neighbor kids over to play and talking nicely to them is big. Making meatballs from scratch, even though they didn’t turn out as good as usual, is really, really big.

I’ve realized this week that when we move away from the Land of Stay-at-Home Mothers with Many Children, most likely somewhere overseas, our family, my little family, is going to be big. And my job? It’s a darn big job and I’m freaking awesome at it. Yes, sometimes I hide in the bathroom, and sometimes we have cookies for dinner, but this is a big job and what I’m doing really matters to somebody, even if I periodically mess up.

Big is extremely relative. Don’t doubt that whatever you’re doing with your life, it’s probably big to somebody.

Here’s last week’s column, written about two weeks ago. I’m  much better now, I promise.

“So, you know how sometimes it looks like my life is beautiful and perfect and lovely? Yeah, that is false advertising. Criminally false.

Here’s the thing. My husband has been away from us for six weeks. Six long, lonely weeks for him, six weeks where he pined for us every night, wanted to skype with the kids at every possible opportunity, felt guilty, horrible, and anxious–six flat out frustrating weeks.

Sounds sad.

It’s not.

Because coming home after six weeks off is like coming back from a long stay at grandma’s house, where life is one big show of oatmeal cookies and tinker toys. Good to see everyone, but boy do you realize how nice it is to live an uninterrupted life.

And did we point out that within 24 hours of being home, he added a kid to the foray and his wife underwent major surgery? Kind of a lot to process.

He’s absolutely helpful. He does his duty, the kids are cared for, the man stuff is accomplished, all looks well.

BUT DARN IT, I NEED A HUG.

I don’t care how nice the lawn looks, I’m a stupid girl, and the love language I speak is one of mauling, kissing affection. Anyone who knows me knows this. If I love you, I will hug you and crush you and love on you until you can’t possibly get away fast enough. This goes for anyone and everyone I meet in person and even slightly like.

Jason? He does service. Hugging and kissing me when there are things to do is so not in his nature. His natural man will clean the toilets until they shine and detail the cars for no reason at all. (Personally, the toilet has been more affectionate to me lately than my darling, helpful husband.)

I know a gentle reminder is all he needs, because he’s absolutely willing to be tender with me, no matter how concocted it might be. And for the record, I do not mind forced affection. I also have no problem with plastic surgery or leg makeup.

But this lack of love has made me kind of emotional and slightly unstable.

So today in the car while talking to my sister on the phone, I kind of let loose and bawled in a really ugly way about my life and hormones and the robot I like to call husband. I was such a slobbering, blubbering mess, the lady at McDonald’s could barely take down my order.

As I pulled forward, trying to get a grip on my tears, I reached out to retrieve my fast fried comfort food, and somehow the unthinkable happened: the bag dropped. On the ground. Where me and my c-section and my extremely stuffed nose couldn’t reach it.

I don’t think my life has ever felt quite so tragic. I let out a wail of agony so  loud, the entire Mickey Dee’s team and company turned to stare at the crazy lady in the drive-through. And the poor girl at the window was ready to upgrade me to a milk shake just to make the shrieking stop.

Frankly, we all know that’s not going to happen any time soon. But I will get a hug, I guarantee it.

I’ve been talking to my girlfriends lately about how you know when you’re done having kids. To be honest, I can’t believe it’s over–the bearing them part. I’ll tell you right now, I’ve never been more happy or sure about any decision in my entire life.  I am officially closed for baby making.

I haven’t talked a lot about how I came to this decision, and consider it kind of personal (believe it or not I do keep a few things to myself). But I’ve been wanting to write about it for some time, so here you go. Please be careful with your comments here, I consider this a pearl.

When June was about six months old I felt pretty satisfied with my life. Two boys, got my girl, I really didn’t see the need to have any more kids. We all know three is plenty of work, especially for today’s demanding world (car seats, school work, 17 thousand team activities). I mentioned to my mom that I was feeling like we might be finished.

“Well,” she said, “that’s a pretty important decision. You should pray about that, see what you come up with.”

About a week later I was in the car all alone, and turned off the radio to talk to God. As we visited, her advice came back to me. I don’t think I got two words into the asking before I was completely overwhelmed with what can only be a Heavenly lecture–I’m guessing it came straight from Georgia.What I heard went a little something like this:

“It hurts my feelings when you talk about not having any more kids, please don’t say that kind of thing any more. I am going to be so much fun, and you are going to love me so much–you need to have another baby…”

It was so shocking and totally overwhelming (and sounded so suspiciously female) that I couldn’t utter another word on the matter but a simple, “Okay, I get it.” And that’s how I knew I needed to have one more kid.

I don’t believe we all have a given number. I think there are some women who can have a dozen kids without breaking a sweat, I’m just glad the Lord knew I wasn’t one of them.

When it came time to make the permanent decision regarding future children, it took me a few months and a really terrible pregnancy to realize that it was okay, no matter what might happen to our children (Heaven forbid), four was our magic number.

(Also, Jason was freaked out at the thought of more children and kept offering to go get himself fixed. He was also freaked out that the doctor might sneeze right at that crucial moment and cut the wrong thing.)

Whether you’re someone who’s in touch with God or not, having kids is definitely something to consult the Heaven’s about. After all, they are kind of in charge of the whole program.

I am so not ready for my girdle.

It’s a funny thing, this issue we call “body image”. I would like to tell you that I’m deep and confident and not at all concerned with how I look. I would also like to tell you that I’m currently wearing a size four and married to Michael Buble. Not happening.

Last week our babysitter was over (she’s 17 and I love her and want to adopt her forever), and Jason casually made the comment that I’m obsessed with my weight. He didn’t say it was a good or a bad thing, but I got totally defensive. I ranted and raved about how non-obsessive I am, how hip and stable and…oh screw it. He was right and I knew it (he also very kindly did not judge me for this).

So here I am, wishing I was uber-skinny and that I didn’t need to keep running over to Ross just so I’d have something other than stretch pants and tent shirts to wear, and I remembered today that I haven’t tried on my girdle for the past week. Since things are still shrinking, and since I had a brunch date out in public, I decided to strap the old girl on, just to see if she was game.

It might have been slightly painful, but once I was all stuffed in there the difference was astounding. Gone was the protruding post-baby bump (least attractive feature ever), and in it’s place stood a nipped in waist and thighs that were notably smaller (it’s a serious girdle, people). I felt so good about my girdle that I didn’t even waste time worrying about my four-day grease ball twisted up on top of my head.

However, by the time I got to the restaurant I thought I might die of suffocation. Just because you can get a girdle on doesn’t mean you should wear it. I spent an hour and a half trying to keep the top from rolling down like some kind of overactive window shade. (It did not, however, keep me from eating a quiche and two of Mimi’s bran muffins.)

Give me two more weeks and that girdle and I will be reestablishing our relationship all over the place.