Sometimes I wish I had an “off” switch so Jason could just shut me down and put me on the couch for a little break.

Yesterday I realized, once again, that I am nothing short of a horrible, horrible person. Maybe it’s this tail end of Spring Break thing, or the cabin fever (still snowing), or the whole raising four young children who never help out bit, but by yesterday I was wound tighter than a pent-up jack-in-the box, and that wheel was still a cranking.

Something had to give.

Unfortunately, Jason was like the casual smoker who drives by a National Park in August and tosses out an old cigarette butt, not realizing that it’s still slightly warm. Before he knows it, he’s racing through a raging inferno, wondering how it happened and if there’s a way out.

I won’t go into the details of how it started, but I will tell you that there were a possible 19 ways I could have reacted that would have been more productive.

Honestly, you know it’s bad when you keep yelling and subsequently wishing someone would just shoot you with a tranquilizer gun and put everyone out of their misery.

I yelled so loud and so long, this morning I had to offer seven people apologies: Jason, our four kids, and the cute newlywed couple that hides in the basement, frightened of their crazy landlord lady upstairs.

The interesting thing about it is that I sang a solo in church today, “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” At one point during last week’s practice I was pondering the words, and I’m ashamed to admit that I felt kind of grateful to be somewhat stable in my life. I thought, “Boy, it’s a good thing I’m a pretty decent person. Wouldn’t it be horrible to be a real sinner?”

And then I lost my voice screaming at my husband while the kids huddled in the corner.

After going to bed alone and feeling lower than dirt, I couldn’t even bring myself to pray. All I could do was whisper the words to that heartbreaking hymn over and over, hoping that perhaps Father would accept them, and that my seven people, plus Jesus, could forgive me.

And today, singing in sacrament meeting, it felt sacred and humbling and healing to offer it up to the Lord, even with other people watching.

We’re not perfect, none of us. How thankful I am for the tender mercies of my Savior.

• “Oh, to grace, how great a debtor, daily I’m constrained to be. Let thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to thee. Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love…Here’s my heart, oh take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above.”

In case you’re unfamiliar with the brilliant mind of Melissa Bastow, let me enlighten you. She’s the creative genius behind The Barrel, an online magazine highlighting the wide and varied world of bloggers.

Honestly, I think her magazine is cool and beautiful. And since I’m a whore for beautiful, cool things, she’s agreed to let me contribute. So check out this month’s issue of The Barrel of Blogs to see my article on “Retro Road Tripping”.

And hey, if you’ve got an amazing blog to share or spotlight, The Barrel is where you want to be.

Do you ever have one of those moments when you realize that your internal dialogue just a bunch of of BS?

Mr. Nine to Five was out of town last week. These absences have been pretty standard procedure for us over the past three years, so a week alone with the kids doesn’t even prick the waters for me.

You might think that losing your spouse for a week here and there is lonely and sad and difficult, especially with four little children ages seven and under. But there are some serious perks.

First, if the house isn’t pulled together by five-thirty on Monday night, who cares? I can wait until the kids go to bed, or until Friday rolls around, whichever.

Second, I’ve learned that it’s okay to have pizza four nights in a row. Throw out an apple and a plate of broccoli (or some cookies and root-beer), and pizza suddenly becomes a well balanced meal.

Third, as long as the kids have clothes to wear, I can take a laundry break. Since laundry is the bane of my existence and creeps into every working day like a rogue ivy weed going after the mortar, organizing it into one really big mountain and covering it with a blanket is a great way to take a mental laundry vacation (cause anytime you throw a blanket over something it is automatically cancelled out; this doesn’t really work with screaming children, I’ve tried).

Fourth, after a week of fast food and hotels, or a lonely house and four kids, you look pretty darn good to each other.

So this morning my man finished unpacking. “Sorry babe, I’ve got a ton of laundry for you.” He smiled and mounded it up by the door. “But, I guess that’s your job, isn’t it?”

This last comment was made with the sole purpose of sending me into a feminist-inspired huff. Normally, I jump at this kind of bait and spend the next five minutes monologuing to him about how brilliant I am, how valuable I am, how I could be out making millions–no billions of dollars if it hadn’t been for my selfless, sacrificial choice to stay home and tend the sheep. He does it on purpose, because I’m so predictable and fun to be married to.

And just as I started in on my lecture, I stopped. He had been up since six, gone in for his mandatory exercise regiment, returned home, showered ,shaved, and was buttoning up his shirt and strapping on his gun, and there I was, lounging in bed with the baby watching him get ready. Which one of us is really making the sacrifice here? He was late for his extremely boring Monday morning meeting; I am the boss of my own universe who can sometimes lay around in bed until 7:30 am, thanks to Spring Break and PBS.

It’s so easy to be a mental martyr, certain that if only this were different or that hadn’t happened we would be more successful, more happy, more better. Would I really be happy with anything else? Maybe I’m finally starting to grow up, or maybe I got lucky and took a step outside the box for a second, but either way, I’m not complaining.

I get to spend my day casually folding laundry; hallelujah.

Well, we did it. As of 10:03 am this morning, we bought the farm.

Here' where the house will go.

I’m from a small town near the coast of Washington state called ELma, population 2,900. To be perfectly honest, I spent the first 18 years of my life vowing to move away and never return. It’s tiny, it’s rainy, and it’s not stiletto friendly.

But life is a funny thing, and fourteen years out in the real world has taught me a thing or two about what I really want. I want family. I want animals. I want to be able to run out to the car in my undies without worrying that the neighbors might see. I guess you can take a girl out of the farm, but you can’t really take the farm out of the girl.

We’ve always planned to end up somewhere in the northwest. Then, shock of all shocks, over Christmas Jason suggested we start looking for property–in Elma. Elma? For real? I really had to sit down and ask, am I ready to make that kind of commitment? It was the first time as an adult that I’ve considered moving back. I always thought we would land in a bigger city because of Jason’s job. But the commute is totally doable, and quite frankly, you can’t get this in the city.

Yeah, that's our trout pond. And those hills? They're Capital Forest. This will be the view from our back deck.

It might look ugly right now (these photos were taken in February), but in the summer it’s breathtaking. We found ten acres six minutes from my parents, and it had our name written all over it. It’s taken us over four months to finalize this deal. We wanted to be sure, to check every T and I for the appropriate crosses and dots, and pester the Heavens just in case this wasn’t the right decision.

But let me tell you, today I feel absolutely amazing. I’m going home. My kids are going to grow up with scads and scads of cousins, they’re going to be Eagles, and I can’t believe how happy I am about the whole thing. We’ll have a chicken coup and a cow and maybe, someday, if my kids are willing to put in the time and effort, a horse. And best of all? If we are really smart and really frugal and super duper careful, we’ll come back from Germany and build our dream home right here on our own piece of Heaven.

In Elma.

On The Back Ten.

Best. Day. Ever.

Who, in the name of my dearly departed kindergarten teacher, agreed to let wolves in photographer’s clothing into my child’s school?

One year ago my first grader came home from school one afternoon absolutely buzzing. He had his “Spring Pictures”. Spring pictures? What the? Since when do we take photos of you twice a year? You’re not that cute.

Not only had the school taken the photos (which they supposedly told us about), they ordered and sent them home BEFORE asking for the money. “Hey, here are some photos of your kids we’ve printed off in a $45 packet. Since your kid handed half of them out on the bus, you’d better pay up, Dawg.”

I won’t waste my time telling you that last year my kid had yellow beaver teeth (he was trying a new smile technique) and this year he had un-gelled hair and a big boil on his neck. We. Are. Not. Keeping. The. Pictures. (And once again, the “opt-out” sheet never saw the inside of his backpack.)

Alas, my child now thinks we don’t love him. Just because we are willing to turn a cold shoulder to his immortalized image–“Can’t we just buy one sheet? It’s only $15”–he is practically a smelly orphan.

I can think of seventeen different necessary things to do with fifteen dollars at Walmart alone.

Today I am calling the school and giving them a piece of my soon-to-be-moving-to-Germany mind. To those of us who are not made of plastic, this is nothing short of playground robbery. I hate this worse than parents who take their kids’ fundraising magazines to work and peddle them. I really really really hate that.

(For the record, parent peddling robs a child of the totally uncomfortable life-building experience known as Selling Crap to Strangers, something that will someday make them just a wee bit nicer to the magazine salespeople when they knock on the door.)

We really do love him. When he’s clean and cute and freeze framed on mommy’s camera.

While we’re on the subject of really cool people, I’d like to introduce you to Melanie Jacobson from Read and Write Stuff. Melanie is brilliant and beautiful and talented, and is soon to achieve world wide fame and subsequent fortune. She just published her first book, The List.

Being the truth seeking journalist that I am, I decided to interview Melanie so I could trick her into revealing the secrets behind her literary genius. I asked some tough questions (hey,not everyone is comfortable talking about karaoke), and she totally fell for it.

Little does she know that I am now working on my own first novel, titled “The Outline,” about a really smart and funny girl who is determined to taste some of life’s quirky and crazy adventures before falling for Mr. Right. It’s coming along brilliantly.

Here’s what Melanie had to say:

Here’s this week’s column, dedicated to all the women out there who used to be great conversationalists.

“I really need to get out more.

Being a full-time, stay-at-home mom isn’t just a bunch of hyphens, it’s a world in and of itself. My version of the English language consists of smaller words and shorter sentences; conversation around here is rarely stimulating (unless I’m monologuing about proper bathroom etiquette, then someone usually feels moved to action).

With this in mind, I’m sure you can understand how a lunch date with my husband and his mostly male co-workers is both terrifying and invigorating.

Last week my mister called to invite me to lunch. “Hey babe, Dominic is in town for the week and we’re all going to lunch in an hour. Can you get away and meet us?”

Truthfully, an invitation like this always makes me feel overly special and totally adored. If he only knew how easy I really am.

“Of course! Sure! The older kids will be at pre-school, I can bring the baby!” I quickly changed out of my mom jeans and into something more deceiving and attractive. Any excuse to curl my hair and throw on a pair of stilettos, right?

I dropped off the kids and headed to the restaurant. Pulling in, I saw my man and his co-workers heading inside. Just as I parked the car, the baby began to cry.

A loud, hungry cry.

What to do? Suddenly, feeding the baby in public didn’t sound like the convenient, natural answer that accompanies me to play dates and Mom’s Club. No way was I pulling the girls out while simultaneously making small talk with a bunch of male desk jockeys.

With a sigh, I sat in the car and fed her as fast as possible. I thought, what’s an extra ten minutes?

That’s when she pooped her pants. And her shirt, and her socks.

Really, Fate? Can’t you just give me one hour with the grown-ups? One hour that isn’t dominated by poop and spit-up?

I finally made my way into the restaurant (fifteen minutes late), and took a seat at the far end of the table.

It’s a funny thing, getting together with grown-ups. Before I became a mother, I was a master at adult conversation. Politics, weather, social media, you  name it.

But the moment I sat down and someone asked me, “What’s new?” I knew they didn’t want to hear the answer. I quickly eliminated, “Junie now poops on the potty!” and “I just bought the best new nursing bra!” before finally settling on something lame like, “Not much, but I sure got a great parking space!” Really, so sad.

Riding in the car with my husband after lunch, I gave an uncomfortable smile. “Well, I’m not the girl I used to be. It took me a good fifteen minutes to remember how to talk like an adult.”

He laughed, “Don’t worry about it, someday you’ll be a grown-up again.”

In that moment, I had a glimpse of just how fast these years are flying. My days of spit-up and melt-downs are numbered, and I have the feeling a part of me is going to miss them. Kind of.

I think I’ll stick with peanut butter and jelly as long as I can.”

Is there anything worse than living with a bad purchase?

Five years ago, right after Rex was born, I started having serious back pain. I wasn’t sleeping well, and my lower back routinely felt like someone had taken a sledge hammer to it.

In an attempt to right this painful situation, we went mattress shopping. Keep in mind, we were fresh out of grad school, living in Maryland on a single government salary. There was no money for a new mattress.

I started looking online and found that there are a number of companies that sell memory foam knock-offs; they’re not official, and are routinely hit and miss, but they were sure cheap.

“Please please please?” I begged. “They’re so affordable, and I promise I’ll love it! Anything is better than what we’ve got.”

“Are you sure? Because once you get this, there’s no going back. You’ll have to live with it and I don’t want to hear you complain if it hurts your back.”

“I’d never complain! I’ll love it!”

$300 later our new mattress arrived on the doorstep. We were excited and thrilled and couldn’t wait to try it out. It came with a 30-day return policy, but once we’d popped the little vacuumed package open and watched it miraculously grow nine sized, it was apparent that mattress wasn’t going anywhere.

Then we slept on it.

Have you ever slept on a slab of plywood? Cause that would be preferable to our unforgettable memory foam mattress.

Fast forward five years of living with my decision. In the past few years we’ve learned that I have spondylolisthesis–a break in my lower back that will never heal (which explains why I routinely brag about my broken back)–which has worsened with each pregnancy.

I just can’t do it anymore. I’ve lived in silence with this horrible decision for five years. The bed has got to go.

Last weekend I put my back out so badly I was down for the count. Thanks to a really cool chiropractor out in Clearfield, UT who runs an awesome walk-in clinic, I am back on my feet and getting better every day. His name is Ryan, and last year he traded in his fancy practice for a stress-free, $20 walk-in clinic. He’s absolutely fantastic. (And no, I’m not getting anything for writing about his clinic. I just like to see people who aren’t afraid to trade money for happiness.)

The past week we’ve been hunting through mattress stores and dumpsters in an attempt to find a suitable mattress replacement. Finally, after talking to seventeen different furniture salesmen (and two women), we strapped our find to the top of the car last night and brought it home.

And thanks to my ever-loving (although routinely cheap) husband, last night I slept peacefully (minus the four times children woke me) and rolled over this morning…wait for it…without any pain. That’s right. First night on my new Intelligel Mattress (bought on clearance 70% off and non-returnable) and I can tell you right now, it was worth every penny.

Ever feel like the calendar is a big fat liar?

Today is my mother’s birthday. According to her birth certificate, she’s getting older, but I could swear we were the same age. My mom is my best friend (next to Jason, who’s her exact male counterpart). Honestly, there’s no one I’d rather talk to, shop with, be called on the carpet by, or phone. I love my mother.

I hate that the world says she’s getting older, because I don’t want her to ever die. She is a true student of life. There’s not a soul on this earth more determined to learn the things God wants to teach him/her (except maybe my dad, who’s adorable and intelligent and her perfect match).

You hear about older people getting set in their ways? My mom is constantly shaking off the shackles of bad habits and trying to make the most of her time here on this Earth. Because we all know, “Habits rule your life!”

All I know is that when I’m…older…I want to be like my mother. I never want to give myself permission to know everything. There’s nothing worse than talking to someone from a different generation and feeling like the entire conversation is one big patronizing lecture. Thank you, Mom, for rarely doing that.

Happy birthday, you beautiful young thing.

After months of planning and thinking and budgeting  and looking, I can now officially welcome you to annievalentine.com, my very own website! No, you have not been rerouted, and no, it’s not just a pretty new header, this is the real deal–my own legit domain. Self-hosted, professionally manufactured, and happily ever after.

YAY!

Honestly, I’m not good at computers, but when I first met Jessica, The Pixelista, I had the feeling she was just the talent I was looking for. And talented she is. Thanks to her dedication (and believe me, this project took some serious loyalty and effort on her part), I am now the happy owner of my very own big girl website. Did you notice the little hearts? I love the hearts. That was Jessica’s idea, because she gets me like that.

Jessica usually works in animated graphics, but when I told her I wanted real photos she was totally in. My best friend Tricia took the photos, I sent them to Jessica and voila! She came up with a header that is sleek, professional, and breezy. It’s exactly what I wanted, only better. She even nailed the fonts.

I picked a self-hosted blog because I want to be the master of my domain. I was ready to break away from the wordpress umbrella and be self-hosted, something Jessica is set up to do. Seriously, the girl can do everything. She not only did the graphics, but has transferred years of posts and comments over to this new site (not an easy feat). She’s brilliant graphically, and she’s brilliant technically.

And for the record, I am not getting any kind of deal or price cut for telling you why I love her, I’m telling you because you should know. It’s hard to find someone who can do everything just the way you want it; she’s that someone for me.

In April The Pixelista is giving away a custom blog design, and if I were you I’d jump on that website as fast as possible. She’s not only talented, but she’s willing to stick with a project no matter how bumpy it gets. Mine was kind of like a mine field.

Check her out, and welcome to annievalentine.com! Change it in your reader (if you like it here), and check out my new button on the sidebar. I bet it would love to come visit your blog…