Have you ever spent three days away from home and left your husband with the kids, then came back to a house that is perfectly clean and children who are happy and stable, and you wondered why your existence even matters?

I learned this week that the biggest problem with a three-day momcation is that it simply isn’t long enough. Believe me, seven days away and you’re looking at a completely different welcome home.

I recently returned from a week in the states with my family. Three days away from Jason and the kids and I was unfortunate enough to see (from photos) that on day three of my absence the house was clean, the kids were bathed, and Jason had gone so far as to help Harrison cut out and decorate star and boot shaped sugar cookies for the Blue and Gold Scout Banquet.

I would have taken a yellow cake from a box. Probably would have skipped the frosting.

It’s one thing to see a single mom who can bring home the bacon and fry it; I find myself impressed and supportive of these women. But my husband? He is so not supposed to be that capable.

It’s probably super wrong to admit out loud that when I walked into my house after a full week away and found the floor littered with three days’ worth of kid droppings (string, tape, cheerios, dried out markers, bandaids, hair bands, socks, broken crayons, etc.), a slightly excessive amount of flotsam and jetsam on the dining room table, and three full baskets of laundry that needed to be delivered around the house, I was overcome with happiness. Even better? Hearing Jason say those words every woman longs to hear: “I just couldn’t get anything done. The kids were constantly interrupting me, they wouldn’t let me work from home or clean the house, it was so frustrating…”

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so necessary and important in a microworld. They need me, they really need me. Rex wanted to his homework with me last night, and the girls both sat on my lap the entire time. I made dinner and they liked it. They missed it. They missed me! I have a place in the world and it was good to slip back into it.

Seeing my family was amazing, I really have wonderful relationships waiting for the day when we can move back and join the family fray. I feel so blessed that after 16 years away from home I can still sit down with my siblings and extended family members and talk like we’re neighbors. I would have liked more time with my dad, it was my only regret and something I keep kicking myself about, but I did get some much needed mother/daughter time. It was a blessing to see and connect with so much of my family.

And yet…Germany is my home right now. Driving into the village gave me such peace of mind. I was flooded with certainty that we are here right now for a reason, I’m not going to waste time wishing it away. I guess it really is all about ages and stages and right now it’s probably a good thing that I’m marooned in my little German village. My kids need me to be free from distractions, and as marvelous as my family is, they certainly offer a plethora of delightful distractions.

We like our kids to play sports. Don’t get me wrong, I do not aspire to the soccer mom status. I like to wear inappropriate heels to athletic functions and read my book when my kid is off the field. Soccer and baseball are usually painful seasons for me because I know there is no way to avoid taking up residence on the sidelines. This probably makes me a mostly awful parent.

I grew up in a family where we were raised to chase balls and shoot hoops and aspire to athletic greatness. Considering my crooked arm and overall inablility to excell at anything involving courts, fields or balls in general, it was best for everyone when I finally turned in my sneakers in high school and focussed my energies elsewhere.

But somewhere deep inside is a vast well of athletic knowledge that routinely threatens to spring forth and coach the world.

The real problem with Harrison’s sporting events isn’t that I’m bored, it’s that I can’t control myself. Somewhere inside me a screaming, bossy coach is sitting dormant on the end of a bench just aching to join the fray. With my mild-mannered husband and easilly embarrassed kid I find it’s imperative that I practice keeping my trap shut.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep up the charade.

“Son,” I heard Jason say a few weeks ago as we made our way to his first basketball game, “Just remember that when you get the ball, look for someone who is open and pass it, ok?”

It took everything in my power to refrain from correcting Jason. See, my kid is already hesitant in basketball. He already passes the ball and avoids coming in contact with it or anyone else on the court unless it’s necessary. He’s actually a great shot, and outside of a game scenario he really likes basketball, he’s just got no confidence on the court.

My husband isn’t necessarily a ball player. He loves a good pick-up game but he did not grow up in a small, athletically-minded town with a family that is feverishly obsessed with early childhood basketball careers. He doesn’t know from personal experience that the worst thing you can do for a child who is naturally hesitant on the court is to encourage them to keep being hesitant.

Jason pulled into the gas station and jumped out to pump gas. I quickly turned around and zeroed in on my child. “Harrison,” I said, “Look at me. Do not listen to anything your father is telling you. He knows nothing about basketball. I am your mother and I know everything about basketball.” He looked a little frightened and slightly awe struck. It didn’t stop me. “I’ve been playing basketball since I was six years old, trust me here. When you get the ball look for a shot and shoot the ball. Dribble and shoot, turn and shoot, I don’t care. Do not pass the ball. Ignore the rest of your team and just shoot the ball!”

He stared at me open mouthed. “But Dad said–”

“I don’t care what your father said, do what I say!” I saw Jason approaching. “Just don’t tell Dad we talked about this.”

The car door opened and Jason got in. I turned and gave Harrison one of those overly covert and slightly frightening looks that made him slink down in his chair in fright.

And from that moment on, the game was afoot. For the rest of the season this charade continued. My husband would tell our kid one thing, he’d leave the room and I’d quickly tell him another.

“Pass the ball!”

“Shoot the ball!”

“Look for someone who’s open!”

“Don’t trust anyone!!”
By the last game of the season our poor kid was so confused and bewildered with his two opposing parents that he would spend most of his time on the court hiding behind his opponents so he could avoid any contact with the ball whatsoever.

I think I need to send him home to America to play with his cousins for the summer. They’ll teach him how to shoot a ball.

Sometimes teaching Rex (7) is really challenging.

Hurray for iPhones and ear buds and cheap apps, I am almost back into jeans that button. Almost.

Let me tell you something about me and losing weight: It’s all in my head. Brownies are really just a mind game for me, it has very little to do with my taste buds or the needs of my stomach. My head likes brownies. My happiness hates them. How can my head and my happiness be so disconnected? I have never ate a brownie (or four) and then said, “Boy I feel so much happier with my life now!” I’m always miserable about it. Always.

For the last year I have felt like there’s no choice here, I cannot fight the powers that insist I eat peanut butter cookies and schnitzel. There are days when my hand force feeds my mouth chocolate chip cookies and I have no say in the matter whatsoever. I hate them, I don’t want to eat them, and yet they just keep making their way down my gullet like an invading army that takes no prisoners. I have been a prisoner to brownies and baguettes and leftover french toast and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups for the past year and I haven’t had the strength to do much about it.

Having been someone who knows how to be skinny and easily (it was so easy) maintained skinny in the past this has been a really freaky thing. Freaky and disturbing and oh look, I’m wearing stretch pants again today.

But those days are gone. So over.

I think I’m going to give credit here to my hypnotherapy app. I can’t decide whether or not it’s working because I usually fall asleep five minutes into it, but then this morning I was thinking about it and I had to wonder, maybe I don’t remember because it’s hypnotizing me. What if I’m having these great weight loss/healthy brain results because I’m actually hypnotized right now? What if I’m only writing this because my hypnotherapy app told me to tell everyone about my great new hypnotherapy app?

Frankly I don’t care why I feel so good. But let me tell you, Mama is going to be skinny by April 1st and that is no joke. And that’s a healthy goal for me, two pounds a week is super attainable.

But the best part of this is that I will (hopefully) be back into some of my jeans by February 14th when I fly home to see my family. Jason is sending me for Valentine’s Day and it’s the most motivating thing ever. Isn’t it funny how my sisters and I are frantically trying to get skinny real fast since we’re going to be seeing each other? I have no idea why it matters but oh my gosh it totally matters.

Family is so good for weight loss. And hypnotherapy. I love me some hypnotherapy.

I am finished. Done. This is over. It’s time for me to take back my jeans and all the rusty zippers that haven’t seen action in the last six, seven, eight oh whatever, 12 months.

We have lived here for a year and a half and I have very gradually gained 15 pounds. I say gradually but what I really mean is gained lost gained lost gained lost oh look, I can’t wear any of my clothes AT ALL gradually.

When I did the play in November I got motivated and lost eight pounds super easily. I’ve been around this hot dog stand, I know how to be thin. By December 1st I was down within about 5 pounds of my pre-Germany weight (11 pounds from pre-Georgia however many years ago). I felt great.

But when December hit my life went crazy. Looking back I realized that I didn’t spend one single day at home during the first three weeks of December, and when you’re gone at night and at lunch and at parties and at play practice you tend to eat whatever you can find and afford. In my case that was a lot of frickadelle and bratwurst with pommes. I was sure I was burning off the calories with all that extra driving and tenseness in my shoulders, but when I stepped on the scale on December 28 I was up 14 pounds from December 1st.

WHAT?!#&!!

All month I’ve been taking one step forward, one step back. Then last week one of my friends texted me and asked if I would do a six-day protein shake/almonds/healthy dinner thing with her and I realized that it’s time I stopped eating out of the bread basket and took control of this stupid lack of self-control that is keeping me from my closet and mirrors and an overall sense of satisfaction. Done. Permanently. It’s over.

My sister suggested I look into a free hypnotherapy weight loss app and I’ve got to say, there just might be something to it. I don’t really care at this point, I’ll take all the positive reinforcement help I can get. Believe me when I tell you, by April Fools Day my closet is going to open its doors and welcome me back into every pair of teeny jeans and all the zippered dresses with open hangers.

See those pink heels up there? The stitching is ripped in the toe and I’m feeling very emotional about it. I haven’t bought a new pair of heels for a year and a half and I’m very attached to anything that comes from Ross.

Around here we (I) do a couple of things to welcome in the new year (besides fireworks which were awesome this year). Last year I came up with a family word for the year. Since my short term memory isn’t so good at retaining and applying specific goals I thought a word might be easier. My stipulations for our Family Word are simple: Will it help us be better and get back to Heaven? Is it universal enough that I can yell it at the kids in almost any situation?

Last year’s word was “charity,” and it was a good one. I yelled that thing all over the place. We did a few little long-term project throughout the year that were mildly successful because they involved chocolate. Most of my kids now know what charity means so I’m going to chalk 2012’s word up as a success.

This year our family word is “peace.” The plan is when someone is feeling contentious or angry at someone else, they’re supposed to zip their lips and hold up the peace sign. That means the other person has to turn around and leave them alone or they get a time-out. So far it’s been 50% successful; Harrison (9) is really good at giving Rex (7) and June (5) the peace sign. Rex and June think it’s really funny.

We’re working on that one.

The other thing I’ve implemented this year is a family motto. I was talking to my girl April two weeks ago and she threw out a phrase her mom used to say that hit my mental funny bone. It’s, “Look out for the little guy.” I love this. We have adopted it as our 2013 Family Theme and June and I worked it into family night on Monday.

We took one of those pocket cabbage patch kids (2 inches long) and explained that this was the “little guy”. One person would leave the room as we quickly hid the little guy, then played hot and cold until the little guy was found. June was in charge and it was something she could teach. Unfortunately she was so wrapped up in bossing everyone around that the game didn’t spin off as well as it could have, but that’s ok.

The other New YEar’s project I’ve come up with is our Sunshine Jar. It’s a jar with a vinyl sunshine on it, hence the Sunshine Jar. My family eats dinner together about 3 or 4 times a week and for the past few year’s we’ve done “High-Low’s”. This is where you take turns telling your daily high and your daily low. It’s a nice way to catch up but I feel like it’s gone a little stale around here.

Instead, I thought up about a dozen different questions relating to a typical day, things like, “Did anyone make you angry today? How did you handle it?” or “Did you see anyone who was sad today? What did you do? What can you do next time?” or “What’s the best thing you ate today? Did Mom make it? Isn’t she the best cook ever?” Everyone pulls a question out and answers it and then we talk about it as a family. It’s been surprisingly successful, the kids want to go through all the questions at every meal. Since we only do it a few times a week it doesn’t seem to be getting old.

That’s how we’re heading into 2013. I know it’s cliche but I can’t help admitting that I love an excuse to make a fresh start.

There’s nothing worse than thinking something might be wrong with your child. Whether it’s physical or emotional or academic or social, it all sounds bad.

Our seven-year-old son, Rex, has been struggling in first grade. A big part of it comes from missing kindergarten and having a mother who would rather slit her throat than homeschool (tried that for 4 miserable months). It’s put him frighteningly behind where the standardized testing says he should be and as much as I hate what the testing says, I respect the school’s assessment.

In October we started the long and lengthy process called “How To Get Your Kid Help in the Public School System.” The step by painful step procedure is slow and meticulous but I think those are the very qualities which make it extremely thorough and, in the long run, successful. The days of throwing a kid into the resource dungeon are long gone. I’m amazed at how much thought and effort goes into one child and their individual needs.

In order for Rex to qualify for the type of extra help he needs we had to undergo a barrage of testing. My husband and I took tests, his teachers took tests, the clerk at the grocery store took tests, Santa took a test–basically anyone who has any contact with Rex on a regular basis put in their two cents worth. He was tested and evaluated by three separate specialists and the pediatric psychologist at the hospital did the final assessment.

Thanks to the combined obsessive efforts of so many professional parties, the elementary school now knows more about my kid than anyone (except You Know Who, I’m confident His file on Rex is the thickest).

We were scheduled to sit down with the pediatric psychologist and go over his results at the end of December. Unfortunately I found that I couldn’t get out of bed that morning.

Because no matter how emotionally prepared I think I am to handle results about my boy and his not normal test results, I’m really not.

We come across adults on a regular basis who think an afternoon of casual observation during a play date qualifies them to assess and diagnose Rex. They know someone who is autistic, or have a cousin with Asperger’s. I hate seeing judgement like that in people’s faces. They’re wrong and I know it; we’ve had him tested before. Quit judging my kid.

But on that morning I was gripped with panic and fear. What if all those people are right? What if I’ve been blind to Rex and only see what I want to see? What if he has a problem that is unsurmountable, something that will keep him from growing and progressing and living somewhere that isn’t our basement when he’s 40?

I called in sick that afternoon. Jason rescheduled for us.

I wish I could tell you that I experienced an epiphany during the three weeks between the two appointements, that I grew emotionally and stopped acting like a large whiny baby who needed to put on big girl undies and go listen to the doctor.

Unfortunately I’m not that good at growing up.

On the morning of our second appointment Jason tried to get me out of bed. “I’m sorry,” I finally said. “You have to do this for us. I just…can’t.”

The thing is, I knew that no matter what the test results said it wasn’t going to change how much I love my kid. He wouldn’t change just because someone gave him diagnostic title. He’d still be my happy, dreamy, helpful little buddy who likes to put things in the grocery cart for me and thinks cleaning the toilets is the best Saturday chore ever.

His results? They were exactly what we thought they would be and then some. In addition to his anxiety he has some learning hurdles to work around during these next couple of years but they are all workable. Next time I will be braver.

I really hope there’s not a next time.

Today I feel very far away from people who love me.

It probably sounds stupid because in theory love is great at time and distance. It doesn’t matter that my mom and sisters live on the other side of the world because we’ve got things like modern technology and computer crap to bridge the gap. I can call them anytime (between the hours of 5pm and midnight) can skype with them whenever I want (except with my closest sister because she doesn’t have internet access), and I always feel loved (except when I spend a week in my house and realize no one ever comes to hang out because oh yeah, I live in freaking Germany).

I feel like I’m an island surrounded by water and I can’t see any of the things I love because there’s all this stupid ocean between us. Friends can be great but friends can’t really love you or even need like your family does. I know my sisters think about me. I know it. Not because we say it out loud but because I think about them. And sometimes I’ll get an email from my oldest sister or a KiK message from my middle sister or a text from my other middle sister telling me to call my closest sister because she doesn’t have internet and she’s wants to tell me something.

And it makes me feel loved.

I have tried so hard over here to find friendships to fill in for my sisters, and there are wonderful amazing women every where I turn. Women I love and am grateful for.

But today I feel myself seeing a hard truth that has been lingering in the back of my mind for the past few weeks. No matter how hard I work at these friendships, they aren’t going to be my sisters or my mom.

It’s a grand adventure, living here in Europe, and I’m not complaining about it. I’ve met the most wonderful people, seen the most inspiring cities, eaten the most delicious food and made some priceless memories with my children and Jason. We would chose this ten times in a row without even questioning it.

But on the eleventh time, I think I’d just choose to go home.

It will be a while before we get to number eleven, but a little part of my heart is counting the days.

Early in December our son Harry asked Santa for a Cabbage Patch kid. A boy one with red hair, please.

At first I was a little surprised and apprehensive about my nine-year-old wanting a doll, but Cabbage Patch Kids aren’t really dolls, they’re companions. He’d been helping me choose them for his sisters and watching all the YouTube video births from the Cabbage Patch…it couldn’t be helped, he was totally sold. I decided to do a little looking just in case. Would you believe that within five minutes on ebay I found a circa 1985 boy cabbage patch kid, football player, redish hair, new in the box…$12.99.

Talk about your no-brainer.

Ten minutes later the deal was sealed and the Kid was on it’s way. A few days later I casually mentioned to my husband that Harrison wanted a Cabbage Patch Kid. I honestly wasn’t prepared for his reaction.

“What?! Absolutely not, my son is not going to have a doll! I hated those things when I was a kid and I will not allow him to have one.”

Oops.

I sat Harrison down a few days later. “So,” I said, “Are you still wanting a Cabbage Patch Kid?”

“Yes!” he said.

“Buddy, I’ve got to warn you. If you get a Cabbage Patch Kid for Christmas your father is going to tease you for the next fifty years of your life for owning a doll. You’re nine, it’s not exactly cool. Are you really prepared to take that kind of torture?”

“Bring it!” he said with a smile.

I decided to let Santa be the bad guy and wrapped up the doll unbeknownst to Jason. I hid it in the living room that night and crossed my fingers that good old Dad wouldn’t kill me later.

The next morning after everything had been opened and the kids were settled into their gifts I called Harrison back to the living room, video camera in hand.

“Hey,” I said, “What’s that over there?” He looked by the fire place behind a plant and pulled out the Santa wrapped gift.

“I don’t know,” he said, “There’s no name on it.”

“Why don’t you open it and see?”

“What is that?” Jason asked with apprehension, “I thought we talked about this…”

“I don’t know, it looks like Santa left it.”

Harrison pulled out his new Swiss Army knife and carefully cut away the wrapping paper. Then he started to laugh. The kid giggled like a school girl (too much?) and said, “Dad, you’re going to hate Santa for this one!”

And then he met Lyle, his new best friend. Football helmet and all, it was the most masculine doll Santa could have mustered.

He carefully whisked the doll away to his room and placed him in the most coveted place, right on his pillow.

Later that day Kiyah, Harrison’s good friend, came over with her family for Christmas dinner. I had to show off Santa’s amazing Cabbage Patch find and asked Harry to retrieve Lyle from his room. The look on Kiyah’s face when she saw the doll was nothing short of shock and horror.

“I have no idea where this came from!” Harrison said laughingly, “Don’t ask me what Santa was thinking!” he smiled and gave me his doll to show my friends. I handed Lyle back, and trying to help him save face said, “Be careful with that Harrison, remember that it’s a collector’s item!”

Harrison took the Kid, carefully placed it over his shoulder and gently patted it’s backside in true parental fashion. “Oh, yeah,” he said to Kiyah, “He’s a collector’s item.” Then he kissed its head and carefully returned Lyle to his bunk bed.

That boy is going to be a great father some day.

Jason called me this afternoon from work to remind me that due to our January Santa Bill Recovery Phase, I needed to eat less and tighten up the budget this pay period or else.

So what did I do? Why, I did what any careful, frugal woman would do in my situation: I ran right out and bought myself a fish tank.

A month ago I was thinking and praying about Rex turning 8 this year. I feel like it’s important that he has a basic understanding of the Gospel before he gets baptized and I couldn’t think of how to make that happen. We read the scriptures every day but that kind of application goes right over his head. He’s got some cognitive learning difficulties in the memory and application part of his little brain so Gospel stuff is particularly difficult for him.

Then it came to me. We need a fish tank.

Not just any fish tank, but an Article of Faith Fish Tank. What better way to know the basic princples of the Gospel than to memorize them? Rex has been begging for some fish and since a fish tank comes with so many moveable parts, I decided we could spend some time this year earning the “13 parts” of a tank to get him ready for his Fish Tank Baptism (too much?).

This weekend Rex memorized the First Article of Faith, or in our house the Fish Tank Article (this will be followed up next week with #2, or the Rocks Article).

I’ve been looking through our local American classified ads for a cheap fish tank and found about a dozen that would fit the bill. But with Jason’s stern warning that I cut all spending until next week I decided to lay off and wait.

I’ve had half a dozen people offer me their fish tanks at give-away prices so I wasn’t worried about finding one eventually. But for whatever reason I ended up driving to a girl’s house on my way home from piano lessons with my last $40 of grocery money so I could buy Rex his Fish Tank. As I pulled in all I could think was how much I’m going to be hating that fish tank by next Wednesday.

I knocked on the door and it opened.

“Oh!” she said. Did she look familiar? She pointed at me, “I know you.”

“You do…” I said.

“I know you from Church,” she said.

“Of course!” I’ve been out of the Ramstein ward for months but felt confident we’d met at least once. We followed her into the living room where her big fish tank was set up. For the next ten minutes we talked fish. Catfish, guppies, gold fish, mollies (named for Jason’s old girlfriend, an ugly fish we will never own because it would probably die of unknown causes while Rex was away at school), this girl knew everything about fish.

“The tank is upstairs if you want to follow me,” she said.

We headed up to her bedroom. “It’s been sitting on a sticky pad to keep it still, I’ll just loosen it  up and it’s all yours!”

Now the Ramstein ward is very, very large. It’s probably the largest active congregation I’ve ever attended and with the rapid fire turnover it’s very easy to lose people in the shuffle. As we visited I wondered where this girl fell in the religion department. Active? Less active? Not active? Please leave me alone already?

She reached around the fish tank to gently rock it free as we visited. It wouldn’t budge. For five minutes she tried to move that tank with zero luck.

Since we were obviously going to be there for a while trying to unstick the tank I decided, why not? Can’t hurt to ask. “So how’s the church situation?” And just like that the floodgates opened. We talked about God and her husband who is not a member of our church. We talked about trying to go every Sunday alone and how good she felt being there, that even though it was hard to get there taking the sacrament was worth it. She said she missed Heavenly Father in her life. Those are tender words to hear from someone and I loved her for sharing them with me.

Then I learned that her man had deployed for a year two Octobers ago and she’d ended up staying here for emergency foot surgery. The Relief Society had no idea she was still in the country, they thought she went back to stay with family during his deployment then moved from Germany last fall. No one knew she was here. No one saw her slip into the back of the chapel on Sundays or slip out before the meeting had ended. Only her Heavenly Father, and I felt the gentle hands of the Shepherd bringing her back.

And just as our conversation about life and religion was winding down her husband got home and the angels decided to let go of the fish tank and it popped right off of there.

I tried calling the Relief Society President of the Ramstein ward on my way home to give her this girl’s information but the line was busy. Vowing to do it later I put the phone in my back pocket and unloaded the car, starting dinner.

About half an hour after arriving home I was standing at the stove cooking when my phone rang. I picked it out of my pocket and saw the RS President’s name on the caller ID. Thinking she had called me back I put the phone to my ear.

But she hadn’t called me back. Apparently I had called her, or my butt had called her or most likely, the angels had called her. Someone wanted to make sure I did not let that lovely girl go unnoticed for one more hour.

Our stake theme this year is “Finding the One.” Tonight I understood exactly why the one is so important.