In response to yesterday’s super unthankful post here are ten things I’m thankful for right off the top of my head.

1. Clean water. I like to drink it, bathe in it and let it run while I brush my teeth even though I kind of know it’s bad for the Earth. Water, I love you.

2. Tylenol. Also Ibuprofen and all the other magical over the counter medications I have on hand when my babies get sick. It’s such a relief to see a fever break and know there’s something I can do. Also handy when you’re trying to stop drinking Diet Coke.

3. Little children. I know they’re sticky and insanely high maintenance but oh my gosh, I will hate the day when my kids get home from school and don’t plough me over with hugs and kisses because they’re all taller than me. I love them little, growing up is so lame.

4. My bed, specifically when my husband is sleeping in it. He’s so warm and cozy and when he’s asleep I can snuggle up to him all I want because he’s unconscious. I also like him when he’s in my bed awake but that’s none of your business.

5. Twilight. Thank you for giving girls and moms an excuse to get together and gawk at insanely inappropriate boys with their shirts off. I love any book or movie that moves us to gather together and laugh.

6. Wood burning stoves and fireplaces. Don’t ask me why but when my man builds me a fire it melts all my troubles and leaves me with a feeling of toasty peace. It also makes me gazy and lazy but it’s totally worth it. Heated floors are also crazy wonderful.

7. Income. I am blessed with a husband who’s in a career field that has room for him. Right now that really counts for something, we all know someone who’s looking and it’s such a tough place to be. I am so, so thankful that we can pay our bills. Dave Ramsey is also thankful.

8. Heavenly Father. Because He loves me and listens to me and because I am His daughter. I know it, I feel it and there is nothing in this world that can take that away from me. I know who I am and that is enough.

My list could go on and on, I’m amazed sitting here that I just slammed this out in a few minutes. How crazy lucky are we all to have so many blessings?

Crazy lucky, that’s what we are.

People are always whining about the pre-Christmas hubub but oh my goodness, if I have to attend one more pre-Thanksgiving dinner I just might lose my protein shake all over the deviled eggs.

I hate Thanksgiving food. Love the gratitude but please don’t pass the potatoes. I hate them. And stuffing, ugh. In fact, I can’t think of a time in my life when I actually liked Thanksgiving food (aside from the deviled eggs which I actually do love). This has absolutely nothing to do with my disinterest in carbs for my figure’s sake, it doesn’t matter what my dieting status is, I can’t stand turkey.

(Crap, I forgot to buy a bucket so I can salt soak my bird tomorrow night. I wonder if I can just fill the washing machine with salt water and leave the lid up…)

Not only have we already participated in two major pre-turkey day galas but I’ve taken creamed corn to both events. The thought of making it one more time in a seven day cycle…it’s enough to give a person emotion induced stomach cramps. I can’t stand the thought of those bursting kernels smashing between my teeth with that sweet creamy homemade filling that I’m sick and tired of. Oh please not again.

My biggest pet peeve here is how my kids don’t eat. We dish up their plates and then watch them nibble at their rolls and sliver of turkey meat (Heaven forbid we give them dark meat), bypassing the beans, corn, yams, eggs, stuffing, homemade cranberry sauce, fruit salad, creamed onions, macaroni and cheese, sausages, potatoes, turkey gravy–how is it I’ve passed on my genetic aversion to all our offspring when my husband lives and breathes by the beatless heart of the Thanksgiving Turkey (the only legs he prefers over mine)?

This year I got smart and we’re having a bunch of men over for Thanksgiving. Hey, I want my leftovers G-O-N-E as fast as possible. No way can Jason mow his way through them all before they hit trash bin #4 (have I mentioned that we have 5 different mandatory trash receptacles here? Paper, plastic, glass, waste, compost, and they only pick up our one measly trash can every two weeks).

Today was day one of the feast preparation, otherwise known as Shopping Day or Pre-Baking Day. Tomorrow is actual Baking Day and yesterday was Pre-Shopping Day. Since today was Shopping Day Pre-Baking Day I weathered the parking lot at the Commissary and managed to bake bread, get my tart dough ready to go, bake the yams and make enough pinto beans to feed 50 men.

In case you’re wondering, no we’re not serving pinto beans on Thanksgiving and no we did not invite 50 men. Jason reminded me yesterday that I’m supposed to bring in pinto beans for his office’s Mexican Lunch on Wednesday (my tomorrow). Do you know how many cans of pinto beans it takes to feed that many people? I’m way too cheap and totally out of grocery money so I had to resort to old fashioned beans in a bag and make them from scratch. It took me six hours and I didn’t have time to soak them. Oh well, I don’t have to work in that office so I won’t have to live with the atmospheric results.

And so my friends, Happy Shopping Day/Baking Day/Turkey Day this week, may your timers ring true and your children come to the table hungry. I’m so very, very thankful that mine have rarely experienced hunger. Food is truly such a blessing.

I think I should count them more.

My kids are getting old. I can no longer trick them into thinking that medicine is candy (I’m totally that parent), shots won’t hurt, and leaving friends is an adventure.

Our church recently asked us to leave our big fat friendly congregation and attend a teensy weensy little group out in the sticks. They’ve recently had a lot of families transfer out of that part of Germany and the attendance has dropped so low they aren’t even holding regular hours.

This was a tough choice for us. Our church has provided a welcome fellowship of love and friendship for us and our children. It has supplemented family and we absolutely love attending. Going from 450 to 40 members is a massive change.

I’ve been to the little Baumholder building to visit, I know how bare the benches are and how badly they need a few warm faces. It was a crushing no-brainer–you go where Jesus needs you. Still, sometimes the easiest decisions are the most painful to swallow.

About a week before our first Sunday we decided to tell Harrison, our nine-year-old.

“Sweetie,” I said with a super fake high voice and plastic smile, “Guess what? We get to change churches! We’re going to head to the super awesome Baumholder branch and start going there! You’re totally going to love it.”

He looked like we’d just taken his Nintendo DS away for a year. “Wait, what? You mean for a visit, right?”

“No,” Jason said, sans the fake smile and enthusiasm, “We’re leaving Ramstein. They asked us if we’d help out over there and we said yes.”

So much for a spoonful of sugar.

“What?!” Harrison yelled, “Why? I don’t understand! This is so stupid! Is Jake coming? Tell me Jake is coming,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “No. But you’ll still see–”

“No! I’m not going!” He stomped from the room and I ran after chasing him with phrases like “so much fun” and “best thing ever.” Hogwash. The kid isn’t stupid.

Two mornings later before school we sat as a family doing morning scripture sleep reading. You’ve heard of sleep walking? This is kind of like that only we like to involve Jesus.

As soon as we finished Harrison slumped off to an old chair in the corner and sat down. I walked past him just as he started to cry.

“Honey!” Tears at 6:00 am? Bad sign. “What’s the matter with you?” He shook his head and refused to look at me. “Is it school?” Negative. “Friends?” Negative. “Did someone show you a dirty picture on the bus again?” Double negative. I looked around me and saw the scriptures sitting out. Why not? “Does it have to do with Jesus?” He nodded his head up and down. “Tell me.”

And the floodgates opened. He doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to leave his friends on Sunday and go to a new church, a small church where there aren’t any kids he knows. He hates this, why do we have to do this?

Every cell in my body wanted to reassure him that it was going to be awesome. I wanted to slather on the famous It’s Going To Be Okay mommy balm and tell him that these things always work themselves out. I wanted to smile and make him laugh and fool his little head off.

But I didn’t. I just didn’t have the energy to cough up that much crap.

“You’re right,” I said. His head snapped up and he looked me in the eye. “This is going to be really hard for us. It’s hard for Dad and it’s hard for you and it’s hard for me. Honestly honey, this really stinks.” I opened my arms and couldn’t help my own tears. “Let’s hug.”

It actually made him feel better. His tears stopped and on Sunday morning he didn’t whine or complain about going to the new building. On Sunday after church he even informed us that our new church is awesome and he loves it.

Now if I can only remember to implement this don’t-tell-them-lies routine during the next big drama we’ll be good to go.

I like to be violently blond. For goodness sakes the last thing I want anyone to do is look at my hair and say, “Is that your natural color?” I can do that genetically, thank you very much.

I came to Earth blond (actually bald but so far we haven’t hit that low again). Like many of my dishwater sisters puberty took my lovely golden locks and ruined them. Hence my natural dark blond color. I hate this color. My eyebrows and lashes are platinum and as far as I’m concerned that’s reason enough to do the same to my hair.

It’s a sticky business, bleaching your hair. Everyone has an opinion about how blond or not blond a girl should be but I don’t color my hair for the masses. The only person who gets a vote is my husband (sorry Mother).

Before we moved to Germany my hair was long and two-toned–platinum on top and dark underneath–and I loved it. My stylist listened to me and always managed to make me feel good about my choices, one of the things I paid her for.

Three days before we left I had a hair catastrophe with an unnamed stylist that changed my hair for-e-ver. We had to chop it and color it and well…it’s never been the same since. I feel like Sampson losing his locks. I like to blame just about everything on this fatal error. It’s the cause of my weight gain, the reason my floors are always sticky, why my laundry sours so fast over here, and (obviously) the reason I hate standing in front of the camera.

My stylist here is young. She’s young and American and tends to think she’s the only person in the world who knows how to do hair. To top it off she charges me way more than I should be paying, even in Germany, and as of yet I’ve been mostly unhappy with the results (not entirely her fault, you can only do so much with a head like mine).

Last week I went in to get my hair done. It was a Big Appointment, one of those where we change the course of history by shuffling around my color. I’ve hated my solid washed-out color for months but due to scheduling conflicts and poor communication she hasn’t been able to do much about it until now.

In my mind I was going to stay mostly blond on top with some lovely dimension throughout, thus retaining my Look-I-Color-My-Hair mantra not the Look-I-Color-My-Hair-Myself version.

And $110 dollars later what did I end up with?

Dark. Blond. Hair. No visible highlights, just a block of dark hair.

I actually had to shut my eyes while she styled the results because it looked so terrible to me. She made me look…natural. I know initial reactions aren’t always rational so I gulped down my panic and decided to give it a few days and a few washes before casting any longterm judgements.

I felt so ugly.

After my second full day with Ugly Hair I waited until Jason was asleep before letting myself bawl about it into my pillow. I don’t cry in front of him as a rule but apparently I couldn’t quite muffle the really ugly sobs (I should practice crying more so I can be less hideous about it).

“Honey?” he said in a half awake stupor, “Are you…crying?”

No, I’m practicing a part for the play.

My friends all assure me that it looks fine, good, very natural.

On day four I finally emailed my hair girl (she doesn’t do calls) and told her how ugly I was feeling. Had she worked in the states or at an actual salon I would have gone straight in and handled it in person.

She totally shot me down. Instead of a comforting, “How can I fix it?” she told me I knew what I was getting myself into and that I’d have to live with it.

And that is how you lose a customer. Next month’s pay check is going toward the hunt for a new stylist.

Have you ever stayed up until 2:00 am reading some stupid post-apocolyptic book then had to get up at 6:00 to get your kids breakfasted and out the door, and then you put on Shrek for your toddlers (who could use diaper changes and baths) and went back to sleep until 10:00?

Have you ever come to the unfortunate realization that it’s November and you haven’t shaved your bikini line since August, but when you decide to actually do something about it you realize that it’s November and your husband has already locked the lawn mower away for the winter so, oh well?

Have you ever had your mother come to visit and spend her two week vacation doing your laundry and then go home early (I wonder why), leaving you with a job you are no longer interested in/remember about and so you finally start buying weekly socks and underwear for the kids because no one remembers how to start the washing machine?

Have you ever stripped the sheets off your kids’ beds to wash them and then forgot about it and realized that your poor son has been sleeping on his mattress cover for a week and doesn’t realized that it’s not normal?

Or have you ever had a friend come to get something out of your car but when she opens the door is attacked by soccer balls and banana peels and ends up catching some foreign virus because you haven’t cleaned it out in the last 7 hours/2 trips into town because that’s how long it takes to destroy a car?

Have you ever agreed to take four extra kids for the weekend and decided on Wednesday that instead of cleaning the house for the company you would finish your post-apocolyptic novel because eight kids in one house for three days is like a having Superstorm Sandy drop by for tea so why put out any effort until Tuesday, thus giving yourself an unexpected (albeit uncomfortable) week long vacation from the daily do’s?

I’m sure I don’t have any idea where these suggestions came from, I just like to hypothesize about other women and their crazy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get back to polishing the silver.

Sometimes I look around me at all the techno paraphernalia we carry everywhere and wonder what in the world happened to all those old rotary phones. It feels like I’ve seen mountains of change in my three and a half measly decades.

Then my father comes into the kitchen and starts throwing around stories about the old foot bridge on the farm, and the year they got electricity. My favorite is when he references his childhood wardrobe with “two pairs of pants and two shirts because that’s really all anybody ever needs.”

Judging by my laundry pile I think they were onto something.

My dad is very possibly one of the smartest people I know. He’s good at business, great with people and a lover of all things trivia. At almost 80 he can still kick my trash at Boggle and make his way through the European subway system–alone–without ending up in Tibet.

I can’t think of anything smarter than my dad. Well almost anything. He has finally met his match, his nemesis, his kryptonite.

The computer.

We call it the computer, my mother calls it the computer, the children call it the computer. My dad? He only refers to it as The Thing, This Thing, This Darn Thing or What A Stupid Thing.

“Diane!” he yells every morning when he sits down at the laptop and prepares to battle his email (for the record, my dad rarely yells at our about anything). “I don’t know what This Thing is doing…”

“Rex,” she says looking over his shoulder, “You have to log out of my account. There, that button. No not that one look up in the corner, the same one we use at home.”

“I don’t think I can even get my email over here,” he mumbles looking warily outside at the German countryside. He finally clicks the right button and waits for the page to load.

It comes up in German.

“Diane!” he yells putting both hands in the air, “Now look what it’s done, This Thing is all in German! I just can’t do anything with This Thing…”

And the battle wages on.

“Diane!” he yells, once he’s got his account open and is finally accessing the 47,000 requests for money from African royalty and his daily dose of political forwards. “Go get Jason, I want him to look at This Thing.”

“Rex, just forward it to him!” she says, once again coming to supervise over his shoulder.

“I can’t get This Thing to forward anything, I don’t think I even have that button anymore!” She clicks here and points there. His account was recently hijacked by some online hacker and he is still suffering from a slight case of PTSD. This is a shame since he’s barely recovered from the Crash of 2004 where they lost all sorts of horribly important forwards.

“Just go to your address book,” she says.

“I don’t have an address book anymore! They took it! They wiped it out!”

I feel for the guy, I’m terrible at computers. It’s especially bad when Harrison starts showing me shortcuts. He’s nine.

We borrowed an old van last weekend to take my folks down to Bavaria. Harrison and Grandpa were sitting together in the backseat and Harry was complaining about the heat. “Just turn it down, there’s a dial right next to you,” I said. He looked at the old manual heating dial with the hot/cold sliding tab. He looked at me. He looked back at the knobs and tabs. “How?”

Grandpa reached across, old school like, and showed him how it was done. “Ohhh,” Harrison said as soon as he saw how to manipulate non-digital. “Thanks Grandpa!”

He’s still got a few good tricks up his sleeve.

I was visiting with my girlfriend and her mom this afternoon and we were talking about how stupid busy I am. Really, when am I going to step back and look at how much I’m overdoing it?

Here is my list of One Too Many Things To Do These Days:

1. The Mrs. Claus Affair – A small foundation my friend Rebecca and I started this year to benefit the spouses of deployed service personnel over Christmas. Basically, it’s our way of ensuring that moms who are hoofing it on their own while their men are off fighting for freedom have something to open on Christmas morning. We finished our first service project (a holiday card mini-photo shoot where 2/3 of the proceeds went to our foundation) and we have one more fund raiser to go. Then we need to sort nominations and plan a luncheon and shop for gifts…I’m tired.

2. Rex – I’m trying to volunteer in Rex’s classroom 1-2 days a week in the mornings. It doesn’t sound like that much but I swear two hours plus travel time and unscheduled trips to the commissary (since I’m there…) turn it into a half day event.

3. Laundry – They keep wearing clothes. Really, how necessary is this? My parents were here for way too short of a visit and for nine days I didn’t touch an article of clothing except to put it over my head. I finally felt guilty that my mom was doing so much so I collected a few stray shirts and went down to start a load. She yelled at me. It was so sweet. Now she’s gone (they left 5 days early to beat the Frankenstorm) and there’s no one here that likes to do laundry.

4. A Christmas Story – Harrison and I tried out for our military community’s production of A Christmas Story playing in the month of December. I’m playing the mother and Harrison is Toady, Scut Farcas’ little cronie. I have practice every. Single. Night. I’m so stupid.

5. Writing – I’m picking up some freelance stories here and there (to fill the time) and forgot that real journalism takes more than 20 minutes of disorganized inner dialogue thrown at the computer in a frenzy of self expression. I finished a story yesterday that took me over three stinking hours. It’s like being back in college.

6. Cooking – Because my husband just bought me a truckload of French antique furniture for pre-Christmas I am living the frugal life. This means I don’t have money for fast food or dinners out. Since we eat at least twice daily in the car I swear I’m now making sandwiches seven times a day. Add that to my crock pot marathon and it’s like I’m becoming some sort of stay at home mom who isn’t here often enough to get anything done.

As I visited with Glenna about my overextendedness I realized something: it will never end. I’m Mormon and we’re big believers in a busy, rocking afterlife. We don’t die and get to nap in the ground, oh no. We move on to bigger and better things.

But really, would it be so hard to let me squeeze in a week long snooze of unconsciouness before I have to go toward the light? The eternal To Do List is almost too much to think about.

I have officially left my early 30’s and I’m not loving it as much as I thought I would.

I could always say that I still feel 24, but who in the world wants to be 24 again? I’ve loved my early 30’s. Young enough to have long hair but old enough to have an opinion–it’s been the perfect age.

Was the perfect age. I am no longer feeling so youngish. This year has aged me faster than any year to date. My waistline is thicker, my hair is thinner, and my gout is giving me trouble. I bypass my heels so regularly (cobblestones are a death trap)  that they’re starting to feel like they belong to that other Annie, the young mom with an infant on her hip and two sizes of diapers in her purse for the “babies.”

I think the reality of my age really hit me in the face a month  ago when we ran into a friend of ours at a restaurant. We took the kids to Chili’s on Base for a good old American meal. Lucky for us a family friend was waiting tables that night and we landed in his section.

He placed our order with the kitchen and in no time our food started to appear. Enlisting the help of a fellow employee, he brought everything to the table so we could enjoy our all-American feast.

“Hey Tom,” he said to his friend, “These are some of my good friends, let me introduce you.” I smiled and waved as he started the introductions. “This is Jason, he’s a great guy as long as you don’t do anything illegal.” We laughed for a moment at his joke. Nothing like law enforcement to make guilty adults giggle like nervous children.

“And this is Annie, she’s a real cougar,” wink wink nod nod.

Wait, what did he call me? I knew he said cougar, but I quickly decided that certainly he must have been referring to my college alma mater. I know what a cougar is–a woman who is old but still retains enough of her younger attractiveness to lure young men (usually young enough to be her children) into her web of poor dating choices.

But I’m still in my early 30’s, he couldn’t mean that. I’m not that old yet…am I?

“Wait, what?” I said.

“You know,” he said, “I mean you look good for a woman your age.”

My age? The very phrase made my age sound numerically impressive. “Wait,” I said, “How old do you think I am?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say you’re old,” he said casually, obviously unaware that using a lady’s name and the word “old” in the same sentence is a fast way to die of foot-in-mouth asphyxiation.

“Well how old would you ‘exactly’ say I am?” I asked with a tight smile while trying to keep my inner guard dogs at bay. This is why police officer’s and waiters always ask for a lady’s ID; it never pays to assume a woman is old enough for anything.

“Ah…” he said looking to Jason for guidance. Jason was rapidly slicing his finger across his larynx in warning.

“If I had to guess,” he said…

“Stop!” Jason burst out. “Just…trust me. Don’t say anything else, you’re in way over your head with this one.”

And that was the moment when it hit me: I’m not going to be youngish forever and that’s really stupid. I know I’m supposed to accept this gracefully and stop shopping in the Junior section already. I know that despite what I wear I won’t actually look Forever 21, neither should I want to.

But tonight as I made my way up the stairs holding my aching back and hobbling on my gouty left foot I had to accept the fact that getting old is really, quite undeniably, lame.

And there’s no talking my way out of this one. Happy Birthday to me, mid-30’s here I come.

Such a funny word. Funny and uncomfortable and hair pulling and yes, even painful. Still in the end it’s usually laced with a little bit of cotton candy.

Here’s the thing about living in Germany. We’ve been here for over a year now and in that time have finally put down some social roots. It takes time to make friends. Sure, you can do dinner with someone once or twice or see them at church socials. There are baby showers and group luncheons and MOPS and half a dozen other ways for a woman to dig in and bind herself to a place.

But those aren’t the places friendships are made. Friendships are made in the wreckage. It’s the friend who gives up half a day to come and clean before your company comes, who isn’t afraid to tell you the top of your fridge is a mess and doesn’t hesitate to lecture you on storage solutions. It’s having girlfriends who can tell you with love and honesty that yes, the comment you made last week to someone could probably use a follow-up apology.

We have no family on this continent and it’s taken a year to really bond with some families, find couples that we love to be with who have kids our kids can play with. That does not come easily. Thanks to church and a wonderful ward here in Germany we have been blessed with absolutely incredible friendships. I can think of at least ten girls from church I could call at the drop of a hat who would be there for me, and I for them. This is our family. These are the women who were there to pick up my pieces after the car accident and support me through home school and culture shock. Our ward family has provided a much appreciated net of love and safety.

So you can imagine how I felt when Jason came home last night and told me that they’ve asked us if we’d be willing to leave our ward and move to the Baumholder Branch. It’s called a branch because it’s too small to be a ward. I’ve been there, I’ve seen how empty the small chapel is and how desperately they need warm bodies and friendship.

I am being so stupid. This is what we signed up for. When we first decided to move abroad we prayed to find a place where the church actually needed members, where we could use our faith and enthusiasm to help and serve. Now here we are, a year and a half later and happily tucked into a massive military ward, and the Lord is calling us on our promise.

Long term, I’m not going to be sad about this. I refuse to whine or lament about leaving our Ramstein ward (okay, I might cry a little, like right now). Frankly, our big ward’s membership is so swollen I don’t think a single person there will even notice our absence. We’re just one more family fighting for a padded bench on Sunday.

And you know what? We aren’t even justified in drawing a comparison to those other saints who made other sacrifices, real ones that required leaving far more than a decent ward choir and two dozen friendly faces on Sunday morning. In the big scheme of things this is a small sacrifice that will bring us great blessings (I keep hearing a slightly obnoxious voice in the back of my head reminding me about the blessings bit).

But today it sucks.

And I’d really like to avoid the lectures on how glad we’re going to be about it or how lucky we are because I’ve already decided that it’s going to be awesome. We will love this transition. I am giving myself permission to be sad about leaving my friends at church right here, today, on my blog. This move is our choice. The End. More friends will quickly follow and I know my old friends aren’t dead.

Transitions come with mixed feelings and sometimes we get to feel all of them. Sadness, frustration, anticipation, joy in knowing Heavenly Father can count on us to embrace this with excitement and warmth–opposition in all things includes mixed feelings.

I know it’s going to be great, just ask me tomorrow and I’ll tell you all about it.

Oh gosh, we did it. Actually this was a whole lot more monumental than the actual act: we told Harrison about s-e-x. Now that we’ve done it I feel like I’m finally a full-fledged parent.

I use the term “we” lightly here since I mostly sat at the table red in the face while my husband casually threw out the world’s worst object lessons. Honestly, when he started talking about wet spaghetti noodles I just about crawled under the table.

The whole thing started last week. “I think we need to talk to Harrison about sex,” I said one evening. “They’re getting it in Health this year and I’d really like him to hear it from us.” For the record, we didn’t get it until 5th grade but I guess since kids are getting pregnant at twelve it’s best to be on top of it (warning: this post is going to be full of really unfortunate puns).

“Ok,” he said, “I’ll handle it.”

What? Hello? I’m an equal partner here. I then informed him that it was something we should study up on and prepare for together. Then he snorted and asked if I wanted to go “study” in our bedroom.

After the three youngest went to bed tonight we sat at the dining room table with Harry to review his Faith in God pamphlet and check his progress. Just as I was getting ready to send him off with a prayer and a kiss, Jason says, “Hey, why don’t we talk to him about s-e-x tonight?”

For the record, 4th graders can spell.

And thus commenced the most interesting conversation I have yet to have as a parent. We must have done an okay job because he had no problem asking us questions throughout. In fact, I think the whole thing cleared up a lot of speculation for him. He even asked if he could ask us the definition of words he sometimes hears on the bus, words like “gay.”

Yeah, it was enlightening. For all of us.

Jason handled the mechanics and I tried to interject occasionally with theoretical tid bits, like how special and PRIVATE it is, that it’s not something you tell your friends about or discuss on the school bus.

As we wrapped it up and walked him up the stairs his head was full of questions. Apparently the human body is extrememly interesting to nine-year-old boys because he peppered us with follow-ups like, “What’s the deal with poop?” and “Where do boogers come from?”

All in all I’d say it was a success. One down, three to go (he asked if he could sit in when we talk to his siblings).