I thought I had this parenting gig all figured out with my first two boys, and then my little June came along. She has single-handedly rewritten my parenting bible, putting me through paces that I’m pretty sure she invented. But her fourth birthday (last December) was kind of like a rebirth–overnight she morphed into a mostly delightful little person that I kind of want to keep with me all the time, if for no other reason than to see what she’s going to say next.

For instance, earlier this month we took the kids to a little carnival. Being the appropriately cheap parents that we are (and trust me, in Europe rides can get spendy) we told the kids they could each chose two of the five rides offered. “Bumper cars!” the boys shouted, June hot on their heels. “Yeah!” she said, “Bumper cars!”

Since she’s too small to take the wheel she was paired up with Daddy. I watched her jump into the car full of hopeful anticipation that this would be the most awesome ride ever invented.

The horn blasted, the music soared and they were off. Then she started to scream.

30 seconds into the ride the ring master had to fish their car out of the melee and let a hysterically sobbing June exit the arena.

“Mommy!” she yelled, sobbing her way into my arms as I wrapped her in a hug, “We were in…a accident!”

Girls. They are nothing like boys.

We take turns saying family prayers in the morning and there’s no doubt that as good as my boys are at praying for things that matter (Rex routinely prays for the animals in Animal Africa and will Mommy please buy him the plastic lizards?), June takes the cake. She ticks off each family member with her eloquent rhetoric. When she got to Georgia this morning (the baby will be two in August) she prayed, “And…I feel in my heart that Georgia…is going to be two years old. I really feel it in my heart, so yes, Georgia will be two.” Faith in action.

The kicker came the other day. “Mommy,” she said, “How do people get to be babies?”

Now I’ve got two boys who are seven and nine and neither of them have ever asked me this question. Slightly unprepared here.

“Oh…um…they come from Heaven, sweetheart.”

“Yeah,” she said, “But how do they get here?”

I know there are dozens of parents and modern thinkers who insist that we be totally honest with our children about s-e-x from a very early age. Unfortunately I am not one of them. I still agree with the mother who’s answer to her little child was, “Sorry, God doesn’t want you to know that yet.”

“Well,” I said, “when two people really love each other a lot they get a baby. Like I love Daddy.”

“But how do they get a baby?”

“From a mommy’s tummy.”

“How does the baby get in your tummy? Who puts it there?” she persisted while I broke out in a rather uncomfortable sweat.

“Oh,” I said, “It has something to do with Daddy’s and science, I really don’t know that much about it–” this is called lying, by the way. Only two months ago I told my eight-year-old that I know absolutely everything about sex it if he ever wants to talk.

“But–”

“When you go to school your science teacher will explain it to you, it’s super complicated. Who wants cake?”

I might have side-stepped this topic for the moment, but next time I’m going to have to be more prepared.

My seven-year-old, Rex, just had his first official run-in with soccer.

Due to a little anxiety, coupled with a preference for playing in his room with toys, Rex has never played soccer. When he was four we tried a peewee team but he spent all six games hiding under a tree at the end of the soccer field.

But this year he really wants to be like his “big brudder Harrison” and finally asked if he could play on a team. My friend Geneva was planning to run a few summer soccer camps so we signed him up.

Living here in Germany has been tough on us where Rex is concerned. From the moment we arrived most of the adults and teachers and acquaintances we’ve met (German especially) have acted like there is something seriously wrong with our little boy. Thanks to some extensive testing last year and a great child psychologist, he’s been diagnosed as moderately anxious and mostly quirky.

I’m amazed at how quick people are to pin a kid down and label him for being socially awkward.

My friend Geneva knows Rex and knows what my year has been like. I felt confident leaving him in her hands knowing that he wouldn’t be inappropriately judged or deemed incapable simply because he’s routinely nervous.

Getting Rex out of bed Monday morning was like trying to talk the Abominable Snowman into taking a trip to Cancun. He was so anxious and so worried that not only did we get out of the house without any breakfast, but I had to remove him from under his covers like a moldy potato sack. Fear can be so debilitating.

By the time we got to the soccer field he was willing to exit without help from mother. Stuffing down my own sympathetic anxiety I kissed him farewell and left him in the extraordinarily capable hands of my friend.

Two hours later I returned to retrieve a mostly happy child who was really only upset that he hadn’t kicked a goal. I tucked him into the car so I could debrief the coach.

“Well?” I asked the world’s most loaded question, “How did he do?”

She crossed her arms and thought for a moment, kicking a rock. Then she pinned me right in the eye with that look. I know that look. It’s the lecture about how there’s something wrong with my kid, how I need to have him tested, how he’s not ready for this, how–

“You don’t expect enough of Rex,” she said.

Well that was the absolutely last thing I expected to hear.

“Rex is smart and capable, and if he wants to be he’ll be an excellent athlete. But what he needs right now is more structure, you’ve got to expect more from him, give him more responsibility…”

It was possibly the best wake up call I’ve ever had in my life about anything.

The week flew by and Rex continued to improve. He would routinely tire out and want to sit down in the middle of the field for a little “rest”. On the last day of soccer we jumped in the car and I launched into my New and Improved Mothering Lecture. We made our way to the field and I poured on the high expectations.

“Now Rex,” I said as we pulled in, “When Coach Geneva tells you to run, you have to–”

“Mom,” he interrupted me, “Just tell me I’m going to do great.”

“Uh, you’re going to do great–”

“And Mom, tell me ‘Don’t give up!'”

“Okay, don’t give up, Rex.”

“Got it Mom!” he said and jumped out of the car.

I ran my morning errands and pulled in to watch the last fifteen minutes of practice. I walked up to the edge of the field just in time to hear my little Rex yelling out to himself, “Don’t give up!” I headed over to the coach.

“Yeah,” she said as I walked up, “He’s been telling himself that for the past two hours. As soon as he starts to get tired and wants to sit down, he calls out, ‘Don’t give up!’ It’s kind of adorable and actually seems to be working.”

He looked over at me and flashed me a huge grin. “Don’t give up, Mom!” he said. For the rest of practice he would catch my eye just as his feet started to drag only to yell out, “Say ‘Don’t give up!’ Mom!”

“Don’t give up, Rex!”

Sometimes I wish all my kids were so good at telling me how to parent them.

There are a lot of things I enjoy about living in Germany. The weather, the tangle of scenic priority roads, the bakeries–but there’s one thing that I will never get enough of. The antiquing and flea markets.

I happen to live 15 minutes from the world’s most amazing flea market ever. Imagine the most impossible thing to find on the planet and you will find it there. It’s a sprawling revamped treasure chest waiting to be haggled over.

Last Saturday I left my husband and children and headed out early in the morning to meet two of my girlfriends at the market. Unfortunately we parked at opposite ends and I had to hike half a mile to find them. I carefully avoided looking over any of the booths as I quickly hurried to meet my girls.

“Hey!” Rebecca said as I came up. We visited for a moment before beginning the hunt. Watching Rebecca haggle over vintage kitchen scales and antique milk bottles was an education in and of itself. Her ability to pay half of their lowest price was astounding. The girl is a master of silent, super cheap intimidation. They almost couldn’t deny her. Geneva and I learned quickly that when Rebecca starts haggling, you never interrupt. “It’s all about what you wear,” she said. “You never want to dress nice at the flea market.” I’ve really got to get myself some flats.

We loaded up on shoes for our children, vintage paraphernalia and some random furniture. We wound through the maze of tightly cramped tables and temporary booths selling everything from lanterns to old underwear. There were toys and really ugly light fixtures, glass keepsakes and exercise equipment. Pictures, electronics, chairs, books, shoes, beer steins–it was the best kind of sensory overload.

“I want to head toward the food,” Rebecca said, “But I saw something on my way in that we have to go check out. It’s a trunk, Geneva’s going to love it…”

A trunk? Unbeknownst to my girlfriends I’ve been going to the Homburg Flea Market since last September attempting to find myself an old turquoise trunk. I’ve found two, both of which I was stupid enough to pass up due to a case of cheapitis.

Finally we approached the booth in question tucked away on the grass under a large tree. There, sitting toward the back, was a turquoise green trunk.

“Hallo!” we said, approaching the booth. Rebecca pointed to the chair. “Was kostet das?” The old German lady hobbled over, cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

“35 euro.”

“Seriously?” I said to my friends. “I’ve never seen one that cheap, the ones I’ve looked at are always at least 20 euro more.”

Rebecca looked at Geneva. “Do you want it? It’s a great price, I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”

“Well,” Geneva said, “I love it, but I don’t really have a place to put it…”

“Me too,” Rebecca said, “It’s a little too short for what I need.”

“I want it!” I finally blurted out. “I will totally take that trunk, but only if neither of you want it, I know I got here last…” stupid parking space.

“What about you, Geneva?” Rebecca looked at her skeptically as we danced the careful dance of Let’s Not Ruin Our Friendship Over A Trunk That We All Kind Of Love.

“Well–”

“Fine!” the old German lady said, interrupting us. She had been watching our conversation with impatience. “30 euro!”

We stood there and stared at her, not really comprehending her reasoning until we realized that she didn’t speak English.

“Uh,” I said. “Ok, es ist gut.”

And that is how we accidentally haggled our way into the best deal of the morning.

I’ve decided that a vacation isn’t really a vacation until you have a good fight. Maybe it’s the stress from being pent up in a ship closet (they say cabin but let’s be realistic) for five days with small children and no view (large orange life boats do not count), but by the time Tallin, Estonia rolled around we needed to regroup.

This was not so cleverly handled by Yours Truly during a rather public breakfast discussion.

“Well kids,” Jason said, “Today is going to be a lot of walking.” This is never a good way to start a conversation with a woman who routinely wears platform stilettos in public.

“Oh,” I said, “I wanted to do something different today, you know, branch out from the let’s-look-at-old-buildings routine.”

“Well,” he said, “This is a cool city so I’ve been planning to follow this guided walking tour–”

This is the part where I interrupted him, stomped my foot, said I wanted to go shopping, blah blah blah. He suggested I stay on the boat, I decided to prove a point and marched out with all four kids in tow to “Plan My Own Adventure” in Tallin, Estonia.

Once we disembarked I did the only logical thing (if you happen to have no idea where in the world you’re at): I went straight for tourist information. Thanks to a lovely little Estonian girl we headed for the old walled city (which is very cool, BTW).

As we approached this adorable city we ran across my girlfriend Geneva and her family. Piggy backing off their guided walking tour (don’t judge me), we headed over to that really tall steeple you see in the middle there. At one time this was the tallest point in some part of the world (fuzzy facts) and I went along with my friends and decided to climb to the top for the “view.”

Have I mentioned that I’m drastically against heights, or that I routinely forget about my feelings on the issue until I’m looking down? We started climbing the very small and tightly coiled stone steps leading to the tower. Thankfully my girlfriend works out on a regular basis and had the biceps to heft little Gigi clear up to almost the top.

As we entered the area directly under the viewing platform I realized that this might not be such a good idea. The last bit of the climb was a ladder and I stood back and watched my three older children climb to what could have been their demise as they stepped onto the 18 inch walkway surrounding the ridge. Let’s talk about the word “rickety,” shall we? No one should have been allowed on that platform, least of all my hard-earned offspring.

Then I had a panic attack and the kids had to hold my hand all the way back down.

After a brief recovery period we waved to our friends and headed straight for the puppet museum. Apparently puppets are a major part of Estonian culture because this museum was incredible. The best part was the 30 minute production at the end. Some of the best entertainment I’ve ever seen in my life is sitting in a museum in Tallin, Estonia.

Weather on the morning of our St. Petersburg trip felt more like March maddness than nearly July. In order to enter the country you have to get a visa, even just for a day. We joined our large party of Americans and hopped on a bus.

The thing that struck me most about Russia (aside from the freezing weather) was the sheer magnitude of its buildings. These babies were huge. I’ve never seen so many buildings built on such a massive scale in my entire life. Check out the people standing in front of that building behind Harrison, the thing is enormous.

St. Petersburg is considered the Venice of Russia and has dozens of waterways and canals running through the city. We took a boat ride to Peterhof Palace, a home of Peter the Great and later Catherine the Great. Phenomenal gardens, complete with trick fountains (step on the wrong stone and you get soaked). Driving back from Peterhof I was amazed at the ruin of mansions so carelessly left to rot. Beautiful palaces that are nothing but moldy rubble. We rode the subway as well, had a very authentic Russian lunch, then headed to our last two stops.

Our last two stops were both churches. There have been very few moments in my life where something actually took my breath away from sheer awe. One of them was seeing Neil Diamond in concert (I actually teared up when he came out on stage). Our day in St. Petersburg, walking into St. Isaac’s Cathedral was one of them. I was so amazed and so touched by the love and dedication it must have taken to create such a magnificent sanctuary, and then to restore it after the Bolsheviks came in and tried to destroy everything it represented. That it withheld the test of time and trial touched my soul.

These amazing and magnificent works of art are done in minute mosaic tiles, most of these portraits taking 20 years to create. I. Love. This. Church.

It was followed by the very famous and equally impressive Church of Spilled Blood. The mosaics in this church were completed on a simpler and quicker scale. The church has finally been restored and is open to the public (although at one time during the Bolshevik revolution it was used to store potatoes).

All said and done, it was a crazy cool vacation. My kids are stupid lucky and don’t realize it, perhaps some day when they’re sitting in a 7th grade Social Studies class they’ll realize just how awesome the world really is. (Also we almost missed our ship and had to live in Russia. I was kind of nervous.)

The last day of the ship was supremely special: it was Rex’s 7th birthday. No one loves birthdays as much as Rex. He was up at 5 am quietly singing self-proclaimed birthday songs to himself until we could wake up and join him. By the end of the night the entire boat knew it was Rex’s birthday.

Good thing we had Ivan the Terrible along to protect us from foreign invasion.

We recently returned from a week long cruise in the Baltic Sea. This trip hit up a number of interesting ports: Copenhagen, Stockholm, Estonia and St. Petersburg. It was routinely fattening, frequently confusing, and absolutely adventurous.

Notice that I didn’t use words like relaxing, peaceful or healthy?

Our first port stop was Copenhagen, Denmark. I should have packed a few more umbrellas and a few less sun dresses. The weather was cold and wet.

We traveled with about 40 of our closest friends into the old city of Copenhagen. Unfortunately I didn’t pay particularly close attention when we disembarked and rode the subway into town. I tend to warp into “sheep mode” with very little prodding; I’m an excellent follower. We visited a few sites, I did a little window drooling, and by noon my little kids were wet and cold and hungry.

“How much more do we have to see?” I asked the Travelmeister as we completed our third bathroom break.

“You’re funny,” he said with zero humor. “We’ve barely even started.”

“Do we get to take a taxi?” I asked, looking up at the ominous rain clouds then down at my sandal clad feet.

“Sweetheart,” he said in his favorite patronizing tone, “Would you like to go back to the boat now?”

And there it was. Normally I would jump at that kind of bait. All our friends were standing around with their children (and their rain ponchos) waiting for my reply. The gauntlet had been thrown, what would I choose? Suck it up? Stop complaining? Get some chocolate and suffer in silence?

I looked at my wet little kids and back at my big strong die-hard traveling man. “You know what? That’s a fabulous idea. You all go on ahead, we’re going back to the boat.”

Then I took off in the wrong direction.

“Um, Honey?” he said, “I think you want to go the other way.”

Carefully masking my silent terror at the thought of retracing our way back to the boat without an adult present, I jauntily stuck my nose in the air and waved my little hand in his direction without a second glance. Somehow I managed to find the subway.

We finally boarded the right train and the kids and I (Rex, June and Georgia) took seats in the front car. With three kids ages six and under we weren’t necessarily the most reverent little group. The doors closed, the train took off, and ten seconds later someone turned around and shot me a look. “Sh,” she said, “This is the Silent Car.”

Bad time for my luck to fail us.

I shushed Rex and Junie down with a few well placed threats about the Dutch Police, but Georgia (2 in August) was having none of it. Personally, I was impressed with the older kids’ obedience and managed to quickly pacify the baby. We only had two stops before our exit so I breathed out and sat back.

The train stopped. And that’s when the conductor opened the door right next to me.

“Dit is de rustige trein, je nodig hebt om uw kinderen stil. Begrijp je me je gek vrouw? Dit is de freaking rustige trein!”

I almost wet my pants.

In that moment I realized that Jason still had our train tickets and we were technically riding illegally; there was a very real chance that my Dutch Police threat was going to pan out. I stared up into his terrifyingly stern face and finally said, “I have no idea what you just said.”

“This is the Silent Car,” he said. We stared at each other for a few seconds.

“Do you want us to leave?” I finally asked in my weakest, most terrified English.

“Be silent.” He shut the door in my face and we were once again on our way.

I don’t think my kids or I even breathed for the next four minutes (which were eternal, by the way).

As we exited the train a sweet lady from our car came up to me. “I think your kids were wonderful,” she said. “He was a stupid conductor.”

Either way, it was definitely a relief to leave dry land.

We have discovered the secret to happy little travelers: take friends. We just returned from a seven day cruise with over half a dozen American families and I’ve got to say, boat food can do impressive things to a woman’s girth.

I have learned that I have very little interest in planning vacations. Good thing my husband is a planner by nature or we’d spend our time here in Europe picking strawberries in the backyard.

It was a fascinating week. We shipped out of northern Germany and made our first port stop in Copenhagen (I think that’s Denmark but borders get a little fuzzy for me after a week of open seas and virgin pinacoladas).

Packing might sound like the easy part of traveling but believe me, when you look out the port window prior to a day of sight seeing and watch the storm roll in, suddenly all those sun dresses and sandals don’t seem like such a brilliant move. The weather in the Baltics is maddening. The entire week was hodgepodge of blue skies and freezing rain–it couldn’t seem to decide from one ten minute increment to the next how it wanted to behave.

We took the local subway into the old town of Copenhagen to visit an absolutely beautiful church. Since it was Sunday morning the shops were closed and we were determined to keep the day as holy as possible. This was a shame because it meant I couldn’t try on these shoes.

Our first stop was a rather famous church, especially if you’re a Mormon. It’s the Church of Our Lady and contains the original sculpture of the Christus, found in many of our visitor’s centers. Our sweet little children sat on the steps and sang, “I Am a Child of God.” It was very cool.

This church was even more awesome because it had fantastic statues of the 12 apostles, each holding a different item to repressent some aspect of their life, death or ministry. Peter was holding the keys to the priesthood. President Spencer W. Kimball visited this very church during his lifetime and testified that the keys Peter held are the same keys our prophet holds today–the same priesthood Jason holds and that our boys will someday hold. It was powerful.

After the church we took a surprisingly cool castle tour (gotta love the nude murals on the bedroom ceilings) and made our way back out into the rain. The kids were cold, hungry and wet and my back was killing me. I decided to cut my losses, ditched Jason and Harry and took the babies back through the subway to the boat. I managed to avoid getting arrested by the Dutch police, but just barely. Unfortunately I also missed running across the Abercrombie and Fitch photo shoot. You can see that it actually pays to travel in the rain, stupid me. Apparently Jason was having some serious ab envy. This is my girlfriend Rebecca who’s husband is, unfortunately TDY.

Our next stop was in Stockholm, Sweden. I had no idea this would be such a fantastic city with such fantastic cookies. We loved it, the weather was a bit kinder to us, and I can’t wait to go back. We watched the changing of the guard in the main square. They were accompanied by their Navy band and wow, was that a surprise. Thanks to our good friends we had prime standing positions when they launched into a brass version of, “All By Myself” followed by a fantastic “Love Boat” medley. I’m a sucker for bands in general, this absolutely made my day.

We used the Hop On, Hop Off bus during our Stockholm day which was a huge success. We took a boat across the water to a museum built around a resurrected 17th century war ship. It was the Titanic of it’s time. They spent an unreasonable amount of time and money decking this monstrous beauty out, hand carved detail painted to impressive perfection. After it’s big debut it floated out into the harbor and…sank.

In the 50’s they found it and managed to uproot it from 300 years of silt. The process took a few decades but it now sits in it’s own museum, amazingly preserved and absolutely fascinating. As you can see my kids were in top form by this point in the day (no really, take a moment). This was about as close as Rex would get to posing for a photo.

I’m officially exhausted from reliving this trip so I’ll have to hold the rest off until tomorrow. Next, Estonia and Russia.

A few weekends ago a girlfriend of mine needed to bunk over at my house for a meeting on Sunday morning. She lives a few hours away in Heidelburg, Germany and needed a convenient place to crash. My house was up for grabs.

I like to make out as if I don’t pay that much attention to my housework. This is a lie. I live and breath by my 409, change my vacuum filter at least once a week, and routinely chase down dirty socks and undies in an attempt to keep everyone less stinky.

But the fact remains, as hard as I try this homemaking business manages to undo itself faster than I can put it all back together.

Now that I’m homeschooling Rex (6) and only putting June(4) into preschool two or three days a week, my housekeeping routine has gone haywire. Unofficial art projects and inventions wind through the house leaving trails of paper, glue, toys and cardboard in their wake. Add to that kids who think this is an all-inclusive resort and request food on the hour and what you get is disordered chaos.

Yet there are women who have more kids and more housework than I who somehow manage to pull it all off without a hitch. This girlfriend of mine is one of them. With six kids she manages to run a lovely, squeaky clean ship with what appears to be Mary Poppinsish ease.

You can guess what Saturday morning looked like at my house. In an attempt to fool the world I put my little slaves to work cleaning and scrubbing and organizing and folding. There was very little kindness and a whole lot of impatience. As the morning progressed I became more and more frustrated at the amount of work to do and the preschool pace the children and I were doing it at. Three steps forward, two art projects back.

When my girlfriend and I pulled in that night and walked through my clean-ish house (not up to standard but better than it had been) I was horribly aware of how unimportant it was. She wasn’t there to judge me or my housework. The only person who really cared how things looked was me.

One of my girlfriends was over for a visit today and we were talking about life and how we always think that the next job or relationship or house or raise is going to make everything easier. Not only that, we feel we deserve ease, fate owes us the happily ever after. I blame Disney for this. I love them and I blame them just the same.

I can remember seven or eight years ago being a new mother in Maryland. We lived in a little townhouse with a little yard in a less reputable part of town. Money was impossibly tight. At that point I knew the only thing I needed for happiness was more space and more cash. Just think how great life would be if only we had more room to put more stuff.

Today I look around me at this massive messy house and long for our little two and a half bedroom 1100 square foot home. Oh to have time to watch Dr. Phil again (is he still on?).

No one has an easy life. There are levels of hard–some are harder than others–but few people can actually call what they’ve got easy. Some people might be good at presentation, but it doesn’t mean their life is mud free. I don’t care what the world and the media and ABC might say, life is mostly piles of dirty laundry and dust bunnies. There are moments of laughter and kindness but the honest truth is that we have to work hard for them.

I know that athletics are good for kids. We were always encouraged to play sports growing up, and although I was more interested in the color and cut of my uniform than any of the actual plays, it can’t be denied that I learned a thing or two.

Harrison (9) just finished his fourth year of baseball. Past history proves that he’s usually more invested in the post-game treat than the actual playing, but since he’s blossomed this year in other athletic areas, we decided to give him one more season to show his stuff.

My husband signed up as an assistant coach this year in an attempt to make the playing more exciting. It’s Harry’s first year in a real player pitching league, no more T/coach/machine help. Truly, it’s a whole new ball game.

A few weeks ago I was doing dishes when the downstairs door slammed open and Harry came running up the stairs from his game in tears. He went straight to his room and shut the door, his stomping father not far behind him.

“Uh, what happened to you boys?” I asked.

Jason stood there, frustrating rolling off him in waves. “Our son won’t hit the ball.”

Really? That big of a deal? “Sweetie,” I said, “Give him some time. It’s a new season–”

“You don’t understand,” he said, “We’ve been playing for three weeks and every time the player pitches, Harrison jumps out of the batters box. He won’t even stand there and let the pitches pass, let alone swing. It’s making me crazy! He’s a great hitter, he’s been playing for years, why now?”

And that was the beginning of Project Get Harrison to Take a Swing, sanctioned and supported by myself, the other coaches on the team, and the ghost of The Great Bambino.

For the next month Coach Dad came home and worked with Harrison. Apparently a pitch had once come alarmingly close to Harry and he was living in constant fear of getting hit by the ball. He also became a big believer in letting the pitcher walk him. Sometimes it worked, usually it didn’t.

Jason practiced almost nightly with our boy. They worked with whiffle balls, regular balls, beach balls–anything to get the kid to start swinging. But every team practice and every game Jason would come home and gnaw on his pillow in frustration.

The last week of baseball Jason called me on his way home from work before practice. As uncharacteristic as it might sound, I had done everything in my power to stay clear of the great baseball controversy. “I don’t know what else to do,” he said. “I’ve tried everything I can think of, I’ve worked with him, I’ve begged him, I’ve threatened him…at this point it’s just embarrassing!” Lets face it, being the coach’s kid comes with certain expectations. Like you have to be willing to play the game.

“Well,” I said, “Why don’t you bribe him? Offer him something great if he gets a hit. I don’t know, take him to Chilies for ribs.” Come on, parents have been bribing their kids for thousands of years, it’s kind of a proven tactic.

“Please,” he said with an over the phone eye roll, “Like that will work.” (And yes, living in the middle of Germany with amazing ethnic cuisine on every corner, our children still pick Chilies every single time.)

That night Jason called me on the way home from practice. “So,” he said, “It looks like we’re going to be pretty late tonight.”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I took your advice. Harrison hit the ball twice and I kind of have to take him to Chilies now.” I had to smile. My kid is so predictable.

And that last game? Harry hit the ball five times, two playable and three foul balls. No thanks to Dad’s over-the-top generosity my son now intends to spend the first week of summer playing his new Wii games. Such a cute little mercenary in the making.

When you set down roots in a foreign country it’s always a good idea to do like the Romans–try to fit in. We make a habit over here of trying to meld into the German countryside.

This week the husband and I were hanging our geranium boxes off the front of our house (no flower boxes is a dead giveaway that you’re an outsider) when a car pulled up. The driver unrolled his window and congenially started speaking German like we were old friends. It took us a moment to realize he needed directions. Despite our severely limited grasp of the language we managed to help him out.

It was kind of exhilarating.

For those of you planning to hop the pond this summer to experience a little European high life, here are a few things to avoid doing if you’d rather not publicize to the world that you’re an innocent abroad.

If you’re going to eat out there are a number of things that will have the staff rolling their eyes at your oddities. First, plan to purchase your water and don’t waste time asking for ice (or refills). I actually had one restauranteur ask if I’d like him to “warm” my Coke Light since it had been sitting in the refrigerator and was unfortunately chilled. Also in Germany it’s impolite to overtip, and you can always tell who the Americans are because they will sit at their tables for hours waiting for the server to bring the check.

Don’t expect free anything, especially wifi. Nothing says entitled American like counting on the Germans to “give” their stuff away, it doesn’t happen. On the flip side, if you’re buying at a bazar or festival you should never pay full price, they expect you to ask for a deal. I was in the American store on base the other day and had to laugh when a German lady asked the guy at the register if he would please knock off ten dollars. “Why?” he said. She got slightly huffy and glared at him. “Well…because…let me speak to your manager.”

“I am the manager,” he said.

“Oh.” She went ahead and paid the required amount. I found the entire episode highly entertaining until I realized that most of the time, I’m the German lady looking like the idiot while trying to navigate a foreign economy.

If you bring a book that has German phrases in it and a native asks if you speak German, do not say yes. Germans will routinely deny any ability to speak English then go on to have a nearly perfect English conversation with you. If they say they speak, “A little bit…” it means they’re ready to discuss philosophy.

Another dead giveaway is our obsession with close parking spaces. Europeans walk. They walk across parking lots and fields and towns and villages and just about anything else that has an even partially marked path. You can always tell the American moms in our village because we drive down to pick our kids up from the bus stop. The German kids? They walk.

Americans tend to smile a lot, another outsider reveal. I can’t decide if the German’s don’t smile publicly because of their attitudes or their teeth (we personally think they’re wonderful and love our neighbors, even if they aren’t quick with their initial grins) but you can always tell an American by their straight white smile. This is something I refuse to give up. Let them think me daft but I’m not hiding my smile from anyone.

We expect those visiting America to embrace our culture, and nothing says respect like personal awareness when the situation is reversed. Part of having a cultural experience is paying attention to what’s going on in the country you’re visiting.

Lastly, nothing says American like white socks. Germans count on it.

Last week at church we had a lesson on self-reliance. Not the food storage or planting a garden type (okay the garden bit might have come up) but the important stuff like home and family and overcoming obstacles. It was a powerful and slightly terrifying reminder that I am, unfortunately, in charge of my life. No one is going to swoop in and do it for me; the good, the bad, the hard–all mine.

One of my closest friends is leaving Germany next week and we spent the day together which was stupid because it made me realize, once again, why I love her and hate Texas. Why do all the best people end up in Texas? She opened up to me about something that happened in her past that almost destroyed her family. The old Devil himself managed to slide into her life like a box of twinkies left over from a party and before she knew it, everything she held dear was hanging by a string.

She was at the bottom of her slope, brown and muddy, and she had to do the hard thing.

I know that the hard thing sucks. I know I’ve never been asked to do the really really hard thing. Heck, I hope and pray that I can stay out of the twinkie box and guard my life for the sake of my covenants and my family. The hard thing sounds terrifying.

She and her girlfriend went through the same hard thing simultaneously. But unlike her, the friend decided to walk away from her marriage and family. It’s amazing what a little perspective can do for a person. Watching the fallout–specifically her friend’s children–has been sobering.

Because all that bit about discovering who we really are? What we need to make us whole? Our right to happiness? It’s all a big fat fake. We are what we sacrifice. Finding yourself isn’t about the next hobby or relationship or accumulating the most “me time,” finding yourself is about taking that ugly thing that’s keeping you from the people you love and throwing it on the altars of Heaven, then dousing it with lighter fluid and watching it go up in flames.

Yes, life is hard. Yes, most of us experience routine disappointment and frustration with our jobs/relationships/homes/waistlines. But there’s nothing that makes me want to spit dirt more than seeing someone who’s willing to sacrifice their family instead of their habit. It sucks and I don’t care. You do the hard thing. Now. Like waiting is going to make it easier?

Because you can only put it off until tomorrow for so long. One day you’ll wake up and someone will have taken your tomorrow from you. Trust me, making the decision and following through might bring on a hail storm of pain, but pussy footing around until your sand runs out and the choice is lost will bring on a tsunami.

And frankly, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t end up being blessed for protecting and saving their children and home. People can grow and change, marriages can improve, and life has a way of mossing over even the ugliest castle ruins.

But you rip up your marriage and you will literally rend flesh. The flesh of my flesh bit you read about in the Bible? That’s children. They’re the ones who end up broken and torn and bleeding.

At the end of the day, if you’re an adult who’s brought babies into this world–whether you think you should have or not–it is your job protect them.

You do the hard thing.