So we did it. We taught our children to eat salad.

I came to the dinner table prepared for battle. We had four kinds of lettuce, dressings galore, bacon bits, cheese, chicken, grapes–no way could they hate salad.

And, well, I think it would be best if I just showed you a little clip or two.

But here’s where it really got good.

All in all, it was an absolute success all the way around. We discovered that ketchup is, in fact, an acceptable dressing, and that teaching our kids to eat new foods is as simple as educating them about exactly what and how they’re eating it.

Simple…HAHAHAHA! If that wasn’t an oversimplification I don’t know what was.

Vegetables. I love them. Broiled, grilled, steamed, candied, I can’t get enough of them. And don’t even get me started on salad, it’s my favorite food group. Over here in Germany they’ve got lettuce that’s an absolute dream, not a day goes by that I don’t go all rabit in the fridge department.

But somewhere along the way/the move/the parenting I sort of…stopped feeding my kids vegetables. Sure we’ll do the token can of green beans here and there, and I’m fanatical about fruit (probably because someone once said something like as long as they eat fruit or vegetables they’ll turn out fine–also that could have been in one of my dreams), but vegetables? Not so much.

Plus produce is expensive, Party Pizza is not.

Add to this equation a kid (Rex, 6) who’s got clinical food anxiety–seriously, do not mix his bread and his cheese together unless it’s on a pizza crust–and one routinely overwhelmed parent and what do you get?

Children who do not eat vegetables. My children. No eat veggies.

I have to add here that we are making progress with Rex. His parent-imposed New Year’s Resolution is learning to eat new foods and he has successfully tried two new things this week–pot roast and schnitzel. This is a big move in the anything-but-pizza direction.

On Saturday we took a dinner invitation to eat with some new friends of ours. Three of our four kids are the same ages and genders, they’re tons of fun to hang with, and they have a BBQ smoker. Like we’re going to pass up free pulled pork.

Unfortunately they breed little green progenies who like vegetables. I’ve decided there is an elite group of parents just like this. Their children will most certainly grow up to be astronauts and plastic surgeons who give credit to their rocking parents for successfully making them stay at the table to consume large amounts of leafy vitamins, rich in ranch dressing.

My kids? Probably therapy; I’m sure we could start it anytime now.

My first mistake was forgetting to feed the kiddies lunch. We had a late breakfast (donuts, anyone?), Mama’s on a diet, and we had four toilets to clean. Before I knew it we were running out the door to an early afternoon dinner appointment. I thought, no biggie, we’re eating in like twenty minutes. They’ll be fine.

This was a slight miscalculation. See, smokers are kind of nothing like microwaves, my oven of choice. By the time we sat down to dinner my kids were coming frighteningly close to eating the curtain rods; too bad they weren’t made from celery stalks, that would have guaranteed their safety.

With four kids we’re conditioned to adding kid-friendly items to meals. Hot dogs, burritos, suckers, anything that will keep them from trying to talk to us while we eat. This meal had none of that. Pork, home soaked beans and salad (which I brought, go me).

The only thing on the table that appealed to Rex was the white sandwich buns and ketchup, and his was the best attitude of all my kids.

Picture one table and six kids. Three of them are quietly eating the well-balanced, high-fiber, high-protein, brownie-points-in-Heaven-for-feeding-your-kids-the-right-stuff meal. Three of them are not. Which three kids would you want to take home? 

By the time June (4) had gouged their new table with her fork, Rex had made cheese soup on his plate from his water and, well, cheese, and Harrison had pouted and told us that we were, “So mean!” I kind of wanted to curl into a cabbage patch and wilt.

And so, come Monday night we are starting Project Learn To Eat Freaking Salad Already. All week long we will be discovering the wonders of salad and it’s many faces. From bacon bits to mandarin oranges, blue cheese dressing to Italian (her six-year-old requested oil and vinegar KILL ME NOW), we will taste them all.

And they will love it. Plus anyone who participates will get money and Reeses’ Peanut Butter cups afterward. Cause we’re tough like that.

For those of you that need them, I’m posting over at Vanessa’s today. Check it out.

The other day I was chatting with one of my girlfriends. She’s kind of an amazing Christian woman who gave up a year to Jesus: went cold turkey by dropping all her fiction and reading only the Bible.

Just hearing that news gave me hives. How can I live without a weekly dose of the paranormal? What else am I supposed to do at 2:00 am, eat? Drink blood? A girl has cravings you know.

So I asked her. How was it? See, I’ve grown up reading the scriptures, King James’ Version no less (heavy on the thee’s and thou’s) and I’ve got to tell you, it isn’t what you might call a quick read. When she told me how wonderful and fascinating it was I decided maybe I’m just not the right type of righteous to commit that much leisure time to Heavenly Father.

But the next time I talked to her it came up again. “You know,” she said, “I should tell you that it wasn’t all highs. Reading the scriptures is a discipline, great moments and a lot of boring parts in between. But that’s what a discipline is.”

Discipline; now there’s a word I like to avoid.

I’ve never considered my religious actions a discipline. It’s always been portrayed as a “feast” for the soul, something that will fill each and every day with bright moments to guide me along my journey of rainbows and unicorns. I have felt enormous overall blessings from obedience, but let’s just say reading the scriptures never kicked my sugar craving.

But I think I’m starting to get it now. Practicing religion in just about any form is a discipline. A kick you in the pants, stomp all over the easy fluffy things you love and (unfortunately) depend on, discipline.

Two years ago last week I found out I was pregnant with baby number four. For the past two years I’ve been hanging on for dear life with my poor paint chipped toenails. I was sick, pregnant, recovering from surgery, adjusting to four kids, potty training a large toddler, moving my family half way around the world, trying to teach my child a foreign language, etc. But things are finally starting to gel. This new year has allowed me an opportunity to settle into my yoga pose a little more and look up.

What I see is more than seriously atrophied muscles. My entire life is one flabby mess, brought on by the necessity of “just getting by.”

And so, in an attempt to completely overhaul my soul and my body I have put a ton of rickety old wheels in motion this week. From personal scripture study to seriously painful body contortions, I am on a mission to bring my life back into something that does not resemble a big pile of cheese fries.

The word for the year? Discipline.

I think I need some vinyl…

There’s nothing like having your mother casually force a New Year’s resolution on you to inspire and motivate personal betterment.

My folks came for a visit last month. It was awesome, we loved having them here and they got a front row seat to Exactly What Goes On Behind That Curtain.

Due to the bad weather and my father’s old hip (he got a new one yesterday, yay!) we spent the majority of their visit hanging out around the house. This left very little room for excuses like, “Oh, you know how kids hate to travel!” and “She only screams in the car,” or my personal favorite, “I don’t know, they always eat it at home.”

The saddest part of this story is my great effort. While they were here I was very careful to yell less loudly. I tried to only grab June by the hair when no one was watching, and I swear I followed through with all my threats, excluding the “I’ll take your birthday away,” since I’d already sent out the invitations. What do you do?

A few days after my parents returned home I called my mother. It had been a particularly rough couple of days (probably due to the post-parent blues), I was feeling like a lousy failure in just about every area imaginable, and all I wanted was my mama to tell me something nice like, “You’ve got great teeth,” or “Honey, don’t feel bad, your feet are skinny.” That kind of thing.

But before I even had the chance to tell her how dumpy the world was looking she opened up with this one, “Well, I’ve ordered you four parenting books.”

Four. Parenting. Books. Not one, not two, not even three. Four. FOOUURR. This number translated into “You suck as a parent, here are some books that might save your children hundreds of dollars in future therapy appointments.” I almost had to hang up the phone right then and there.

It’s not that I didn’t want or need them (this is called stating the obvious), it’s that, well, I’m prideful. I’d like to think I can figure all this kid crap out myself. That soap in the mouth will cure Junie of her trash talking sassy face, or putting Harrison in time-out will make him think about Jesus after I yell at him.

My mother and I had a good talk about this three days later because it took me that long to swallow my pride. She told me something that changed my perspective entirely. When my older siblings were in high school someone gave her a parenting book. And you know what? It changed her life. It was the best gift anyone ever gave her.

I was really glad she told me that, it softened the blow last week when my first two books came in the mail. Let’s just say title’s like, “How to Stop Screaming” and “How to Behave So Your Toddler Will Too” didn’t sound like they were geared so much toward naughty four-year-olds.

Oh well, I’m still her kid and I have the feeling she’ll be telling me how to behave until she’s ninety-nine. If only I get that lucky.

Isn’t it interesting that while sitting down to compose a soul-changing resolution list, something motivating and poetic geared toward personal peace and happiness, my first entry always begins with the word “Lose…” and usually ends with the word “…pounds”?

I tried this year. I have been wracking my brain for new and improved ways to improve my life, my mothering, my marriage, my home. Upon closer examination it appears that my soul could use a lot of work.

Unfortunately I’m way too wrapped up in my waistline to give my soul top billing.

When I put fingers to keyboard in my yearly attempt at self-betterment this morning, totally intending to focus on the big M’s (mothering, marriage), the only M’s I could think about were the peanut butter ones sitting in the bowl next to me.

“Lose ten pounds” was first on my list. I suppose that wherever #1 on your resolution list is, there your heart is also. Mine is in the candy bowl.

And my obsession isn’t even well-earned. I’ve got four kids and at least half my jeans fit, both my legs work (when walking), nothing wrong with my arms (except the one the doctor set wrong that handicaps me from playing sports with balls), I only lost half my hair with the last baby (2/3 with the June Bug), and I’ve got a collection of stilettos guaranteed to keep the word “drab” out of my vocabulary. I’m doing fine, why worry?

Because I can’t let go of those last ten pounds; usually six pounds but Christmas was kind of tasty this year.

But oh that is going to change. Tomorrow. Tomorrow it will change.

This morning I woke up de-ter-mined to rid my life of toxins like sugar and…well, sugar. The stuff is killing me. Three weeks of reckless abandon has cost me five pounds in the wrong direction. Five pounds! I can’t remember the last time the holidays did that to me.

I had two eggs for breakfast, avoided the cinnamon rolls, left-over pita chips, party punch and bowl of candy, then made the mistake of running off to late church at 1:00 without eating lunch.

Note to self: remember lunch.

By the time we pulled in the door at 4:45 I was ready to eat Jason’s tie. I ran to the kitchen, held the medium bag of M&M’s up to my mouth and poured them down my gullet as fast as my little throat could swallow them.

Tomorrow I’m trying again. Rule #1 of dieting: Do. Not. Get. Hungry.

This was in the paper last week and I forgot to post it. One of those unforgettable Christmas moments.

Over here in Germany Christmas is serious business. Nearly every village puts on some sort of Christmas festival or market, some of which run for an entire month of holiday bliss. The food alone is enough to keep me coming back for more.

But my favorite thing about Christmas in Duetchland would have to be the nativities. They are absolutely everywhere. I haven’t seen Santa at a single Christmas market but the story of Jesus is presented in nearly every format imaginable, including live animation.

The other day my girlfriend and I took the children to one of the local village Christmas markets not far from our area. I’ve got a few Christmas gifts to buy and have been looking for something decidedly German to send back to family in the states. Leaving my purse in the car, I pocketed 100 euros ($130) and my cell phone and headed out with the kids in search of Christmas treasure.

As soon as we entered the main square of the festival we saw, much to our wondering awe, the three wise men and their camels in full New Testament regalia. They were awesome.

The kids and I visited for a moment, got a picture, and made a note of the live play taking place later in the afternoon.

We moved on and found scattered among the shops a live stable filled with animals–donkey, goats, fowl, sheep–for the children to touch and smell (the smell was very authentic). It was a great teaching moment and I snapped another picture before we headed on our way.

After wandering through the crowds and stalls I finally found some ornaments to purchase. Reaching into my pocket for my wad of cash I fingered my phone and dug around for the bills.

Nothing. My pocket was empty.

I checked my other pocket in vain knowing that my money had been next to my phone–the same phone I had snapped pictures with fifteen minutes earlier.

With a heavy heart my friend and I retraced our steps. I didn’t have much hope. We carefully checked the busy walkways for my missing money but it remained bill-free. The cash was nowhere to be seen.

All I could think about was my quickly depleting Christmas budget. Why had I taken so much money with me, and why hadn’t I put it someplace safe, like my underwear? Am I really that stupid?

We continued to retrace our steps and I continued to mumble a sad little prayer under my breath. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if the money never surfaced, and if it went to someone who needed it more than us that was fine too. But please, if there could be a way…

Finally we landed ourselves once again in front of the Magi. I approached the wise men and told them my plight. They shook their heads, no money had been found. I turned to leave, the day completely ruined, when the oldest (and wisest) of the three stopped me. “Wait,” he said, “I have an idea. Let us check the city hall, perhaps someone has turned it in.” I left the children with my friend as the gentleman took my arm and we headed across the town square, through the alley and around the church, finally entering the Rathaus.

We walked down a narrow hall and he knocked on the last door. Upon entering, the fellow told the lady behind the desk my story, asking if anyone had turned in the money.

I stood there staring out the window. Their conversation was in German and my faith wasn’t much better than a soggy yule log.

Finally the man turned to me with a big grin. “They have it,” he said. “Someone found it on the street and turned it in. See? People are good!”

He might not have been one of the real wise men, but he was good and wise and willing to help a poor, stupid American far from home feeling lost and forlorn. How funny that even after all this time the magi continue to show us that answers don’t usually come unless we’re willing to go the distance.

Wise, wise men indeed.

Thank you to all my wonderful friends, both real and virtual, who sent us cards; my wall is happy and I’m surrounded by reminders of those we love dearly. Per my request, Mr. Jason has written our Christmas letter, it will be going out shortly. Never has a keyboard been put to such good use, I think I’m going to hand it over permanently.

Okay that’s a lie. No way am I giving up the Christmas letter forever.

J and I were discussing 2011 in the car today, reminiscing about some of the things we’ve done/seen/visited. Holy backpack we’ve been busy. We’ve never had a year this monumental and if we know what’s good for us, we’ll never have one like it again.

We’ve been to: Disneyland, Sun River, Las Vegas, Izmir, Jerusalem, Basel, Rome, Athens, Paris, too many German villages to count, plus a number of cities in between.

We’ve purchased: A house, a trout pond, four vehicles, a couch, two dressers, and enough Ikea crap to furnish a moderate apartment.

We’ve sold: Four vehicles, a couch, two dressers, and enough old Ikea crap to furnish a moderate apartment.

We’ve lost: Five teeth, a cat, car keys, a house key, six stuffed animals, four dozen socks, 190 euros, $40, and numerous tubes of June’s lipstick.

We’ve found: 150 euros, $40, four of the six animals, too many new friends to count, and strength we didn’t know we had.

Frankly I can’t decide if this year has been exhaustingly fun or just plain exhausting. Judging by the state of my kitchen in this post-Christmas moment I’m going to go with exhausting.

I’ve learned this year that my little family is strong. We’ve moved across the world, left family and friends and familiarity behind, and what we’ve found is a well of strength and love I didn’t know we had. We’re like an aquifer and I’ve got to give credit to the Lord. If it wasn’t for the example Jesus Christ has set for us and the Gospel here on Earth, I’m sure we’d be a surly, faithless bunch with a lot more spitting and biting (something we’re working on these days) and not nearly as many hugs.

As we finished up the Christmas celebration with games and food we found ourselves comfortably seated around the dining room table listening to Kixi AM 880 streaming online. I was saying how happy we are here in Germany, how much I love my house and what wonderful friends we’ve found…and then I heard it.

Within seconds of the music hitting my ears I was choked up and homesick beyond belief. I’m certainly not the first person in the last 150 years to hear the tune to “Home, Sweet Home,” who’s found herself misty-eyed and speechless. “Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”  Truer words were never written.

To my friends and family members who keep up with us online and in print, we love you. We miss you. You matter to us. Seeing the world is great, seeing you is better. I am certain I’ve been blessed with more wonderful people in my life than just about anyone. From close relatives to distant cousins, teachers, neighbors and really nice grocery store clerks, I am continually reminded just how great people really are.

The world; there’s still so much goodness to be found.

Happy Holidays, my friends.

Let me tell you, someone should really get organized around here before the kids go to bed on Christmas Eve.

Due to a really inconvenient tradition that I plan to change, Jason and I don’t wrap any of the kids’ presents until Christmas Eve. We sit in front of It’s a Wonderful Life and reminisce and talk and use brown paper and all that crap.

But AFN television doesn’t show that movie on Christmas Eve in Germany. After discussing our options we went ahead and popped in Dumb and Dumber instead.

It was not a good omen.

First dumb thing: Letting Harrison sleep on the couch. He was determined to catch the man in red (purple and white stripes last night). He’s a heavy sleeper, how much harm can he do?

By the time we’d dragged everything up and stuffed it under the tree–sweating and cursing the euro race car set while we unglamorously displayed the playschool toys–we wanted nothing more to do with Christmas. And just as we turned to leave the tree…

TIMBER!

Oh yeah, it fell over.

After ten minutes of unsuccessfully trying to reposition it Harrison started to stir. Unfortunately the kid weighs about 300 pounds (he’s 8 and oh-so-built-like-his-father) so carrying him up stairs was not happening. Jason carried him to the bottom of the stairs then sent him to bed.

Dumb mistake number two, never wake a sleeping child in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve.

We finally secured the tree and made our way to bed around 1:00 am. It took me half an hour to put my mind to rest and fall asleep, and just as I was drifting off I heard…

“REX! Get up! It’s Christmas morning! Everyone wake up, he came he came he came!!”

Worst. Sound. Ever.

I shoved Jason out of bed to deal with the rising tide of trouble and listened as he tried to talk Harry down. “Son,” he said much more nicely than I would have, “It’s the middle of the night…”

“But Dad, I’m wide awake!” Oh holy holy night, someone get me a tranquilizer gun.

Somehow Jason convinced Harrison to go back to bed. Fifteen minutes later and I was finally fast asleep.

2:49 am.

You know when you’re the mom and you’re so dead asleep, but because you’re the mom it’s really all a big fake? That any moment one of your kids might make a sound and you’ll be up and running in .2 seconds?

So I’m mom sleeping, thinking I’m all dead to the world, and suddenly I hear this.

“….”

I know, that wouldn’t have woken you up but if you were listening just a little closer what you would have heard was the faintest, teensiest little ghost of a breath right next to your bed saying,” maaaaahm…” That breath knows it shouldn’t be waking you up, it knows you’re probably going to kill it, but it just can’t help itself.

And when you mentally jump from sleep and the kid breathing next to your ear says, “Um…can I play the Wii Santa left me?” You have to try really hard to not take off his head.

5:23 am.

“Wake up! Wake up! It’s 7:45 Mom, time for presents!” Yes, he still believes he can manufacture time to fit his schedule. This time Harrison had Rex with him and gosh darn it I thought I was going to kill someone.

By the time 7:00 am finally rolled around and we let the boys wake up the girls, I felt like I’d had about three minutes of consecutive sleep.

That much said, it was still a pretty fantastic Christmas. I so hope he believes next year.

This year has been marked with a couple of really unforgettable moments.

We decided to use the 25 Days of Christmas binder I made years ago at a church homemaking/enrichment/craft night/whatever the heck we’re calling it now event, to bring the true meaning of Christmas into our family. Each day has a song, a scripture and a story–many of them classic, ageless pieces that every child should know.

As we hit the second week of December I opened the binder and found myself face to face with Hans Christian Anderson’s “The Little Matchgirl.” Talk about a tear jerker, my mother used to read us that terrible tale when I was a child and I hated it.

I relish the opportunity to make my children feel something other than boredom or hunger so I sprang at the chance to weave it into our Christmas tradition.

As I told the sad tale of the poor, freezing, shoeless match girl, huddled in the cold and afraid to go home because her father would beat her (that made me look really good), I couldn’t hold back my tears. In her desperation she gives in and lights a match. Suddenly a vision is before her: a warm fire all crackly and toasty, chasing away the awful cold that is freezing her little hands and blue feet–until her match burns out.

Again, she’s alone and cold.

Quickly she lights another match and sees a vision of a lovely Roast Goose with dates and prunes (my kids would have gagged), her poor little mouth watering at the sight–until the match burns out.

She lights another, desperate for comfort, and sees the most glorious Christmas tree! Walking toward it, anxious to be part of that magical moment, she almost touches it–then gone. The match is extinguished.

The fourth match. This time (ready?) she sees her beautiful old grandmother who has died, the only person who ever loved her. Her granny reaches out to her and she’s so desperately afraid to lose the vision that she lights her matches as fast as she can, “Granny! Take me with you!” she cries, reaching for her lovely granny who pulls the cold little child into her arms and flies away to Heaven to live with Jesus.

The people find her dead little body the next day, clutching the matches. She died of cold, they say, such a pity, so sad.

By this time I looked over at Harrison and he was an absolute wreck. He was slumped over in the chair, sobbing his little 8-year-old head clean off, not sure if he was glad she’s dead or if it’s the worst thing he’s ever heard. I opened my arms and he shuffled over, collapsed against the couch cushions and sobbed and sobbed, drooling all over my couch in his absolute anguish.

It took him ten minutes to quit crying.

That night he prayed for all the little match girls and the kids with no food and mean parents, the ones without shoes in the cold (sob!) and would Heavenly Father please bless them all?

I think it was, very possibly, the greatest motherhood moment of my life.

Also Jason has insisted that I never read that horrible story to our children ever again.

I say? Every. Single. Year. Oh yes, they will hear it again.