"Hey, take Donkey's picture!"

Here are highlights from our day in Olympia, Greece, the first of our port stops. Just the photos, then the dirt on Galilee. As I said, Harrison was having a snit, Rex was in his element. How many animals can you see?

"Everybody hates me!!"

"Baby Bird loves to see the world,"

"And now me and Blue Monkey..."

This place is so stupid.

The first Olympic track? Who cares...

Watching the sunset in Greece

Port 2: Haifa – Field Trip to Galilee

I’ve gotta say, I really didn’t have high expectations for today’s laundry list of holy sites. If I’m being completely real, I have to admit that dragging twentyish small children around adult centered religious sites didn’t sound like my idea of an inspirational day. Of course I wanted to go but I was prepared for the worst.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Today was perfect. It was simply the best day ever. I’ve got to give major props to our friends, the Shumates, who set the whole thing up. Arranging two tour busses in a discombobulated country like this is no light matter and they rocked it. I love my Sharmapedia and never want to leave home without her again.

Our first stop was Mt. Tabor, commonly known as the Mount of Transfiguration. This baby has wicked switchbacks. Thirteen years ago when I was here my roommate/best friend/travel companion forced me to join the throng of hikers. It was brutal.

Today my roommate decided that pushing a stroller up 17 paved switchbacks wasn’t his idea of a pilgrimage so we took the taxi. As we drove up that mountain I was overwhelmed with the memory of that dreadful hike. It never ended. Just when you thought you were about to get to the top, another switchback would laugh in your sweaty little face.

As we stepped out of the bus and made our way on the old paved road toward the beautiful sun soaked chapel perched on top of the mountain my heart cried out for my Melissa girl. It almost felt wrong to be here without her by my side, her presence was so powerful. Melissa, I miss you! I love you, my dear friend! Thank you for making me hike that blasted mountain, for giving me such a powerful (cheap) memory to bask in.

There was a beautiful Catholic mass being held while we snapped photos.

Just as we were about to get back onto our bus at the base of the mountain, my heart swelling with memories, who do you think walked off the bus next to us? Oh yeah, a group of BYU Jerusalem students making their own pilgrimage to the top of Mt. Tabor. I’ll admit, I cried a little.

Our next stop was the River Jordan. It’s still there with all that lovely murky green water lazing along under big weepy trees while hoards of Christians line up to rent white baptismal sheaths so they can take a dip. Personally you couldn’t get me near that river, I don’t care who was baptized in it (is that bad?). The thing is full of nasty old catfish and these massive river rats called Poi something that look suspiciously like a slightly smaller version of an ROUS—Rodent Of Unusual Size. Just saying.

Disgusting.

After the River Jordan we made a quick pit stop in Tiberias for fabulous falafels and Coke Light. We took our bus of small children to a little chapel right on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. It’s the site marking the Savior’s return to his apostles when Peter was out fishing. We wandered into the lovely little chapel there (I remembered it vividly) for a devotional and then out to the water. Of all the things my kids will remember about this trip, I’m certain that playing in the Sea of Galilee will be top of their lists. It was simply awesome. The weather was perfect, the sun was starting to set, and as our kids laughed and splashed I could see why the Savior spent so much time around the beautiful sea.

Most beautiful day ever

We finished our trip at the Mt. of Beattitude, a breathtaking sacred site marking the Savior’s Sermon on the Mount. As our friend Dan gave the devotional and talked about Jesus leaving the multitude to climb up the hill, I thought about that multitude. Frankly, I’m guessing that a decent number of them were milling around hoping for free food. With all the local miracles surrounding the Savior,He must have been quite a celebrity to the downtrodden.

But it says that Christ took his disciples up the mountain. I have to wonder about the people who stayed behind, unwilling to make that hike with Jesus. Isn’t it interesting that the distinguishing factor between a disciple and a groupy came down to laziness?

That thought might have made me a little nervous.

We ended the day at Nazareth (which was amazing) and saw the massive church lit up in the darkness. The building is massive and lovely and despite it’s hot political location, makes you want to worship.

We walked back to the bus in the light of the moon...

It was a perfect day. As I climbed the bus for our ride back I was amazed at that our prayers had been answered so thoroughly. Tomorrow we’re entering the Holy City. I’m so excited…

Today I gave the baby (14 mos) a plate of cut up grapes and cheese. She looked up at me with her little toothy grin and said, “Danke!”

It was the first time she’s ever said thank you. I don’t know if anything could have made my day better than to hear that sweet little angel tell me (in German) thanks for her simple little lunch.

It got me thinking about this Thanksgiving so I decided to do a little research and see if I could peel back the many layers of gratitude and come up with something deep and soul changing to write about.

Turns out there’s no such thing where gratitude is concerned. Gratitude isn’t complicated. We don’t have to dig deep into the recesses of our blessings to truly be grateful, we just have to start with the first person/object/circumstance nearest us and work our way out.

For instance, I can hear my two middle babies playing in the living room. They’re taking turns pushing each other around the downstairs tiles on a big plastic tricycle, trying to see who can go the fastest without crashing into Mommy’s hutch.

I have babies, what a blessing. They are all healthy so double that. And don’t ask me how, but at least 75% of the time they love and play with each other. I’m grateful for kids who cry when they think someone in the family is lost, and are quick to offer each other ouchie kisses if I don’t get there fast enough.

And speaking of those ugly downstairs tiles, it gets cold here in Germany. The air is freezing and damp and my house is wall to wall tile floors. Never has a person ever been more grateful for the miraculous luxury of heated tiles than I. They might be old and ugly, but I can step into the kitchen each morning and feel blessed heat beneath my feet.

While we’re on the topic of kitchens, can I get a hallelujah for microwaves this Thanksgiving? That invention is the jaggersauce to my schnitzel. Sure it beeps incessantly when the food is finished, but maybe it just wants a little grateful attention. This year I will give my microwave a good scrub and thank it for all those healthy electromagnetic radiation waves that give me a hotdog in 30 seconds.

And hot dogs, how great are they? Not only do we have microwaves to cook our food, but we have food. Everywhere in America families are hungry. This Thanksgiving I can’t help but wonder what all those other hungry children are doing, the ones who can’t afford to eat turkey and stuffing.

It’s easy over the holidays to get caught up with the shopping and the eating and the self-involved partying. But not everyone is so lucky. Whatever your blessings are, someone will always have it better, but someone will always have it worse. Which ones are you noticing?

If you haven’t done it already I suggest taking out a pen or a keyboard and making a thoughtful list of the things you’re grateful for this Thanksgiving. It doesn’t have to be eloquent or unique, and it’s not about impressing people with your depth of character. Take time to make a written record of all the good things you’ve got going for you this Thanksgiving. It’s far healthier than pumpkin pie.

I’m thankful for Jesus Christ, and for my hardships and blessings. You can’t have one without the other and I wouldn’t trade my plate for anything, no matter how good the gravy looks.

Lastly, Happy Thanksgiving to my wonderful family home on the harbor! To my parents, Rex and Diane Valentine, my brothers and sisters who are gathering together with their own kids and grandkids to celebrate. Kerry, I wish we could be there with all of you this year…bleh! Now I’m crying.

Today was another leisurely flu-filled day at sea (two family members down, four to go). It was also the Sabbath, but keeping it holy isn’t easy when you’re surrounded by gluttonous buffets of pretty darn good grub.

As the afternoon came into focus I found myself with a moment alone. I walked up to level 9, filled a plate with pizza and made my way to a small table by the window for some much needed personal reflection.

Frankly, I don’t sit around with my thoughts very often and it was almost uncomfortable to put my feet up and stare at the waves without engaging my body in busy work.

Soon my mind turned to the Holy Land. We disembark tomorrow morning and will be spending the day around the Sea of Galilee, including a few sites like Nazareth and Mt. Tabor (the mount of Transfiguration, one of my personal favorites).

As I started thinking about the Holy Land, I was overcome with the most horrible sense of panic. I’m not ready. We have had two months to plan and prepare for this trip and here I am, 14 hours out and I’m realizing that I’ve been so busy getting ready for the Holy Land that I forgot to get ready for the Holy Land.

My packing was impeccable. We have enough of absolutely everything, and I was even proactive enough to remember the forgotten essentials like Miralax and two kinds of perfume. I’m organized and prepared for just about any child induced catastrophe, but in the midst of so much planning I have forgotten why I was packing to begin with.

I’m going back to Jerusalem and I’m not ready.

Throwing down my pizza crust I ran back to my room fueled by dread. I tore out my Bible and frantically began checking to see how fast I could read the New Testament.

“Children!” I called, “Quick, come sit around Mommy, we need to…read something!” Jason was looking at me like I had lost my brain or perhaps found Jesus for the first time.

“Honey, you okay?” he asked.

“I just…we need to study the New Testament. Come on, turn to Matthew…”

I know what you’re thinking. How could someone who knows better be so negligent in their spiritual preparation? How could I let the time slip away from me without planning fantastic devotionals and family musical numbers centered on the Life of Christ to prepare us for this truly monumental pilgrimage?

I started searching frantically for something that would apply to tomorrow’s site list, reading a random verse here and another there. My anxiety grew and I felt foolishly like a virgin who was low on oil.

But my friends, I have to tell you that as I was reading I felt the Holy Ghost place a gentle hand on my soul.

Perhaps we haven’t watched enough National Geographic episodes on Jerusalem or talked as often about Christ and his miracles here on the Earth as we should have. But every time we kneel in family prayer, every day when we read from the scriptures together (don’t ask me why we haven’t  been hanging out in the NT), every song about Jesus and every successful family home evening, I am preparing my family for the Holy Land.

I have been to Israel and will return there again. But that has nothing to do with the fact that I know Jesus lives. He is my Savior and I knew it long before I ever stepped into the Garden Tomb or gazed upon the ancient olive trees in Gethsemane.

I am ready to go back tomorrow. Whether or not people in my family are puking or pouting or pooping their pants, I know the Spirit will burn in my heart and remind me once more why I do what I do. Jesus once was a little child and I can’t wait to show my children where it all went down.

Today. In many ways today was a day that I never want to see again. I blame the naked Olympic ghosts that spend their time haunting the small children who visit the ruins, I know they were trying to spur my little champs on to a wrestling match.

We departed the ship around noon and rented a car for the 20 minute drive to the original Olympic stadium.

Here’s the thing about Harrison these days. He’s a wonderful kid, but at eight we’re seeing more of the easily offended, regularly nasty older brother who has no patience or thought for anyone but himself. If his siblings so much as look at him he’s liable to either burst into tears or cause bodily harm.

Then there’s Rex. Rex loves Harrison. He wants nothing more than to be best friends with his “best buddy Harrison.” It breaks my heart to see Harry treat Rex with unkindness, especially when other kids are around. Rex doesn’t have many friends (those he does have are all stuffed with cotton batting) and he could use some brotherly support.

Harrison got in trouble when we first got to the stadium today. Instead of moving past the problem, he spent the entire day making everyone within range as miserable as possible. He moped and pouted and worked himself into such a lathered up snit that by the time we finally got home tonight I wanted nothing more than to leave him with the custom agents as undeclared baggage.

(I have to say that Rex had so much fun taking his animals to “see the world!” He set up a number of candid photo ops (the pics are coming I promise) for me to capture his animals exploring Greece and was the model minor traveler. He was also the only kid that got to pick a souvenir for good behavior.)

By the time we were back on the ship and settled down for the evening (did I mention Georgia throwing up in Jason’s face on the way home?) our family was strung tighter than cat gut. I think the icing came when Harry refused to participate with any of the other kids in our group for an evening of movies and games. I thought Jason was going to jump ship he was so frustrated with Harry’s bad attitude.

We closed the evening without a prayer and went our separate ways (most of which landed us all in the same teensy little cabin).

“Harrison?” I said in a moment of privacy while trying to pull him out from under the bed where he had lodged himself for a good pouty cry session. I felt so ill equipped to handle this serious parenting stuff, where’s the manual on under the bed situations?

How do I explain to him that he’s choosing his attitude? That his refusal to apologize, his death grip on harboring offenses toward us for disciplining him, his cruelty and continual impatience with his little brother and sister are ruining his beautiful spirit?

I can’t do this for him. I can’t save him or make him feel remorse by denying him ice cream and lollipops. This is something my son has to learn for himself; how to let go of his pride and apologize when he’s done wrong.

Without going into detail, we had a painful talk about the Savior and His atonement. We talked about Gethsemane, a place we’re a mere 48 hours from visiting, and how the Lord sacrificed so much so we could be forgiven for these little, damning errors.

It was a hard discussion. I didn’t mince words and he didn’t like hearing it, but I can’t watch my child pout his way into eternal misery now, can I?

Finally, after a few suggested attempts, my boy hit his knees with me and opened his heart up to the Heavens. And as he prayed about visiting the Garden Tomb talked about Jesus Christ and he asked Father in Heaven to forgive him for today’s transgressions.

Right when he said that I felt it. As tangible as a piece of heavy clothing, I felt his own burdens of sin removed from his sweet little shoulders and my heart burned right along with his. He experienced forgiveness and I felt it with him. It was incredible, never have I felt more privileged.

We are not the best parents. We probably sigh too loudly and long for freedom more often than we should, but I’m so grateful that Father has trusted us with these little children. What an honor to watch my child grow and learn and conquer his own set of struggles. Oh, please help us be better tomorrow.

Oh Heavenly waves, I never want to see dry land again.

Yesterday afternoon we officially set sail. As Rex likes to say, we’re “off to see the world!”

Since our move to Germany we’ve been hearing that the fastest and cheapest way to see things over here is by ship. I have decided that I don’t care if I see anything more than the railing of this baby, I want to live aboard forever.

Today was our first full day at sea. After breakfast Jason and I got friendly with the Kid Club, a little bonus built into our ticket price.

Here’s the thing about traveling with four small children ages 8 and under, we spend so much time throwing goldfish crackers at them and trying to keep everyone from peeing in public that our moments of vacation happiness are about as common as a clean bathroom in Turkey.

But this morning at 9:47 we dropped our kids off and tried not to do a jig on our way out the door. Granted, we didn’t get to leave the baby but without the three oldest we felt like honeymooners.

The best thing about this cruise ship is how incredibly young I feel. Around here if you don’t have cataracts you’re positively juvenile; the crowd is definitely leaning aft in the age department. I thought it was interesting at breakfast that they didn’t seem able to keep the prune bowl full, very telling.

Then again, cruise constipation is no laughing matter and there is definitely fiber to that kind of wisdom. (Too much? Yeah, me too.)

And so we spent the morning doing our number one favorite pastime. We played Settlers. Long live Catan!

We picked up the kids around three only to discover that they were invited back for dinner and evening entertainment. The kid zone? Open until 11:30 pm. For serious. I don’t think my kids have even heard of eleven-thirty before today.

We went to dinner with the grown-ups and would have enjoyed a long and leisurely meal if Georgia (14 mos) hadn’t spent the first ten minutes yelling for a hot dog only to follow it up ten minutes later with her lung busting version of “ALL DONE!” while shaking her hands vigorously at anyone and everyone who passed by.

And here I sit, 9:35 at night, with my three youngest snoring away in their bunks and my husband trying not to doze so I can keep him up long enough to go dancing at 11:30 when the discotec opens. Please sweetheart, stay awake. Just two more hours…

**Later that night, or should I say early the next morning…

Holy dancing Batman, I think Jason really does love me after all.

Even though he knows how to do a decent number of traditional social dances (cha cha, two step, waltz) getting Jason to cut any kind of rug is nearly impossible. We’ve had epic fights over his dancing refusal and my misbehaving feet.

We took off to get the kids around eleven planning to dance for 20-30 minutes before picking them up. I had previously scoped out the situation and found a great little floor with a fantastic piano dude. Lots of people dancing, we’d fit right in.

Of course when we got there the floor was empty. This was quickly followed by Jason having a public display of musicality panic attack. People might WATCH us. We took the elevator to the top floor and stood over the railing, looking seven floors down while we debated what to do.

I tried to get him to dance with me up there in private but he wouldn’t let go of that blasted railing. I gave it up without a fuss (he was so cute gripping the railing as he fought his little dancing demons) and we picked up the kids. Once everyone was snug in their beds and the clock was winding down I decided to get ready for bed.

“What are you doing?” he asked, “Aren’t we going dancing?” I didn’t have to be asked twice.

And thus commenced my favorite night ever. We danced the night away, literally, and he made me feel beautiful and adored and romanced and all those things mommy’s really need to feel once in a while.

We’re leaving for a cruise this week. When I say we, I mean Jason, myself, and all four–often feels like seven–of our offspring.

Thanks to some really good advice we’ve learned that cruising is the cheapest, fastest and most enjoyable way to see the world. I’ve got to be honest, I don’t know that I’ve ever taken a vacation this long. We’ll be gone for a solid 12 days and it sounds like a whole lot of work.

A whole lot of work, that is, until I start thinking about 12 toy-free, microwave-free days. 12 days where someone else makes the beds and stocks the buffet and watches–oh yes, watches–the children. (Actually, we’ll only be on the boat four of the days but you get the point.)

We’re joining a bunch of other Americans from church so our group is going to total around 70, and at least half of those are smallish children. The ship has free child care and boy are we going to work that system.

The schedule boasts a total of seven terrifying ports. We’re starting out from Savona, Italy and heading to Olympia, Greece. Then we’ve got two days in Israel, a day in Izmir, Turkey (on Thanksgiving, Turkey on Turkey day!), another in Athens and finally a day in Rome with a smattering of boat days intermixed.

I am a brave woman. I fear very few things in this life (including and not limited to loose teeth) but I’ve got to tell you, this trip has me quaking in my boat shoes. It’s not one vacation we’re planning, it’s seven. Seven different ports to organize and read up on and try to absorb in a very short period of time. I’m still trying to figure out how we got over here to Germany in the first place, my little brain can’t handle all this world culture and history.

There’s no doubt our time in Jerusalem is why I’m so excited for this cruise. Having spent a semester in the Holy Land way back when makes this feel so surreal. It’s amazing and foreign and intense and oh my gosh, I’m taking my babies. For eight years I’ve had one horrible reoccurring nightmare where I lose a child in the Old City of Jerusalem (a quagmire of broken streets and shops and slightly stinky vendors). Here’s hoping dreams don’t come true.

After considering my safety options, I’ve come up with a few ways to make sure all four of our little children make it home with us. First, I’ve having each child tatooed with my phone number, email address and a brief description of what they will and will not eat. Second, I’m taping them to my body.

That’s about all I’ve got so far.

Second only to losing a child is my fear that my sweetheart and I won’t be able to stay sweet to each other for 12 days of public travel. I wouldn’t normally care so much, but in this case we’ll be in very close quarters with a number of other families. I’d like them to think I don’t scream at people on a regular basis.

(On that note, my voice is so hoarse these days and I haven’t understood why. The other day, while standing at the bottom of the stairs and loudly threatening to throw the television out the top window unless people started working, I realized my smoky voice might have something to do with my predisposition for vocal theatrics.)

In giving this some serious thought, I’ve decided to “Yes Dear,” my way through this cruise. Can we see the Pantheon? Yes dear. Drag the kids through the Vatican museum? Yes dear. Buy fake Roman swords and duke it out in the ship hallway after everyone else has gone to bed? Oh baby oh baby. As long as the man lets the buffet and me have our special time together, he can do just about anything he wants.

72 hours to go, I think it’s time to start packing.

Quick update: I found myself a German pede last Friday and she’s kind of awesome. Even better, she’s only five kilometers away and always gets the Americans in first. This means my little G-String baby girl now has enough energy to try and spew antibiotics in my face twice daily and nothing could make me happier. And holy wow, I didn’t think anyone was reading this drivel any more, thanks for all the feedback and really good ear ache advice –much of which I’ve been passing out to people with phrases like, “My girlfriend said to take some oil/rubbing alcohol/hair dryer…” anytime ears come up in general.

In other super cool news, we had our first company this weekend. It was Jason’s uncle’s brother, Bill, who my kids immediately dubbed “Uncle Billy.” All weekend long it’s been Uncle Billy this and Uncle Billy that. He brought his awesome wife, Waka (or Aunt Billy if you’re Rex) and lovely daughter Amanda for three super fast days in Germany. Hey, when you work for Delta you can swing in like that, catch a castle and a plate of schnitzel, and be on your merry way.

I’ve got to tell you, you want to come see me. We hooked them up with a car, a GPS, a cell phone and two queen sized beds with fresh linens (plus hot German rolls at breakfast). We made them ride the trains, eat donner’s, and sent them home with a suitcase of chocolate to pass out to friends and relatives with a “neener-neener, don’t you wish you were me?” aftertaste.

And the thing that makes them the best company ever (next to you, of course) is their fantastic laid back attitude. We didn’t have to worry that there were toys in the family room or occasional dishes in the sink at night because we knew, inherently, that they weren’t going to judge us. I love that about people who come to visit me. In fact, I think I’m going to put a sign up on the front door that says, “Welcome to our home: as you can see, we live here.”

We’ve done so many fun dinners and parties and play dates and open door events here in the last few weeks, I’m plum burnt out of keeping things in Company Order (which differs from “no one’s going to know if I leave the laundry piles on the couch today” order). I feel like putting up a “Closed for the winter” sign on the front door so I can hibernate with a good book.

Or I could just lock up the castle and go on an 11 day cruise this week. Yeah, I think I’ll go with that one.

Gigi has been sick for three days. Not just runny nose sick, but lay on mommy’s lap  in a feverish stupor waiting for the infant motrin to kick in sick (which I am almost out of and which they don’t have over here).

Since she’s my fourth child to have this particular miserable extended cold flu cocktail, I’ve been waiting it out like a good parent certain that the fever would break sometime today.

Today also marks the end of my long-awaited gout relief. I finally had an appointment to see an American doctor and get American meds. Hurray for people who go to medical school and practice American medicine, bless you all.

While I was at the doc’s, she asked if she could have a quick look in G’s ears. Of course, she has an ear infection. Enter sinking feeling and “wow I suck at being a mom” moment.

“Well,” she said, “Let me see if I can write her a prescription…”

I have to tell you, military medical is not like my good old Tanner Clinic back in America. In order to write my baby a prescription, she had to put her into the schedule. In order to put her into the schedule, they had to have her vitals–from a different medical office.

To make a very long story short, I waited nearly three hours only to be told, by the pharmacist, that he won’t fill her prescription because that doctor isn’t technically papered to see children under the age of three. Sorry. Oh yeah, the office is now closing and you can come back IN FOUR DAYS.

So here I am, sick baby on my lap, and I need to get her ear infection cleared up before we leave on our cruise next week. Anyone got any home remedies that actually work?

Oh my gosh, a little angel I like to call “Mother” just sent us a care package, and inside it I found these.

(I want you to know that I almost ran up three flights of stairs to get the nail polish to make my toes cute before taking this, but I decided it wouldn’t be honest. Also I hate stairs.)

As has been previously hounded on this site, I hate all these tile floors. Yesterday I mopped and by last night it looked like we’d had a soup fight in the kitchen.

And then my husband came home with the mail.

My mama, bless her beautiful soul, had thrown these into the mix for yours truly. Is there anything better than a mother who listens to you and tries to help you problem solve? I think all my housekeeping anxiety is giving her anxiety, she’s so worried about my stress level. On a whim, she picked these up for me and seven little postmen later I was donning my new soggy green slippers.

Five minutes of dancing in my kitchen and my floor looks like this.

I’m like a roomba with a heart, these babies have been on my feet all morning. I no longer walk up the stairs, I mop up the stairs. Picture a post-partum thirty-something Tom Cruise. I found myself skidding all over the upstairs family room jamming to 80’s tunes just because I’m home alone. How long has it been since cleaning my floors was fun? Oh, that’s right, never.

And the best part? I can feel myself burning calories, way more than I get from pushing the mop around.

I don’t know where to find these, but if you have solid floors that thwart you at every tile, please go buy some, put in an old Tiffany tape and your life will suddenly be made up of sparkling floors and glistening arm pits. So very cool.

I heart you, Mama.

Yesterday afternoon I laid in my bed, fully clothed with boots and all, and all I wanted to do was pull the covers over my head and forget about All The Crap I Have To Do.

This house I love. This house feels like home. But this house is so big and so much work that I’ve officially been downgraded from Homemaker to Housekeeper. Aside from my desperate last ditch Halloween crafting efforts, I have no time to sew or finish unpacking. My dinner attempts are sparse and uninspired and every time I walk into a room I’m slammed with the realization that I am living in a dirty black hole that will suck the life and the Lysol right out of me if I’m not careful.

Today I took June into the village preschool early this morning and came back home where I accidentally caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Um, when did I forget to brush my hair before leaving the house? It is literally sticking up all over my head, no wonder all the Germans were staring at me. (I like to pretend it has something to do with my charismatic personality but I’m suspicious it has more to do with my personal hygiene.)

I think the realization that no matter how much I clean or how much I try to make things look nice, my frequently innocent little people are always right behind me undoing all my hard work. Trust me, with this many stairs in a house  (65) it is most definitely hard work. (As I type this Gigi is happily throwing all the pillows off the couch and shredding yesterday’s newspaper ads.)

Yesterday afternoon I found myself  fully clothed, boots and all, laying in my bed with a driving urge to pull the covers over my head and play vampire. I resorted to number 4 on my How To Cheer Myself Up list and called a girlfriend (number 3 is ‘put cute boots on’).

“Hey, how are you?” she asked, and because I knew she meant it I told her.

“My house is too big, I’m having anxiety about cleaning and packing and unpacking and everything else. So I’m hiding in my bed and I don’t want to get out,” I said.

“Yeah, I do that sometimes.”

And just like that I felt way better. Seriously. I can’t describe to you how fantastic it felt to have someone validate my feelings, and better yet, remind me in five easy words that I’m normal. There are other moms out there that feel like me, I’m not alone.

Without too much effort I was able to rejoin the household and spent the rest of the day reminding myself, out loud, about the advice my mother gave me a few years back when baby number three hit the scene. For the next fifteen years there will be very few moments when all my house is clean all at the same time, and That’s Okay. I might hate it (passionately), but I wouldn’t trade it.

This morning I decided to put down the mop, literally, and take a moment to actually write something. I have to live in this whale, but that doesn’t mean he owns me. This is the first time in I don’t know how long that I’ve sat down and written something just for myself–it’s not for a deadline or future posterity–and it’s nearly as good as finding a bathroom in the Mall of America after three diet coke’s.

Speaking of doing something for myself, I have got to find a yoga class. And a toothbrush. Maybe I should start with the latter.