Rex gets in the car yesterday afternoon and says, “Mommy, this is my new invisible friend, Wilbur! Say hi, Mommy. Mommy? What can Wilbur be for Halloween?”

Considering that it was 5:30 and we had yet to assemble our costumes or even arrive at the house, the last person I was worrying about was Wilbur the Invisible Boy. “He can be an invisible man,” I said.

“That’s great, Mommy! Wilbur loves to be the Invisible Man!”

Halloween might be an American holiday, but the Germans sure seem to like our style.

We decided to throw caution to the ghouls last night and take our chances trick or treating. We have about 50 american families in our village alone, you can’t tell me we’re the only ones with costumes.

One thing I have failed to learn repeatedly is that you should never, ever let your kids play with their costumes before the big night. Harrison opened his Harry Potter accessory kit last Wednesday. By Friday he had misplaced both the wand and the glasses, and there wasn’t enough magic left in the packaging to bring them back. Take away his specs and Harry Potter is just a muggle with a wand.

This meant that his costumes were both created (we had a church party on Friday and trick-or-treating on Monday) on the fly. I was extremely ill on Friday (thank you, Ashley darling for saving my skin) and roused just long enough to cut up a pair of jeans, a long sleeved shirt and a coon skin cap (hello chest hair). Add some face paint, safety pins and fangs and we had one fierce little werewolf on our hands in about nine minutes flat. Last night he had to settle for a ghoul with a cape, since, obviously, he lost half his werewolf costume into the black hole hiding under his bed.

I was amazed and surprised to find that there were loads of Germans giving away candy last night. We passed several neighborhood bon fires, filled with free flowing vodka and candy for the kiddies. What I didn’t see were many American kids. The German kids around here have really glommed onto our traditions, they were all over the place.

My kids had full bags by about the eighth house. “Mommy,” Rex said, “I’m done trick-or-treatin’. I want to go home now.” It had been approximately eleven minutes.

“Well honey, we’ve got at least one more street to do then–”

“No Mommy! I don’t want any more candy! I have enough candy, all right? It’s time to go home, Halloween is done now.”

My Rex. First kid in the history of Halloween to put a cap on the candy count. He actually stood five feet behind the other kids and refused candy at the last half dozen houses we visited. I think the kid is pretty safe from gluttony.

For the past four months, Rex has routinely informed me that he is going to be Mama Snipe, from the Disney movie “Up”,for Halloween. In case your child is also interested in the mythical snipe costume, let me assure you that Amazon does not carry it.

One thing about Germany, it aint America. There was a time not very long ago when collecting the components for such a costume was nothing more than a quick trip to Walmart or Hobby Lobby. Sure, sometimes I’d have to truck through two different craft stores to find all the required elements at a decent price, but that’s what craft stores are for.

Unfortunately for me, Hobby Lobby does not translate in German. I’m sure there is some version of a “craft store” here (aka a closet with seven bolts of fabric and a small selection of neon trim), but none of the ladies I talked to knew where it was.

In order to manufacture this costume, my list was relatively simple. I needed a hooded sweatshirt, feather boas plus a load of loose feathers, felt and hot glue. Easy peasy, it’s not like I needed boning or pinking shears (oh gosh, I really need pinking shears).

But the only place shy of the erotic store (don’t think I wasn’t prepared to go in there) that carried feather boas was a little kiosk at the base shopping center. They wanted 14 euro a boa. Um, hello? We make costumes specifically because we’re too cheap to buy them. (This is a grave urban legend that I fall for every year; it’s usually cheaper to buy them prefab, don’t believe what I tell you next year.)

I put off buying the boas and broke into my boxed up craft items. There, at the bottom of a box, was a ratty yellow boa I picked up last year at the thrift store for 99 cents. Best pointless purchase ever, it saved me $14.

By the time I had collected a hooded sweatshirt ($12), a blue boa ($14), felt, feathers and pipe cleaner ($15) not to mention a tank of gas trying to round it all up, Rex ended up with the most expensive costume any kid in my family has ever been granted.

And then I had to figure out how to put it all together.

If you ever come to Germany and bring your hot glue gun, please be warned that things are hotter here. The glue comes out scorched and burnt thanks to the local voltage, even with a transformer. It is recommended that you use said weapon only during daylight hours with the appropriate amount of sleep, rest and necessary nourishment.

If by some chance you fail to heed this warning, you might find yourself surrounded by feathers, alone in the bad lighting at midnight with serious hot glue gun burns all over your fingers and no one to hear you scream.

When all was said and done, my little guy headed out the door with the best Mama Snipe costume his little baby Kevin bird had ever seen. Maybe next year he can be Mama Ghost.

Here is this week’s column, sorry if it’s a little too honest.

Last Sunday I had to lead the music in church.

You would think being the substitute church chorister was the easiest job on the planet. Show up for three or four songs during the meeting, wave your arm around a little, take a week off. Rinse and repeat.

But when you find yourself standing in front of the congregations, watching the back row where your three oldest (8, 6 &3) unsupervised children are beating the living daylights out of each other because their father had to take the stinky baby out, the panic and anxiety is hysterical.

By the time I finally made it back to camp Jason was disciplining with a vengeance, pointing and shushing and mouthing frantic threats. Due to parental absence, our family had been condensed to a screaming, snarling knot of weak believers doing their duty in the overflow section of the chapel.

June (3) was especially vocal. I whisked her out of the chapel with Jason and the baby right behind. “Mommy!” she sobbed, “Daddy is SO MEAN TO ME!! He hurt my arm!!!!”

Now let me tell you, I know that small children are all innocent in the sight of You Know Who, but sometimes I wonder if He’s really met June. We’ll be riding in the car and in minutes she’ll have both her big brothers bawling their heads off without even touching them. She gives new meaning to the phrase, “Use your words.” Oh, how I wish she’d just shut up sometimes. (June can also be my most loving, affectionate, delightful child. She is both my favorite and my least favorite, depending on whether or not she’s had a nap.)

During my day to day encounters with June I regularly find myself in a Mommy time-out. She has inspired me to search for college courses with titles like, “When Your Child Pees on the Floor,” “Why Yelling Doesn’t Work,” and “If You Spank Her She’ll Just Get Worse.”

As we hit the foyer at full volume, I looked at her red little arm (he had to physically remove her from atop Harrison’s head) and was instantly mad. But was I mad at June? No. I was mad at my husband.

My helpless, frustrated, really great husband, who had, in a moment of angst, removed her with an extra bit of force.

We traveled out to the car and I proceeded to give him a piece of my mind, lecturing him on good parenting and shaking my finger in his face. I was furious. She’s only three, can’t we have a little patience already? With a righteous huff I stomped back into the building with my girdle in a snit, and plunked down with my kids on the back row.

But who was I really mad at? Was I really mad at Jason for losing his temper, or was I mad that he failed to make up for my routinely bad parenting? He’s supposed to be the perfect parent. It’s not fair for my kids to have to deal with two lunatics on a regular basis, can’t he just get it right all the time on my behalf? Is a little perfection too much to ask?

Yes. Yes it is. I felt pretty stupid sitting there on that cold metal chair. If we were keeping track of Who’s The Better Parent, he’d be teaching classes and I’d be down in the resource room with an IEP.

When my mother was in high school her teacher had them make individual lists of all the things they couldn’t stand about other people. From gossiping to whining, her list was enormous. Once the class had finished the assignment, the teacher asked them to look at that list a little more closely. How many of those traits were simply a reflection of the things they hated most about themselves?

I suppose I’m just like everyone else; I detest my own frailties and weaknesses and I hate seeing them in someone else, especially when that someone is my pretty fantastic husband. I guess our kids will have to deal with the fact that they’ve got two stupid humans for parents.

Ah well, at least they aren’t being raised by wolves. Yet.

You know you’re in denial when you finally acknowledge that you failed to mention your baby’s birthday.

It was two months ago.

My little G is fourteen months old and Harrison (8) had the gall to try to teach her to stand on her own today. Step away from the baby, son.

Georgia is the world’s biggest baby and I am perfectly fine with that. She still wants to be spoon fed whenever possible, prefers my hip to any other mode of travel, sleeps like a baby and wants me to hold her all. Day. Long. I kind of love it.

And it is no business of anyone’s (Harrison, I’m talking to you) to step in and force that poor little infant to take up her bed and walk already. She’s just a baby, people, can’t we accept it and leave her alone? A little coddling never hurt most 40-year-olds.

I’m caught in the crossfire of emotions here. On the one hand, every time I give a piece of babyhood to the thrift store I can’t help feeling like an enormous weight has finally been lifted from my storage room. I want to yell to everyone within spit-up range, “Guess what I don’t have to keep anymore?” No more Baby Bjorn, changing pad, nursing paraphenalia, or slightly stained onesies. Every week I add to my pile of Crap I Don’t Have To Keep, and I’m routinely emptying Baby Bins for the last time.

But there are moments when I would like to freeze my little Gigi and keep her this size forever. (There are also moments when I wish she was five and didn’t come equipped with diapers and curiosity in general.)

We are nearing the end of this and I can feel it. As much as I try to pretend it isn’t so, the girl is going to step out one day and start walking and it’s all downhill big girl motion from there. Yes, I will have to potty train her. Yes, she will learn how to throw a tantrum.

Ah, baby girl, must you? Et tu, Brute?

She has my mother's eyes...

I have spent the past week sneaking moments alone with my Kindle. With a number of important and inspiring books loaded right now, including and not limited to impressive biographies and the Bible, what do you think has me completely sucked in? Vampire books. And yes, I thought long and hard about that pun.

Call me a literary junkie, but if you write a decent vampire book I will read it. I will then spend the next week wandering around Europe sizing people up to determine whether or not I think they’d make a good vampire. I think the military has some very promising candidates.

I’ve been so bogged down trying to crawl out from the cardboard rubble over the past three weeks that there has hardly been a moment to read or write anything, let alone sit myself down for a little rest.

But the solution was right there in front of me: if I’m going to read about vampires, I might as well keep their hours. The sun goes down, the kids go to bed, and my Kindle and I thirst for another installment of vampire gore.*

If my past is any consolation, there have been times when my mind hungered and thirsted for thought-provoking literature. But it’s kind of like listening to classical music. Even though I know it’s the intelligent and yes, even classy choice, I can’t help skipping over it these days for some good old country twang.

As a writer, I must admit that I have absolutely no imagination where the paranormal is concerned and I’m forever grateful for anyone who can think outside the biology department. Oh, how I wish I could think of something other than myself once in a while. I blame vanity; I’m far too busy obsessing about my shoes and horrid hair (new extensions just came in the mail, yay!) to think of something that might appeal to the masses.

And by the way, there are some pretty decent cheap books on the Kindle that even Dave Ramsey can’t give me a hard time about purchasing. We don’t have television, so I think a buck or two for a book is an extremely economical answer to my blood-thirsty entertainment needs.

Ah well, at least my current vampires and werewolfs are all of legal, blood-sucking age.

*I am also reading the Old Testament right now (another frequently gory read) and highly condone daily scripture study to those of you who are religiously inclined.

Birthdays are a funny thing.

Isn’t it interesting that last year I couldn’t wait to turn 32; I lectured my sister and my friends and the lady at the drugstore about the importance of getting old and why I’m going to love it. And yet I can’t seem to remember how old I’m turning this year because whatever the number, it is more than 32.

I also like to refer to my birthday as an event that hasn’t happened yet, even though it took place some time last week.

I grew up in a family where birthdays were considered nothing more than another excuse to have cake after dinner. You got a quick song, a single gift and a little slice of Heaven on a plate. I have found through my friendships that our method was pretty normal. Culturally, birthdays don’t seem to be a big deal, and the older we get the more we hate them.

But over the years I’ve realized that there is, in fact, something special about birthdays. Think about it. Whatever your belief system, it was the day you took your first breath of air and started out on this fast-paced trip through the atmosphere, rigged and loaded with trials, heartaches and the occasional whiff of something wonderful.

For one day every year, you are celebrated. You are valued. Your Wonderful Life comes into focus to the people around you and we recognize that yep, you’re on your way to being a little more coordinated or taller or wiser, depending on the digits.

I was dreading my birthday this year. The week before B Day I casually refused to discuss it with my husband on any level (not that he tried). The day before my birthday I was painfully aware that my husband had made no mention of any plans or ideas or even tossed me the token, “You don’t look a day over 26,” comment I so depend on.

When the alarm went off at 5:45 that morning, I couldn’t help it. Before my eyes even opened I wondered if he had remembered. 12 years together, he’s bound to forget eventually.

I rolled over and closed my eyes, insisting they focus on Project Birthday Sleep In. He rolled out of bed to use the bathroom and I started to drift off.

And then I heard it. The pitter patter of little elephants clomping up the stairs mixed with muted giggles and stern shushing. The door opened and there it was, a little piece of magic in four part unintentional harmony. I was slightly concerned we were going to catch the house on fire, the candles made such an enthusiastic blaze.

And all at once I didn’t feel old or muggy or like spending another minute in my boring old bed.

The inferno was extinguished, the kisses were everywhere and then my man said, “I have an announcement to make. Today you kids are not going to school. Today I am not going to work. This is an official holiday, so today we are going to…Lego Land!” I couldn’t decide if I wanted to cry or kiss or tickle him so he’d have an idea of how happy the whole darn thing made me.

Of course, we hit traffic and got there late, and the day wasn’t completely free of meltdowns and bite marks, but there is no doubt that the efforts of my family told me loud and clear that, at least to them, I am special.

It’s not about the gifts or the price tag, and it doesn’t take an amusement park to make it magic. Birthdays are about reminding the people in our lives that their existence matters. This journey of life is nothing to take lightly, but my goodness what a difference a candle can make.

Especially when you’re six and it comes with a free ticket to Lego Land.

For those of you who think living in Germany would be super wundebar, please think of me the next time you casually make an appointment to visit the doctor.

Thank goodness for evening gout attacks. I was limping so badly by Thursday night that Jason offered to come home from work after lunch on Friday so I could try to figure things out. I might or might not have limped a little more heavily when he was in the room. I certainly was under no obligation to fein pain tolerance.

Gout is funny. I think the name is so ugly that people assume it always looks ugly. I’ve had two friends mention how glad they are that it’s not all nasty and swollen up someplace where everyone could see. Let me clarify for the masses, gout is not elephantiasis. In some cases it does get extreme to the point where it is noticeably swollen and red, but it can look like nothing and still be quite painful. Let the record state that my feet are not deformed and grotesque. Yet.

On Friday afternoon I took myself, via the convertible (62 degrees and sunny), into the hospital at Landstuhl (the big local military medical center) and spent over an hour jumping through registration hoops. Once I was in the system I found myself sitting in the waiting room frantically trying to finish my paperwork so I could enjoy the wait. Unfortunately they got me right away. This was a little disappointing; my book and I were looking forward to missing Harrison’s soccer game due to military inconvenience.

I have to tell you, when that lovely nurse practitioner finally came into the exam room with her American English and hospital clip board, I had to refrain from kissing her. She listened to me. She agreed with me. She didn’t ask to see my previous records. She took out her magic wand, bibbity bobbity boo-ed at me and poof!

I had a gout killing prescription and a follow up appointment to secure my year’s supply of non-German approved Alopurinal. Saints be praised, I am back in business.

Then I had to wait at the pharmacy for forty minutes for my prescription to fill while Jason had the pleasure of feeding/clothing/soccering-up and loading all four kids into the car and taking them to Harrison’s soccer game alone. Unfortunately for some I was stuck in a quiet waiting room with my book.

It was kind of a perfect day.

I was listening to Dave Ramsey on the internet a few days ago searching for a little tight-wad financial motivation (the German furniture and weekend trips are calling to me). Dave had two different callers who dialed in for the “I’m debt free!” holler. This is a regular occurrence on his show; followers of Dave are taught and encouraged to pay off their consumer debt with his painful but brilliant spendaholic rehabilitation steps. Once financial freedom is achieved they are encouraged to call his live radio show and tell fellow disciples of their miraculous financial rebirth.

Hundreds of people call in but few are chosen. The two callers they chose for that particular segment were rather unique. Both of them were in their twenties. Do you realize how unusual that is? Most of us spend our twenties in a Visa stupor with no plan for the ever pressing future.

One call was a couple in their mid-twenties with two small children who had paid of an astronomical amount of consumer debt in two years of eating beans and rice. The other was a girl of 27 and wasn’t just debt free, she had paid off her house. Neither of them had large paychecks. Both of them said the same thing, “We’ve been listening to your show since we were kids.”

They had good parents.

In all this German countryside free time I have, one of my favorite pastimes is listening to talk radio. The entire political stage is focused on our national debt crisis right now and how this guy or that gal might fix it. I’m not so smart when it comes to finances or politics, and Heaven knows that if Old Moneybags wasn’t around to pay the bills they would probably be hiding under some bed in my last house. But one thing I do know: Our federal government is nothing more than a reflection of an entire generation (or two) of debt lovers.

And during the news breaks when they talk about the economy, the “good news” is that consumer spending is up. Right, cause that’s really going to fix all our problems. Oh, I understand that we need to spend money so people can have jobs and our economy can stay afloat, but how much of the consumer spending out there is actually being fronted by Visa or Mastercard? Is it true spending or borrowed spending? Do half of the buyers even know the difference? Before we got ourselves educated I can tell you, we certainly did not.

Hot on our heels is a generation raised on plastic. Barbie now comes with Visa, how will these small children know the difference between credit and cash if it all looks the same?  I know they’re important on some levels, but how will trigonometry and algebra help the average high schooler survive in this economy? Why aren’t our kids taking regular classes on mortgages and compound interest and retirement plans? Do you have any idea how many brilliant people out there are up to their ears in debt because they never took the time to learn the basic principles associated with balancing a budget?

We’ve racked up some unwelcome consumer debt with this move (Mama just had to have a new couch) and I’m starting to look around me and regret it. I hate that company store, and I want my soul back. There is a feeling that comes when you take control of your finances. It’s not a feeling of deprivation, it’s a feeling of freedom. If you don’t choose where your money will go, Wal Mart will choose for you.

We must teach our children to be smart with money. There is value in frugality. Stuff is just stuff, but financial freedom will bring more than just peace to your marriage, it fosters opportunity and independence. Like Dave always says, “Live like no one else so that someday you can live like no one else.”

I sure hope we’re financially prepared for the future because I’ve got a sneaky suspicion it’s going to get really popular in the next few decades to “move in with the kids.” Personally, someday I would really like to have my own kitchen to putter around in.

Columbus is my new favorite mere mortal for whom a paid government holiday is named.

I had this idea when we moved here that every weekend would be jammed with magical trips through the European country scape. We’d be like Mary Poppins minus the penguins (although Rex usually carts along at least five different stuffed birds. Also I’d inherit the overseas Snap Cleaning trick she’s so good at). We’ve spent nearly every weekend the last three months traipsing through the German countryside, and you know what? I am freaking exhausted.

I have years to see Germany but right now I need to unpack my house. With three kids home all day for two weeks (Rex and Junie are out on Fall Break) I feel like Benjamin Franklin must have felt when Timmy the Neighbor Kid kept asking to borrow his kite.

This past weekend the traveling angels gave us a hand and sent rain. Instead of conquering Belgium we decided to stay home and conquer the office.

I should tell you, every day Jason comes home from work. Every day when he walks in the door I take him on the tour. “Look honey! See what I did? Did I do good?” Unfortunately what Jason sees is a room scattered with a few odd boxes, packing paper on the floor and the same obnoxious assortment of pictures and knicknacks that he left in the morning. What he doesn’t see are the three missing boxes, the unpacked boxes. The magical disappearing boxes.

“It looks pretty much the same, sorry Babe.” Then I have to resist the urge to throw things at his head.

On Monday I had him trapped. Since Jason is particularly good about making his own Honeydo list, getting him to help out on the weekend is no problem. I think he was actually happy to have a day off so he could, “Finish the house up.” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

We worked all day. We hung pictures (fed the kids) and mirrors (changed diapers), set up my sewing table  (fed the kids) and unpacked half the office (issued seven time-outs and two naps). By the time we made the final rounds at 10:00 pm to shut off lights I stood next to him and looked at our handy work.

The shelf was still leaning against the wall in the living room. The two boxes of odd pictures was still parked in the middle of the hallway. Bags of garbage and random paper floated mockingly throughout the house, out of season foliage cluttered up the tables. Books, DVD’s, bins…

It was a beautiful sight.

Thank you, Columbus.

I think I’ve been suffering from cardboarditis for the past two weeks. Well, some might call it carboarditis but in my case it looks a whole lot more like gout.

Oh yeah, my gout is back.

For those of you who don’t know, gout doesn’t just sound ugly, it is ugly. It’s a nasty disease that affects crusty old farmers and myself. Uric acid in the blood forms crystals that settle painfully in the joints, most commonly the big toe and the knuckles.

Picture someone embedding crystals in your joints. Now try using those joints to unpack 793 boxes of household goods. That is what it’s been like these past two weeks trying to unpack our house.

My wonderful American doctor “fixed” my gout a year or two ago. Once we cleared the uric acid out of my blood he put me on a magical medication call Alopurinal that works quite simply: a pill a day keeps the gout away. With four small children to chase around, you can bet I’ve been pretty religious about those pills. Gout is genetic for me, which is why it’s hit me so young. I’ll have it forever and the best thing I can do is take my medication. Managing gout through diet is far from a sure thing, I’ve seen my father suffer from attack after attack, and cutting out food only makes a small dent in the disease and leaves you with very few eating options and a slightly grumpy spouse (not that my mother complains).

But somewhere during this move I lost track of my medication. After a month or two my pills resurfaced, but I thought the same thing all those old farmers think: maybe I can stop taking these pills. Maybe I won’t get gout again. Maybe it was all in my head–it wouldn’t be the first time.

Ten weeks. It took ten self-denying weeks before my gout came back with a vengence. This time it’s not just in my big toes anymore, it’s in my hands. And it’s not just the crystals, sometimes my fingers and toes go numb.

The biggest downside to living in Germany as a civilian is the confusing medical care. I’m bottom of the barrel to get in on the base facility, so everyone says civilians should find a German doctor.

Well yesterday I met a German doctor. It would have been helpful if she spoke English.

First off, walking into the clinic was like a visit to the local retirement home. Wall to wall old people. I swear half of them were there for the social, and they all knew each other. Kind of gave new meaning to the term “socialized medicine.”

After making my way to the front desk I attempted to make an appointment. “What time should I come back?” I asked, looking around at the wall to wall wait.

“Oh,” she said, “The doctor has an opening right now so you can go in next.” I checked out the 20 plus geriatric Germans who were patiently waiting their turn. Apparently the rumors are true, Americans always get right in. “Does the doctor speak English?” I asked.

“Yes.” Since most Germans around here speak pretty good English I wasn’t worried.

I sat down across from a female doctor and laid out my dilemma, showing her my medication and telling her quite simply that I need to get back on my routine. Once I had exhausted myself with speech, I sat and waited for her reply.

“We…take…blood. From…you…arm. Laboratorie, yes?”

Are you kidding me?

She then went on to convey that they don’t handle gout the same way here, that my medication is not right (I just had my levels checked in May) and they would start over again, maybe I eat different food, no? If I get gout, then they give medication. Not medication, no gout. Only after get gout. It was like we were playing cowboys and indians, the communication was about that good. I seriously wondered if my scalp was going to come into play.

By the time she was done talking I wanted to cry. She drew blood (which apparently is too thick), told me to return on the morgen and I went out to pay. But right before walking out I changed my mind. I don’t have to go to a doctor that I can’t communicate with. I don’t have to deal with gout because Germans do things differently. I thanked her, but there is no way in Hades that I’m going back in there.

Tomorrow I’m going to try to fight my way into the clinic on base, and every day thereafter until I get some real help. I don’t care if I have to be seen at six am, there will be an appointment for me and I’ll find a doctor who can look at my records. There has got to be a better way.