This weekend my husband and I celebrated twelve years of matrimonial bliss.

Looking back, I could only think of two times in the past year where I thought he might leave me. I know, impressive right? We are really getting good at this marriage business.

We recently had a newlywed couple over for dinner. They just celebrated their first anniversary and are stuck here in Germany trying to get visas. He’s Brittish and she’s American. For whatever reason, this is the only place they can both legally live as man and wife.

When I asked them how their first year was, they smiled. “Oh, it was great!”

“Really?” I asked, “That’s amazing! We’re lucky we didn’t kill each other.” The moment the words were out of my mouth their posture relaxed.

“Are you serious?” she said, “Because we thought it was just us…” We then went on to discuss some of the unexpected trials of that first year.

I recently heard someone refer to marriage as a soccer game. Have you ever seen 3 and 4 year old’s play soccer? It’s a riot. They each know one thing: kick the ball. So they hover around it like a bunch of fruit flies, trying to get in a good whack here and there.

If marriage was a soccer ball and newlyweds were players, it would look a lot like that little toddler league. It can take years to realize that the other guy is your teammate, or that kicking the ball to him could actually help you out. In memory of our first post-traumatic year, I’ve come up with six soccer analogies to pass on, in case any newlyweds are listening.

1. Remember the importance of the assist. Let your spouse help you out. No one likes the “I” man, and learning to pass the ball now and then is a skill no marriage can live without, especially once kids come along. You have to let your companion be part of the team, even if it means sometimes you take a back seat and let them score.

2. Don’t stay in one position. It’s important to take time trying out different fielding positions to see where each of your strengths lie. From cooking to child rearing to balancing the budget, you might be surprised to find that your marital mold isn’t like anyone else’s. Throw out preconceived notions and find out where you each play best.

3. Listen to the coach. Whether it’s finding a few good relationship books or getting into early couple’s therapy, remember that the world is filled with professional people who know a lot more about marriage than the rest of us. Be smart and ask for help before overlooked hurts fester. Ten years from now you’ll be glad you learned to communicate early on.

4. Cheer for each other. There is nothing more important than gratitude in your marriage. Take time every single day to build your companion up. We are constantly serving each other, even if it’s subconscious. Point out the positive character traits and things you love about your spouse. Do this every day.

5. Accept your red card. If you don’t learn how to say sorry you might as well go live in the woods by yourself right now. Understanding how to offer a real, flat out apology is one of the most important and most difficult skills we can master in marriage. When you’re wrong, own it. No one likes the old, “I’m sorry, but…”

6. Know the plays. Talk about your life and your plans and your dreams on a regular basis. Good things come to those who make plans, so take time to dream together. Think two years, five years, twenty years down the road and talk about how you’d like your life to look.  Life gets busy and if you stop dreaming and planning together, you will eventually lose one another. Look into each other’s eyes and dream a little. It’s why God made Friday nights.

No marriage is perfect, but if you’re willing to work hard and watch your cholesterol, you just might make to that golden vanilla cake anniversary we all hear so much about.

For us, twelve down, thirty-eight to go. Good thing I married someone so athletic.

Today marks one week in this house and I think I’m finally starting to come up for air. Actually that’s a bunch of bull, I’m just getting really good at avoiding the mess.

This morning I spent almost an hour in the bathroom primping. See, my bathroom gets really good light and I have this magnifying mirror that is both fascinating and slightly terrifying, depending on the time of day. I stood there in the morning light and poured over my pores for about twenty minutes. I tweezed and masked and basked in the high intensity reflection until there was nothing left to pick at. It was awesome.

Then I emerged and found that fairies did not, in fact, unpack any boxes for me. So much for that theory.

But the sun was shining and I was feeling frisky (this is code for scared to death that I might get a cardboard paper cut on some crucial vein and die before I could remember the German number for 911), so I packed up the kiddos and headed into town for a little local shopping. Unfortunately I forgot that today is a national holiday–remember the wall? This is when it came down–and had to do most of my money changing on base.

Did I come home once the shopping was done? Of course not, I invited Jason to join us for a picnic lunch in the autumn sunshine. He cautiously met me, wisely choosing not to inquire after the 47 boxes labeled “home decor” that I’m too afraid to open.

I’ve decided that the only way I’m ever going to get this unpacking pot a boiling is if I give myself some sort of grandiose goal. That’s right, we’re having a Halloween party. Hey, if all else fails and the house isn’t in order, it will make a fantastic spook alley. I’ll just put on a black light and let people stumble around the half emptied boxes trying to find their way to the bathroom.

We’re going to live here a looong time, I have faith that everything will find it’s place. I’m not giving up on the fairies just yet.

It’s here. It’s all here. All of it. They didn’t leave anything behind. I have every worthless box of materialism I’ve been dreaming about, and I’m half tempted to trade it for a furnished apartment in the US countryside.

This house is huge. Huge translates to 4000 sq feet and six levels (some of them are half levels). It’s wonderful to have so much space, but getting from the basement to the top floor bathroom is kind of like hiking Mt. Sinai minus the camel and religious inspiration. With four kids–the baby has been particularly needy this week–constantly needing our attention, the unpacking has been like unwelcome leisure. Slow and mostly unproductive.

Enter amazing girlfriends who don’t mind taking over and making the big decisions. Honestly, if they hadn’t shown up and starting putting things in place we’d probably still be dining on slabs of cardboard. You see, I’ve been a little preoccupied with a personal treasure hunt and can’t seem to get my brain on the right track.

It has been five days since our things arrived. Three truckloads of household goods gets dropped off and my super smart plan was simple: find my shoes.

The shoes finally surfaced on day three. I specifically remember pulling out two pair of Jason’s shoes, then gazing into the heavy, overcrowded trash bag at my beloved collection of feminine vanity, trying to keep the drool contained as I reminded myself that it wasn’t the time nor the place for high heels. I handed the bag to Jason, told him they  were to head upstairs to my trunk…

And I’ve never seen them again.

It’s been three days since that chance parting. No trash has gone out, no boxes have been donated. Where. Are. My. Shoes.

I’ve had three other fresh sets of eyes scour my house and surrounding village, all to no avail. I’m tempted to call over the mayor (next door) and see what he can do for me.

Believe me, this is not a laughing matter. I’m not just perplexed, I’m now in a full blown panic. Do you have any idea what it’s like to replace an entire collection of beautiful heels? Four years ago we had a puppy (may he RIP and enjoy an eternity of Heavenly leather) who destroyed 3/4 of my shoe collection. He was only interested in my shoes, obviously the pooch had good taste. It has taken me years to regroup.

Finally yesterday I realized that I haven’t knelt down and prayed about  the missing shoe bag yet. I very quickly dropped the China and hit my knees, knowing that prayer would be my strongest ally in this war against cardboard thievery. Honestly, the moment I thought about praying for my shoes all my anxiety disappeared.

Today I’m going to find my shoes. Come he!! or high cardboard, they will be found.

I wrote this last Sunday, it’s this week’s column.

The long awaited household goods truck comes first thing tomorrow morning and I’m feeling very first datish–a little apprehensive but mostly obnoxiously giddy.

We have been living here in Germany for the past two months, camping out with our original twelve bags of clothing. Don’t think that number hasn’t increased; I now have to detangle us from our temporary house one grocery bag of accumulated goods at a time. Unfortunately there is no place to put said items until all the other items are delivered.

So here I sit on this pre-delivery eve, clipping my toe nails and thinking that I should probably shave my legs tonight since it might be a while before I can get back to personal hygiene.

Thing is, these movers have a one-touch policy. We get one shot to boss them around, but the moment our poundage hits tile, it. Is. Over. Forget asking them to reposition something, it lives where it lands unless we want to haul it around ourselves (we don’t). I am therefore frantically trying to remember what we have–it’s been four months–so I can make myself a working map of where it should go.

One thing about our fabulous German house (we got brave and purchased one) is the fact that it comes with loads and loads of junky European treasure. The previous owners are old and moving in with their daughter. Their method of downsizing is simple: Leave Everything In the House for the New Family to Sort Through.

It’s a good thing the gypsies come through every few months to take stuff, there’s no way we could haul all of that to the local thrift store. (Seriously, they actually drive slowly through the town ringing a bell.) And for the record, German junk looks an awful lot like American junk.

Truly the past two months have been tough on the body. If anyone ever had sympathy for prison inmates, it is me. I hear one of the worst publicly mentionable things about prison is the total discomfort. The beds are a single mattress and there’s not a decent chair or couch to be found.

That is exactly what military “stick furniture” is like. Plastic foam couches and miserable springy mattresses.

I was at a girlfriend’s house this past week and actually sat down on a real couch for the first time in Europe. I almost went comatose on her due to sheer comfort alone.

This move has not been without it’s casualties. With all the changes and transfers and Guten tags, my Junie (3) is now peeing her pants again. I have probably handled it terribly and I’m suspicious she’ll end up in therapy because of my overall misreaction (this might or might not have included yelling, stomping and a week of early bedtime). We don’t rightly know what to do. Part of me doesn’t blame her; our life has been less than comfortable and more than a little sporadic these past four months. She’s trying to mesh into German preschool and we’re in the middle of another move…heck, maybe I should take a page from her book. Next time I’m stressed I should try peeing my pants, it might be very liberating.

I guess if all else fails, I could always threaten her with the Gypsies. Somehow I think that method might do more damage than a gentle caning. I guess we’ll go back to marshmallows. They’re probably safer on her overall psyche.

Either way, she’ll be peeing her pants at home this time tomorrow. Now that is something to finally feel good about.

If I ever complain about my life ever ever again, please feel free to fill my comment box with You’re-A-Spoiled-Brat comments (go easy on me, Tanya). After today, it is only fair that I retract all whiny posts and spend the rest of my blogging days praising the Good Lord for letting me live a life filled with beautiful German houses and convertible BMW’s.

Yes, we are that spoiled.

So Jason bought himself a little red Beamer when we got over here for a few thousand dollars. It was a nice car, a cute car, a “Hi I’m a single girl who likes to paint my nails red” car. It just didn’t fit him. I finally suggested that he consider getting something a little more professional that reflected things like his manliness and not his closet metrosexual tendencies (he’s a total fashionista, don’t let the gun fool you). He agreed.

Last week he came home with great news. An agent in his office was selling a little old Very Ugly beater for $700, low mileage and gets 40 MPH. It was too good of a deal, he had to get it. Think of all the money we’ll save! (Dave Ramsey has no style.) 48 hours later he was driving it home and asking me if I wanted to ride in it. Unfortunately I came down with a case of Ickycar syndrome and haven’t been able to go near it ever since.

He was still interested in getting a more professional car for himself so last weekend we drove out to look at another older BMW, something with leather and AC and power windows.

Personally, I thought the whole thing was a waste of time. Why would I approve buying him a nice car when he’s going to leave it in the garage and drive the fuel efficient purple people eater to work everyday instead? I told him that very thing just about the time we pulled up to test drive the new car.

I looked at it parked on the curb. It was a fine car, no doubt. But sitting behind that fine little car, tucked up in the driveway all sneaky like, was a beautiful black BMW. It was circa 1997, impeccably cared for and calling out to me like a long-lost pair of stilettos.

And my husband didn’t even ask to test drive it.

“Well,” he said on the way home, after testing out the other vehicle, “What do you think about the car?”

“I think you need to buy the convertible.”

Silence.

“Wait, but I didn’t even drive the convertible,” he said, looking around to see if this was, in fact, some kind of Twilight Zone and quickly checking both his mirrors for the hidden camera.

“No,” I said, “But you need to buy it. That way you can drive the ugly car in the winter and feel good about the purchase, then drive the convertible in the summer to make you happy.” Also the man looks pretty darn fine in a convertible.

I might be a mean old witch who doesn’t let my boy own a motorcycle, but you can’t tell me that I don’t know how to make him happy. I think this is a nice meeting ground.

And just for the record, I think the convertible and I are soul sisters. She and I have way too much fun opening it up on the autoban. Who says mommy’s don’t get to have any fun?

(And yes, I will post pictures of all our European cars as soon as I can get my act together. Meeting the movers first thing in the morning, yay!!!)

Honestly, I would love to write about my feelings today but every time I try to put something in print my throat gets tight and I start thinking of country music and suddenly I’m all snot nosed and watered down.

I’ve decided to post pictures instead.

My BFF Tricia took these for us before we left for Germany. I may hate my hair (and Harrison’s), but I sure love the people in these pictures. If you want her info, she’s brilliant and amazing and I  have no idea why it’s taken her so long to put her talent into trade. Enjoy!

And there we are. I must run, baby crying, kids hungry, obla dee obla da.

(This week’s column.)

I don’t think my parents will ever get a break from raising me.

I am a thirty-two year old mother of four. I have a college degree, have lived in more interesting places and met more interesting people than I ever thought possible, and I still need my dad to gently nudge me into place now and then.

We have been in Germany for seven weeks, but have been living out of suitcases since the beginning of June. I’m too tired to do the math, but I can assure you that it all adds up to one seriously grumpy woman.

I’m tired of clothes that have no drawers, chairs that have no cushions, overhead lights and my one borrowed spatula. Between the can opener that no longer works and the hollow, cavernous house where every little whine echoes throughout like a call from the Grand Canyon, I’ve about had it.

The other night I called my dad on the phone for a little catch-up. We’re currently between homes and have some big decisions to make  before we settle in, and I find a little advice from my well-seasoned father always comes in handy. Also I like to hear the sound of his voice.

Straight out of the gate he wanted to know how I was. And so I unfolded my laundry list and started in on all the terrible inconveniences that come with transient living. Poor, poor me. Poor, poor us. Our stuff won’t be here for three more weeks, what if I die of stufflessness?

“You know, Annie,” he said, “I know it’s hard, but you are so very lucky. Just think of all the people out there right now who are without a home or without any of their belongings and might never see their things again–”

“Yes Dad,” I said with a big intercontinental eye-roll, “I know. Other-people-have-it-much-worse-and-I-should-be-grateful.” Then I did what any intelligent teenager would do and quickly reminded him about why my situation is hard for me, doesn’t that matter to him? This was followed by an abrupt change of topic.

But the next morning I couldn’t get my Dad’s reprimand out of my head so I did a little googling to see just how self-centered I really am. Turns out I’m a total banana brain who probably deserves to have all my belongings dropped in the Atlantic Ocean as penance for my brattiness.

Did you know that the United States alone has experienced a record of 10 extreme natural disasters in 2011? That means over a billion dollars in weather-related injuries with more than 700 deaths. Five tornado outbreaks, two major floods, a drought, a blizzard and Irene. That’s not counting the earth quakes or any of Mother Nature’s less sizable catastrophes (nearly 100 of them in the first six months of the year).

And we have four months to go.

I read those stats and thought about something I heard on NPR this past week while I was cleaning. A man was being interviewed in Vermont. He lost his home and every single possession, but it’s worse than that. He had no bank account, ATM, credit card; every scrap he owned was in that house. Gone, gone, gone.

So many people have nothing, nothing, and here I sit complaining because it’s taking an extra week to get my junk delivered.

We’ve all got problems. Work, health, relationships, money, there isn’t a soul on this planet who hasn’t been handed his share of challenges, and there are times when the shares do not seem fair. I guess the real test is whether or not we can find value in whatever it is the good Lord has dished out to us.

Today I thanked God for a dry place to sleep and a slightly overcast sky. In lieu of what so many other’s are experiencing right now, my cup-o-blessings is so full it’s spilling all over the counter.

I don’t mind the mess, we’ll chalk it up as job security.

This one is for the paper. I thought it was worth summing up and printing.

“Last week Rex (6) came home from school and quietly informed me that the kids in his German school are hurting him.

As a mother, I like to think I’ve got the power to protect him from the world. Why can’t my love be strong enough to shield him from all the bad things, like mean kids and painful experiences? Sometimes I wish I could love him right into a bubble and keep him safe.

This was the first time in his three weeks of German school that I had heard anything negative from Rex. He comes home every day happy, never cries about going to school, does his homework assignments with enthusiasm–no signs of trouble. Plus, the few notes I’ve received from his teacher have all been positive.

The next day I went in for a visit. It turns out things are not going smoothly for Rex. The kids won’t play with him, he has trouble paying attention to his teacher so he isn’t learning the language (she only speaks German which is also one of the reasons he has trouble paying attention). Everyone was frustrated. All in all, the situation is about as fragile as glue soaked tissue paper.

In America, I would have received some kind of note or a request for outside assistance. In Germany, they seem more inclined to keep home things at home and school things at school.

Because three weeks isn’t long enough to warrant giving this a good try, and because we don’t want our son to grow up thinking that we run away from difficult situations, Dad and I both feel that we need to stay in the ring and help him work through this. Anything worthwhile is worth fighting for, even when you’re six.

So I presented his teacher with a plan that is nothing short of genius: a sticker chart. Apparently in Germany parents don’t usually approach the teachers with fantastical ideas like working together so she was quite enthusiastic about the whole scheme.

In addition to his behavior chart, I told her that if she can give me lists of words and phrases, I will teach him German.

I’ve been so adamant about the kids not watching television this past month, but I’m suddenly realizing that Rex should be spending every spare second in front of German cartoons. He is now on a strict diet of six movies a day with a short break for dinner.

My kids think they’ve died and gone to German heaven.

We have been here for six weeks and up to this point, every time I think about trying to get a toe hold on the language I feel overwhelmed and panicky. It’s fast, it’s furious, and don’t believe anyone who says “it sounds like English” because they haven’t tried to shop for motzarella cheese at the local market.

But the moment my boy’s welfare and happiness entered the equation something changed in my head. Don’t ask me how but I am like a German sponge. For the past week, every single word I learn I remember. Phrases are rolling off my tongue and my little handheld translation tool is my new best friend.

I am a mother, and if learning German to help my child succeed is what I need to do, then stand back and watch me go. There is no motivation in this world that can even touch this kind of love. He is my child, and if I have to sit and watch German soap operas for the next year then so help me, I will.”