FYI, if you or any woman you know ever decides to nurse a baby, here are a few important suggestions.

1. Once your baby has teeth, either a. stop nursing, or b. never fall asleep nursing. Apparently, two nights ago Georgia was having a chipmunk dream and OH MY GOSH my poor, poor little flower. It looks like someone took a lawn mower to it.

2. If your child does accidentally grind her new little daggers on your delicate self, do not, under any circumstances, try using liquid Band-Aid.

And now I’m going to stop talking.

Our house is for rent.

We weren’t actually ready to put it on the market, but a few days ago Jason asked on Cougar Board (aka A Great Big Blog for Boys) about property management companies. Someone emailed him about the house, he emailed back, and suddenly BAM! Our house is officially for rent and someone wants to see it.

Those of you with houses know that you can’t just put your house up for rent. Putting a home on the market in any way means inviting people to come and look through all your crap. Closets must be opened. Toilets and showers checked. Laundry has to be done.

Basically, we need to move out.

So yesterday at noon they told us they’d like to swing by at 7:00. Sure, that gives me seven hours, no problem, right?

Oh holy Spring Cleaning, I was zero (my favorite lunchtime speed) to sixty in .3 seconds.

And so, here is the list of things I did yesterday with the pressure of property peekers breathing down my neck. This is me, looking for household validation because I rocked it.

I….

Cleaned off the dining room table, the buffet, and all those books piled under the buffet. I moved the ugly folding chairs out to the garage and rearranged things in the dining room. I washed eight windows, plus the french doors (killer), dusted the piano, and cleaned off the fridge (I know, what do you do with all that crap?).

I gathered a massive pile of homeless photos and organized (stuffed) them in our photo boxes. I opened all the windows in the upstairs, washed the bedroom and bathroom blinds, the windows, sills, and the window runners (at this point I had to actually throw my rag in the trash because there was no coming back from that).

I folded and placed two loads of laundry (left two in the washer and dryer), organized my Good Will bin, soccer/baseball bin, and all the kid’s coats. I swept out the laundry, kitchen, and entry, then got down on my hands and knees and ruined my fingernails trying to pry “stuff” off the tiles under the bar. I washed down walls, toilets, showers and mirrors.

I removed personal photos, art work, my magnet board. I did everything but the floors.

There was sweat and toil and an entire bottle of windex emptied. I screamed at the kids (and the neighbor kids) and banned them from the house. My shirt was ruined by bleach spray, and I didn’t even care.

(Also, my poor little baby cried a lot because no one held her.)

And then at 6:15, Jason swept in and whisked the hungry kids off to some play place, leaving me with nothing but my lovely vacuum and good old Englebert Humperdink to keep me company.

When all was said and done, it took them seven minutes to walk through the house (I had to try really hard not to point out all the good cleaning I’d done). We’ll probably never hear from them again.

I’m posting pictures for posterity’s sake. “Remember that one time Mom got the house really clean?”

I wish they’d just rent it so I don’t ever have to do that again.

Check out this week’s column.

“Why is it that after an entire winter of being snowed in, the very suggestion of sunshine sends my kids running for the basement?

This past week we had a few glorious, allergen inducing days. The sun came out, the trees started to perk up, and all I could think about was all that sunny vitamin D just waiting to be had.

“Kids!” I sang, “Time to run outside and enjoy the sunshine. I’ve got sidewalk chalk, and bubbles–”

“NOO! We wanna watch a movie! It’s too cold out there! There are bears out there! You can’t give us food every seven minutes out there!”

And so the afternoon began. Much to their dismay and horror, I held the Red Box rental over their heads and sent them out the front door, kicking, crying, and squinting.

Let me tell you, outside is fun at my house. There are scooters and big wheels, a play set, rocks to climb, sticks to collect, bugs to squish–there isn’t a child on the planet who could complain about a day outside at this place.

Well, minus my three who think Mother Nature is in cahoots with the Boogie Man.

“That’s it,” I finally said, “You’re all banned from the house until the timer goes off!” I gently dumped them on the patio and closed the door to their horrified wailing. (I also set up a picnic outside and gave them every opportunity imaginable to make the banning enjoyable.)

Twenty-five minutes later my five-year-old was still huddled on the step by the door trying to freeze and die from neglect, my daughter was crying because there weren’t strawberries in her picnic, and I knew that if I answered their banging one more time…go ahead and insert your imagination here.

“Fine!” I said, after nearly half an hour of murmuring and moaning. “You can watch your movie already!” I walked into the kitchen where I’d placed the much anticipated DVD’s, and they were gone. I searched the family room. Gone. I looked under the pillows, bar, inside the car, in the toy box–those movies had disappeared.

Oh, the wailing.

By this point the pre-springtime weather had mostly ruined my day. The baby was crying, the kids were crying, and nothing was right in the world (especially in Japan). I was so close to snapping, the only hope I had was a self-induced time-out; something where I could regroup and invent a new and improved method for parenting.

I did the only thing that promised a true moment of freedom; I grabbed the half eaten sleeve of Saltines, trudged out to the garage, and locked myself in the car. I turned the key halfway and there was Nora Jones, all soothing and mellow like. Leaning back and closing my eyes, I took a deep breath…and then car started to rock.

It was my three-year-old daughter, banging on the window for me to Let. Her. In.

As hard as I tried, I could not shake that kid from my brain (or my SUV). I turned up the music, shoved some crackers in my mouth, and still, she persisted. This went on for approximately 42 seconds.

Finally, with a sigh and another cracker, I made eye contact with the little intruder.

“Mommy! I want to snuggle you!!”

How can a mother resist that? I caved, opened the door and in she tromped. She closed it behind her, locked it, and plopped down on the console next to me. Reaching for a cracker, she cranked the volume on the radio, put her head on my shoulder, and whispered, “I love you, Mommy.”

Sometimes we think we know what will make us happy. I was sure that all I needed was an escape from the chaos, a moment to find a little clarity and peace. But getting away, all I really had was a whole lot of emptiness. That car didn’t do a thing for my day until my child entered it.

I guess sometimes Mommy doesn’t really know what’s best. Good thing I’ve got a three-year-old to keep me in line.”

Rex loves animals. No really, more than almost any human I’ve ever met in my life, the kid is bonkers for any moving object that doesn’t fall into the people category.

He wants a pet. Guess how I know?

Each animal has been carefully placed to observe Harrison's piano concert.

Um, Snowmen are animals too.

But here’s the one that really brought it home for me. Today, getting ready for show and tell, Rex asked if he could take “fish”. Sure, I thought, we’ll put a lid on him and off you go.

But after seeing him come home with his fish, I realized that I am a really lame mother. The kid needs a real live pet, and judging by today’s selection, I don’t think he’s that picky.

Yeah, that's a hybrid combination of two broken plastic fishies from the "Go Fish!" game.

Uh oh, looks like someone needs to clean the tank.

Sometimes I wish I had an “off” switch so Jason could just shut me down and put me on the couch for a little break.

Yesterday I realized, once again, that I am nothing short of a horrible, horrible person. Maybe it’s this tail end of Spring Break thing, or the cabin fever (still snowing), or the whole raising four young children who never help out bit, but by yesterday I was wound tighter than a pent-up jack-in-the box, and that wheel was still a cranking.

Something had to give.

Unfortunately, Jason was like the casual smoker who drives by a National Park in August and tosses out an old cigarette butt, not realizing that it’s still slightly warm. Before he knows it, he’s racing through a raging inferno, wondering how it happened and if there’s a way out.

I won’t go into the details of how it started, but I will tell you that there were a possible 19 ways I could have reacted that would have been more productive.

Honestly, you know it’s bad when you keep yelling and subsequently wishing someone would just shoot you with a tranquilizer gun and put everyone out of their misery.

I yelled so loud and so long, this morning I had to offer seven people apologies: Jason, our four kids, and the cute newlywed couple that hides in the basement, frightened of their crazy landlord lady upstairs.

The interesting thing about it is that I sang a solo in church today, “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” At one point during last week’s practice I was pondering the words, and I’m ashamed to admit that I felt kind of grateful to be somewhat stable in my life. I thought, “Boy, it’s a good thing I’m a pretty decent person. Wouldn’t it be horrible to be a real sinner?”

And then I lost my voice screaming at my husband while the kids huddled in the corner.

After going to bed alone and feeling lower than dirt, I couldn’t even bring myself to pray. All I could do was whisper the words to that heartbreaking hymn over and over, hoping that perhaps Father would accept them, and that my seven people, plus Jesus, could forgive me.

And today, singing in sacrament meeting, it felt sacred and humbling and healing to offer it up to the Lord, even with other people watching.

We’re not perfect, none of us. How thankful I am for the tender mercies of my Savior.

• “Oh, to grace, how great a debtor, daily I’m constrained to be. Let thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to thee. Prone to wander, Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love…Here’s my heart, oh take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above.”

In case you’re unfamiliar with the brilliant mind of Melissa Bastow, let me enlighten you. She’s the creative genius behind The Barrel, an online magazine highlighting the wide and varied world of bloggers.

Honestly, I think her magazine is cool and beautiful. And since I’m a whore for beautiful, cool things, she’s agreed to let me contribute. So check out this month’s issue of The Barrel of Blogs to see my article on “Retro Road Tripping”.

And hey, if you’ve got an amazing blog to share or spotlight, The Barrel is where you want to be.

Do you ever have one of those moments when you realize that your internal dialogue just a bunch of of BS?

Mr. Nine to Five was out of town last week. These absences have been pretty standard procedure for us over the past three years, so a week alone with the kids doesn’t even prick the waters for me.

You might think that losing your spouse for a week here and there is lonely and sad and difficult, especially with four little children ages seven and under. But there are some serious perks.

First, if the house isn’t pulled together by five-thirty on Monday night, who cares? I can wait until the kids go to bed, or until Friday rolls around, whichever.

Second, I’ve learned that it’s okay to have pizza four nights in a row. Throw out an apple and a plate of broccoli (or some cookies and root-beer), and pizza suddenly becomes a well balanced meal.

Third, as long as the kids have clothes to wear, I can take a laundry break. Since laundry is the bane of my existence and creeps into every working day like a rogue ivy weed going after the mortar, organizing it into one really big mountain and covering it with a blanket is a great way to take a mental laundry vacation (cause anytime you throw a blanket over something it is automatically cancelled out; this doesn’t really work with screaming children, I’ve tried).

Fourth, after a week of fast food and hotels, or a lonely house and four kids, you look pretty darn good to each other.

So this morning my man finished unpacking. “Sorry babe, I’ve got a ton of laundry for you.” He smiled and mounded it up by the door. “But, I guess that’s your job, isn’t it?”

This last comment was made with the sole purpose of sending me into a feminist-inspired huff. Normally, I jump at this kind of bait and spend the next five minutes monologuing to him about how brilliant I am, how valuable I am, how I could be out making millions–no billions of dollars if it hadn’t been for my selfless, sacrificial choice to stay home and tend the sheep. He does it on purpose, because I’m so predictable and fun to be married to.

And just as I started in on my lecture, I stopped. He had been up since six, gone in for his mandatory exercise regiment, returned home, showered ,shaved, and was buttoning up his shirt and strapping on his gun, and there I was, lounging in bed with the baby watching him get ready. Which one of us is really making the sacrifice here? He was late for his extremely boring Monday morning meeting; I am the boss of my own universe who can sometimes lay around in bed until 7:30 am, thanks to Spring Break and PBS.

It’s so easy to be a mental martyr, certain that if only this were different or that hadn’t happened we would be more successful, more happy, more better. Would I really be happy with anything else? Maybe I’m finally starting to grow up, or maybe I got lucky and took a step outside the box for a second, but either way, I’m not complaining.

I get to spend my day casually folding laundry; hallelujah.

Well, we did it. As of 10:03 am this morning, we bought the farm.

Here' where the house will go.

I’m from a small town near the coast of Washington state called ELma, population 2,900. To be perfectly honest, I spent the first 18 years of my life vowing to move away and never return. It’s tiny, it’s rainy, and it’s not stiletto friendly.

But life is a funny thing, and fourteen years out in the real world has taught me a thing or two about what I really want. I want family. I want animals. I want to be able to run out to the car in my undies without worrying that the neighbors might see. I guess you can take a girl out of the farm, but you can’t really take the farm out of the girl.

We’ve always planned to end up somewhere in the northwest. Then, shock of all shocks, over Christmas Jason suggested we start looking for property–in Elma. Elma? For real? I really had to sit down and ask, am I ready to make that kind of commitment? It was the first time as an adult that I’ve considered moving back. I always thought we would land in a bigger city because of Jason’s job. But the commute is totally doable, and quite frankly, you can’t get this in the city.

Yeah, that's our trout pond. And those hills? They're Capital Forest. This will be the view from our back deck.

It might look ugly right now (these photos were taken in February), but in the summer it’s breathtaking. We found ten acres six minutes from my parents, and it had our name written all over it. It’s taken us over four months to finalize this deal. We wanted to be sure, to check every T and I for the appropriate crosses and dots, and pester the Heavens just in case this wasn’t the right decision.

But let me tell you, today I feel absolutely amazing. I’m going home. My kids are going to grow up with scads and scads of cousins, they’re going to be Eagles, and I can’t believe how happy I am about the whole thing. We’ll have a chicken coup and a cow and maybe, someday, if my kids are willing to put in the time and effort, a horse. And best of all? If we are really smart and really frugal and super duper careful, we’ll come back from Germany and build our dream home right here on our own piece of Heaven.

In Elma.

On The Back Ten.

Best. Day. Ever.

Who, in the name of my dearly departed kindergarten teacher, agreed to let wolves in photographer’s clothing into my child’s school?

One year ago my first grader came home from school one afternoon absolutely buzzing. He had his “Spring Pictures”. Spring pictures? What the? Since when do we take photos of you twice a year? You’re not that cute.

Not only had the school taken the photos (which they supposedly told us about), they ordered and sent them home BEFORE asking for the money. “Hey, here are some photos of your kids we’ve printed off in a $45 packet. Since your kid handed half of them out on the bus, you’d better pay up, Dawg.”

I won’t waste my time telling you that last year my kid had yellow beaver teeth (he was trying a new smile technique) and this year he had un-gelled hair and a big boil on his neck. We. Are. Not. Keeping. The. Pictures. (And once again, the “opt-out” sheet never saw the inside of his backpack.)

Alas, my child now thinks we don’t love him. Just because we are willing to turn a cold shoulder to his immortalized image–“Can’t we just buy one sheet? It’s only $15”–he is practically a smelly orphan.

I can think of seventeen different necessary things to do with fifteen dollars at Walmart alone.

Today I am calling the school and giving them a piece of my soon-to-be-moving-to-Germany mind. To those of us who are not made of plastic, this is nothing short of playground robbery. I hate this worse than parents who take their kids’ fundraising magazines to work and peddle them. I really really really hate that.

(For the record, parent peddling robs a child of the totally uncomfortable life-building experience known as Selling Crap to Strangers, something that will someday make them just a wee bit nicer to the magazine salespeople when they knock on the door.)

We really do love him. When he’s clean and cute and freeze framed on mommy’s camera.

While we’re on the subject of really cool people, I’d like to introduce you to Melanie Jacobson from Read and Write Stuff. Melanie is brilliant and beautiful and talented, and is soon to achieve world wide fame and subsequent fortune. She just published her first book, The List.

Being the truth seeking journalist that I am, I decided to interview Melanie so I could trick her into revealing the secrets behind her literary genius. I asked some tough questions (hey,not everyone is comfortable talking about karaoke), and she totally fell for it.

Little does she know that I am now working on my own first novel, titled “The Outline,” about a really smart and funny girl who is determined to taste some of life’s quirky and crazy adventures before falling for Mr. Right. It’s coming along brilliantly.

Here’s what Melanie had to say: