Here’s this week’s column, dedicated to all the women out there who used to be great conversationalists.

“I really need to get out more.

Being a full-time, stay-at-home mom isn’t just a bunch of hyphens, it’s a world in and of itself. My version of the English language consists of smaller words and shorter sentences; conversation around here is rarely stimulating (unless I’m monologuing about proper bathroom etiquette, then someone usually feels moved to action).

With this in mind, I’m sure you can understand how a lunch date with my husband and his mostly male co-workers is both terrifying and invigorating.

Last week my mister called to invite me to lunch. “Hey babe, Dominic is in town for the week and we’re all going to lunch in an hour. Can you get away and meet us?”

Truthfully, an invitation like this always makes me feel overly special and totally adored. If he only knew how easy I really am.

“Of course! Sure! The older kids will be at pre-school, I can bring the baby!” I quickly changed out of my mom jeans and into something more deceiving and attractive. Any excuse to curl my hair and throw on a pair of stilettos, right?

I dropped off the kids and headed to the restaurant. Pulling in, I saw my man and his co-workers heading inside. Just as I parked the car, the baby began to cry.

A loud, hungry cry.

What to do? Suddenly, feeding the baby in public didn’t sound like the convenient, natural answer that accompanies me to play dates and Mom’s Club. No way was I pulling the girls out while simultaneously making small talk with a bunch of male desk jockeys.

With a sigh, I sat in the car and fed her as fast as possible. I thought, what’s an extra ten minutes?

That’s when she pooped her pants. And her shirt, and her socks.

Really, Fate? Can’t you just give me one hour with the grown-ups? One hour that isn’t dominated by poop and spit-up?

I finally made my way into the restaurant (fifteen minutes late), and took a seat at the far end of the table.

It’s a funny thing, getting together with grown-ups. Before I became a mother, I was a master at adult conversation. Politics, weather, social media, you  name it.

But the moment I sat down and someone asked me, “What’s new?” I knew they didn’t want to hear the answer. I quickly eliminated, “Junie now poops on the potty!” and “I just bought the best new nursing bra!” before finally settling on something lame like, “Not much, but I sure got a great parking space!” Really, so sad.

Riding in the car with my husband after lunch, I gave an uncomfortable smile. “Well, I’m not the girl I used to be. It took me a good fifteen minutes to remember how to talk like an adult.”

He laughed, “Don’t worry about it, someday you’ll be a grown-up again.”

In that moment, I had a glimpse of just how fast these years are flying. My days of spit-up and melt-downs are numbered, and I have the feeling a part of me is going to miss them. Kind of.

I think I’ll stick with peanut butter and jelly as long as I can.”

Is there anything worse than living with a bad purchase?

Five years ago, right after Rex was born, I started having serious back pain. I wasn’t sleeping well, and my lower back routinely felt like someone had taken a sledge hammer to it.

In an attempt to right this painful situation, we went mattress shopping. Keep in mind, we were fresh out of grad school, living in Maryland on a single government salary. There was no money for a new mattress.

I started looking online and found that there are a number of companies that sell memory foam knock-offs; they’re not official, and are routinely hit and miss, but they were sure cheap.

“Please please please?” I begged. “They’re so affordable, and I promise I’ll love it! Anything is better than what we’ve got.”

“Are you sure? Because once you get this, there’s no going back. You’ll have to live with it and I don’t want to hear you complain if it hurts your back.”

“I’d never complain! I’ll love it!”

$300 later our new mattress arrived on the doorstep. We were excited and thrilled and couldn’t wait to try it out. It came with a 30-day return policy, but once we’d popped the little vacuumed package open and watched it miraculously grow nine sized, it was apparent that mattress wasn’t going anywhere.

Then we slept on it.

Have you ever slept on a slab of plywood? Cause that would be preferable to our unforgettable memory foam mattress.

Fast forward five years of living with my decision. In the past few years we’ve learned that I have spondylolisthesis–a break in my lower back that will never heal (which explains why I routinely brag about my broken back)–which has worsened with each pregnancy.

I just can’t do it anymore. I’ve lived in silence with this horrible decision for five years. The bed has got to go.

Last weekend I put my back out so badly I was down for the count. Thanks to a really cool chiropractor out in Clearfield, UT who runs an awesome walk-in clinic, I am back on my feet and getting better every day. His name is Ryan, and last year he traded in his fancy practice for a stress-free, $20 walk-in clinic. He’s absolutely fantastic. (And no, I’m not getting anything for writing about his clinic. I just like to see people who aren’t afraid to trade money for happiness.)

The past week we’ve been hunting through mattress stores and dumpsters in an attempt to find a suitable mattress replacement. Finally, after talking to seventeen different furniture salesmen (and two women), we strapped our find to the top of the car last night and brought it home.

And thanks to my ever-loving (although routinely cheap) husband, last night I slept peacefully (minus the four times children woke me) and rolled over this morning…wait for it…without any pain. That’s right. First night on my new Intelligel Mattress (bought on clearance 70% off and non-returnable) and I can tell you right now, it was worth every penny.

Ever feel like the calendar is a big fat liar?

Today is my mother’s birthday. According to her birth certificate, she’s getting older, but I could swear we were the same age. My mom is my best friend (next to Jason, who’s her exact male counterpart). Honestly, there’s no one I’d rather talk to, shop with, be called on the carpet by, or phone. I love my mother.

I hate that the world says she’s getting older, because I don’t want her to ever die. She is a true student of life. There’s not a soul on this earth more determined to learn the things God wants to teach him/her (except maybe my dad, who’s adorable and intelligent and her perfect match).

You hear about older people getting set in their ways? My mom is constantly shaking off the shackles of bad habits and trying to make the most of her time here on this Earth. Because we all know, “Habits rule your life!”

All I know is that when I’m…older…I want to be like my mother. I never want to give myself permission to know everything. There’s nothing worse than talking to someone from a different generation and feeling like the entire conversation is one big patronizing lecture. Thank you, Mom, for rarely doing that.

Happy birthday, you beautiful young thing.

I swear this is the last you’ll hear about Disneyland, but I had to save it for my column. Enjoy the anxiety.

“Is there anything worse, as a mother, than the realization that you did not prepare your child?

Our trip to Southern California a few weeks ago was loaded. I’d say it was fantastic, but I’ve got four children under the age of seven, and frankly, it was seven nap-free days of torture.

By day four we had mostly perfected our security watch. When you’re walking through a crowded amusement park with four small children who like to follow random flashing lights and pigeons, you need seventeen extra eyes to keep everyone under surveillance.

“Okay,” I said to my husband, “I’m going to get a corn dog for the six of us to share. I’ll take Junie and Georgia, and meet you back by the Tiki Room in ten minutes, and we can finish the day up with one more trip on The Jungle Ride.”

The little girls and I wound through the crowd to the much anticipated corn dog stand, loaded up (and bought an extra chocolate chip cookie just to be rebellious), and slowly made our way to the designated meeting place.

As I walked up to my husband ten minutes later, I could see by the look on his face that something was amiss in the Magic Kingdom.

“Honey,” he said, “Is Harrison with you?”

“Of course not,” I replied as my heart started to slam around in my chest.

“I hate to tell you this, and don’t freak out, but I think–”

“We’ve lost him.”

There comes a moment in every mother’s life when she realizes that as tough as this job is, she really wouldn’t sell any of her children to gypsies, given the chance. This was one of those moments.

I immediately headed straight to the nearest employee for help. It had been over ten minutes; my husband thought Harrison had followed June and me, and I had left my cell phone in the stroller so he couldn’t call and confirm.

Twelve minutes.

It’s funny, because we’d had a number of serious discussions with our children on this trip about strangers, and staying by Dad and Mom so the bad guys didn’t stuff them in bags and take them away forever. Yes, our children are now terrified of people who carry gunny sacks around.

But as I reported my missing boy–seven-years-old, blond hair, green t-shirt, smart, thoughtful, loves hugs and motorcycles and Shamu and oh my gosh, where is my baby–I realized that we hadn’t talked about what to do if someone got lost. How could we forget the if? Why did we think that the two of us could possibly keep them all safe?

Fifteen minutes.

I know that children who are lost at Disneyland are always found. I know that the park is full of responsible adults who know just what to do with a little boy who followed the wrong pair of Levi’s. But when the clock hit fifteen minutes, I began to think that maybe, for the first time, the system was going to let some poor mother down. That mother was going to be me.

And then the phone rang.

My strong, smart boy, had made his way to The Jungle Ride, where he thought we were headed. He waited, and as his panic grew, he started to cry. Some other wonderful mother found him and gave him her cell phone. That was when he called me.

All those little trips in the car when we sang the phone number song, just in case someone ever needed to call Mom or Dad, finally paid off. We might have forgotten to have the, “Let’s meet at the flagpole,” conversation, but somewhere along the line, I gave him what he needed to find his way back.

We can’t prepare our children for every possible dilemma, and that’s a scary thought. But at the same time, we’ll never know how many catastrophes they’ll avoid, or how many life altering mishaps will never come to pass because, as parents, we took the time to give them our best.

Sometimes that’s all we can do.”

After months of planning and thinking and budgeting  and looking, I can now officially welcome you to annievalentine.com, my very own website! No, you have not been rerouted, and no, it’s not just a pretty new header, this is the real deal–my own legit domain. Self-hosted, professionally manufactured, and happily ever after.

YAY!

Honestly, I’m not good at computers, but when I first met Jessica, The Pixelista, I had the feeling she was just the talent I was looking for. And talented she is. Thanks to her dedication (and believe me, this project took some serious loyalty and effort on her part), I am now the happy owner of my very own big girl website. Did you notice the little hearts? I love the hearts. That was Jessica’s idea, because she gets me like that.

Jessica usually works in animated graphics, but when I told her I wanted real photos she was totally in. My best friend Tricia took the photos, I sent them to Jessica and voila! She came up with a header that is sleek, professional, and breezy. It’s exactly what I wanted, only better. She even nailed the fonts.

I picked a self-hosted blog because I want to be the master of my domain. I was ready to break away from the wordpress umbrella and be self-hosted, something Jessica is set up to do. Seriously, the girl can do everything. She not only did the graphics, but has transferred years of posts and comments over to this new site (not an easy feat). She’s brilliant graphically, and she’s brilliant technically.

And for the record, I am not getting any kind of deal or price cut for telling you why I love her, I’m telling you because you should know. It’s hard to find someone who can do everything just the way you want it; she’s that someone for me.

In April The Pixelista is giving away a custom blog design, and if I were you I’d jump on that website as fast as possible. She’s not only talented, but she’s willing to stick with a project no matter how bumpy it gets. Mine was kind of like a mine field.

Check her out, and welcome to annievalentine.com! Change it in your reader (if you like it here), and check out my new button on the sidebar. I bet it would love to come visit your blog…

So when we were at Disneyland, we had the chance to grab a photo op with Chip and Dale. As we turned to leave, Rex shouted out, “By Chicken! By Dale!” Get it? They thought it was hilarious.

Last week I was wiping June after a #2 and praising her for her toilet talent. “Sweetheart, I love that you poo poo on the potty,” I said.

She smiled, “And my poo poo loves you, Mommy.”

Lastly, I try to keep stashes of candy around this place for good behavior rewards. I also keep sugar-free candy for myself so I don’t catch low carb insanity. But no matter how hard I try to hide it, someone always finds it.

That someone is three and female and has a radar for chocolate like nothing you’ve ever seen.

So you will understand why, as I was cleaning behind the recliner yesterday, I happened upon something that made my entire week. It was a large chicken bouillon cube, unwrapped, with a big bite taken out of it.

I just might have cackled like the wicked witch of the west. That’s what you get for getting into my candy, my pretty.

We’re coming up on twelve years of marriage, and I’ve been popping out kids for the last eight of them. It won’t be hard to convince you that this kind of recreation (not that kind) puts a serious strain on Dr. Love.

The reality of our situation is simple. Yes, we do regular date nights. Of course, they’re always timed because The Budget doesn’t allot for more than two hours of babysitting, and our little GG always accompanies us because nothing tastes quite like Mama, and Mama suffers from a closet case of separation anxiety.

So when Jason asks me when or if I’m planning to wean the baby so we can “take that trip” before the big move, I get a panic attack. Wean the baby? My last baby? My best nurser, who loves me more than anyone else in the entire world? Leave her for four days with a stranger???

I love him. He’s the king, my best friend who spoils me, and helps out around the house better than a Disneyland employee. Of course I want to run away forever and enjoy days and days of QNT.

But the baby. My baby. Did I mention that she snuggles and hugs me tight all the time? Did I mention that she’s only six months old, and that even when she’s ten months old it’s probably going to be too soon?

I know our window here is closing fast. In four and a half months we’ll be jumping the pond and leaving our support system behind–support that the children know and love and are related to. I feel horribly torn. It’s not even that I need the getaway from the kids right now, it’s that I need the reconnect time with my man.

But I can’t seem to wrench this mommy cap off my head long enough to shake out my hair and have a little fun.

There really is no happy answer. We can’t take her with us, it would defeat the purpose. I don’t know. Ask me in three months.

Here’s this week’s column. I’m guess we’ve all been here at one time or another.

“I have one more thing to say about last week’s “vacation”. Other words to describe those eternal seven days of my life might include “mobile prison” and “meltdown time bomb”. We will never, ever, take a toddler to Disneyland ever again.

But the thing that really made my week irritating was the money issue. Some of you might remember that a few years back Mr. Frugal and I converted to the Dave Ramsey way of thinking. It’s a financial debt reduction program that brings peace and happiness to your credit score. It’s been a few years, and the pinch has really paid off. We are now responsible, mostly debt-free adults who know how to be money healthy.

We’re also no fun anymore.

See, Dave’s financial debt reduction method includes mantras like, “Never have fun if it involves money”, and “Hi, I’m Annie’s husband. You might know Scrooge, my generous older brother.” My husband is now very good with money. Darn it.

Here’s the thing about a vacation to Disneyland. You save and save and save for the tickets, and you think it’s going to be the best reward in the world . And yes, getting into the park is a treat. Standing in line for Peter Pan is a treat. Doing the Buzz Lightyear ride seven times in a row is a treat.

But frankly, that just doesn’t cut it. We have four small children who do things like, oh, I don’t know, eat.

Our big problem this vacation was colossal miscommunication. I thought we were buying our food in the park, and he thought we’d live on one meal a day, supplemented by following the mouse around and nibbling on his leftover churro crumbs. We were there from open to close, with one meal to hold us over. Seriously.

Have you ever seen what happens to four children when they’re tired and hungry? Even worse, have you seen what happens to their mother? I don’t know about you, but splitting an ice cream six ways is no fun.

Day two, I got a little smarter and stopped ahead of time to get cheese and crackers and strawberries. And while this was a good idea, I couldn’t help feeling irritated that there wasn’t a single penny alloted for Park Fun. We didn’t even let our kids get within ten feet of the souvenir shop doors. It was smart, but they were sad. I was sad.

My poor husband, really the man had the best intentions. Unfortunately for both of us, we didn’t talk about this elephant until the last day of our vacation. I was really fed up and really underfed by that point, so I kind of growled all over him. Of course, it was all too late to rectify the issue, so we kissed and made up.

And next time, we will budget accordingly. It will include sufficient money for food.”

Well, now that this karate saga is finally closed, I am happy to report that Rex has started in a new class called Motion Evolution at the Bravo! academy here in Layton. It’s climbing and tumbling and fun, and the goal is to help children build self-esteem through movement. It’s like the class was specifically designed with Rex in mind.

When I started him in the class two weeks ago, I made a quick decision to NOT tell his teacher about his anxiety. In hindsight, I think talking to the Sensei about him ahead of time made her a little prejudiced towards him. Prejudiced might not be the right word. Maybe it just tainted the water, you know?

So this time when I introduced him to his teacher, I decided at the last minute to let him have a go and see how he did before burdening her with that kind of information. What’s the worst that could happen, he wigged out and I had to ‘splain myself?

I don’t know if it was the weather or the teacher or what, but the kid totally rocked his new class. He listened, he waited his turn, and he absolutely loved it. There’s no doubt that karate is too rigid for him right now, and seeing him in an environment where the teacher encourages them to have a great time has brought me so much peace.

I guess what I’m saying here is that there’s nothing wrong with switching gears. Sure, we don’t want our children to feel like a failure by pulling them out of something, but we also don’t want them stuck in a program that doesn’t feel right.

In the future, we’re starting every  new venture with a two month reevaluation date for our kids. We’re telling them right from go, at eight weeks, if it isn’t a good fit, we’ll try something else.

And I don’t think I’ll mention Rex’s problems until they need to be talked about. He’s doing better every day, and I don’t want him to think that this is something he can’t overcome on his own with practice and maturity. I think the best thing I can do for him right now is have confidence in him. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.

We officially have the super flu. Remember the colds and ear infections my girls have been fighting this last week? They have now morphed into the throw-ups, and from what I hear we’re not alone. Poor Jason, he’s got it as well. Of course, it didn’t keep him from going to work and infecting the rest of the world, but we all know that’s completely out of my control.

Due to said sickness, Georgia is having a Hold Me Baby Day. I can’t even put her in the sling, she wants me to sit and hold her while she tries to breath through her sadly congested nose. And I don’t care what the doctors all say, I miss the good old days of infant Rondec and other decongestant medications. They keep telling me that “those drugs never really worked” and “saline is the best method”.

Let me tell you right now, they totally worked on my babies. This saline solution, snot sucking crap is just not cutting it. Give me a good prescription strength cold medicine that can help her sleep and eat without a steady diet of mucus running out her nose and down her throat and we’ll all be a little happier.

On a less ill note, my children are insanely happy to be home, and I couldn’t agree more. The hum of my dryer and a little PBS kids in the back ground this morning is like music to my vacationed-out ears.

And now for my best news, we found a home in Germany! Apparently, they’re closing down a number of overseas bases and sending more people to Ramstein. This means there’s a current shortage of 4-5 bedroom homes. We’ve heard of families spending 2-3 months in temporary housing before settling on something.

We fly out July 18th and the family currently living there leaves a week later. After getting two totally random recommendations for this exact same house from two unrelated individuals, it feels pretty obvious that Heavenly Father is handing us something and we’d be idiots not to take it. Sight unseen isn’t that big of a deal when you’ve got faith on your side, right?