So here I was, all set to take Jason on a romantic dinner date for two, when he goes and cancels on me. What the??

Allow me to back up. Jason always does Valentine’s Day. He went into this marriage fully informed that this is one holiday with no holds barred, and has managed to hit ten of eleven years with fantastic surprises. This year I decided it was time to give the guy a break, so I went and planned it myself. We were going to grab a show, get some prime rib, what guy wouldn’t love that?

Apparently, my husband.

He was supposed to be home at five. I called him at four and asked him to swing by the cleaners on his way. But at 4:55 he called to tell me he’d been “called back into work” and “wouldn’t be home until late” and “it’s a really important case, I’ll make it up to you”. Okay, sounds legit.

But my sources (oh yeah, I’ve got sources EVERYWHERE) tell me that at 4:45 he was seen at the cleaners hitting on a trampy brunette (who might or might not look suspiciously like me with dark hair) perched next to his car in scantily clad clothing. It only took her 24 seconds to finagle her way into his car and AWAY. THEY. WENT.

To make matters worse, my sources (who quickly followed the couple) report that said tramp, who goes by the name Natasha, took him to a Jon Schmidt dinner theater (probably not the best place to cheat on your wife), PDA’ed all over each other the entire night, and then shock of all shocks, ended up back in Layton, at the La Quinta Inn (off the Antelope Exit in Layton, newly remodeled with a continental breakfast, rocking pool and jacuzzi, and realllllly nice beds. I hear it’s an absolute steal for whatever you might or might not need a hotel for). Scandalous!

I don’t know about your Valentine’s Day, but I can tell you right now he’s going to have to work darn hard to make this up to me. And if I ever get my hands on that Natasha, I’ll show her what it means to be taken to the cleaners.

Here’s this week’s column, just to get you all warmed up for the big weekend.

“Okay, so my name might be a cliché, but my mostly successful relationship with my man is not. One thing I’ve learned in the last twelve years is that love needs romance, and Heaven gave us Valentine’s Day to make sure that happens at least once a year.

So if you find yourself in the “ho hum” crowd, the group of old together forever’s who don’t need no Cupid because what does he know about commitment anyway, might I recommend a quick body scan?

(Frankly, Cupid must know something about the appropriate use of romance. There are times in my marriage when it’s a really good thing I’m not carrying around a bow and an arrow. I don’t know that I’d use it quite as judiciously.)

Valentine’s Day is a perfect opportunity to feed your relationship. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been together for a week or a millennium, every relationship can take a little heat. Here are a few Annie Valentine approved activities and suggestions for the hypothermic relationship. And, while romance should never be one-sided, I find Valentine’s Day to be a great opportunity for chivalry. Somehow this kind of romance means a whole lot more when the man is the driving force.

1. Surprise your lover. I don’t care if you jump out of the closet with a box of chocolates, or hide under a blanket in her backseat, getting a gift means so much more when it’s arrival is unanticipated. Go ahead, get flowers, but leave them single stemmed, in strategic places around the house when she wakes up. You can attach a note saying, “I love you 12 ways, go find them.” A rose on top of the washing machine says, “I know you care enough about me to pretreat my favorite t-shirt, thanks!”

2. Go the extra mile. Swinging by the grocery store for a last minute card is awesome, but getting a sitter for the kids or making a special dinner reservation is even better. This is your chance to say, “I choose you, I want you, let’s make out in the car like when we were dating.”

3. If you can’t do it on Monday night, that’s okay. Planning a special event means you’ve got to be flexible, especially if Valentine’s Day falls on a weekday. But instead of using it as an excuse to bail, knock your plans forward or backwards and make them happen. (But it’s nice to save a little something for the actual day, just to make sure all your bases are covered. Bases, get it?)

4. There’s plenty of love for single people. If romantic love isn’t on your present chopping block, there’s plenty of alternatives to take its place. Take a grandchild or a sister to lunch, tell them why you love them, and celebrate the fact that you’re not alone on this big green earth. This holiday is for everyone; we all need an excuse to remember the ones we love.

5. Fake it to make it. If you’re playing along out of duty and think this holiday is hogwash, then I say make it a good performance. Most of the time, effort alone will get you much further than you ever anticipated, so give it a whirl and put your best foot forward.

Loving someone is about more than simply staying together. In every relationship, loving someone involves effort, it involves passion, and it means sometimes you put yourself out there, even if your only reward is a simple smile, a look of delight, or the sheer knowledge that you gave someone the best part of you.

And no matter what happens, it’s better to have loved and lost, than to forever sit around watching Seinfeld reruns on your own.”

Jason is out of town for two weeks, and I’ve shocked myself with how fantastic we’re doing. Who knows? Maybe I won’t die of motherhood after all.

I got home the other day and the kids found this on my doorstep. It didn’t have a note, just a scratch piece of paper with my name on it. If you read last week’s article, it won’t surprise you that I cried all over it. Someone out there is really, really cool.

So I was out to lunch with my dear friend DeNae (whom you all should be reading religiously since her blog is probably your best chance at getting into Heaven with your sense of humor still intact), and she started talking about her eldest son’s upcoming nuptials. He’s getting married next month.

Now, he’s up in Logan, UT and she’s in Vegas, and the wedding is scheduled to take place in Salt Lake. I’m sure you’re thinking what I’m thinking, how in the heck do you put on a wedding reception in a town that no one lives in?

“So, what’s your plan for the reception?” I asked, the closet wedding planner in me just itching to hear every detail.

“Well, I guess I’ll get here a day or two early and pick up some plastic tablecloths…”

WHAT??? Plastic tablecloths? A day or two early? Who’s going to do the tablescapes, the centerpieces, the guest book, framing the cake table…where’s the planning?

For those of you who don’t know this side of me, it’s kind of a disease. I love events. I love to plan them, decorate them, attend them. True, with four small children I don’t get to put these skills to the test much anymore, but they’re there, dormantly awaiting the sunlight. While some of you fall asleep to visions of waves crashing on a hot beach, I drift off to visions of flower arrangements and centerpieces.

It will come as no shock to you that at this point in the conversation I staged a wedding intervention. And, because DeNae’s greatest strength is humor, she happily passed the glue gun to me with carte blanche. That’s right, as long as this thing has purple and silver, I can do whatever I waaaannnnt.

It’s gonna be good.

So here’s what I need from you. Due to a previously scheduled trip to California, I am missing the wedding. So, I need a group of highly organized bloggers who love DeNae and are willing to handle the setup for me. It kills me to miss it, and while I love Mickey, I personally love wedding planning more. If you are a blogger with an interest in helping me out on the big day, please email me at regardingannie@gmail.com.

DeNae wants YOU to help out with her son’s wedding so she and her family can enjoy their day. You game?

I hesitate to put the following information down in print, because I don’t know if I can handle the possibility of a retraction. Here it is, just the same.

June hasn’t crapped her pants in a week, and I think we’re finally in the end zone.

YAAAYYYY!!!!

This has been the longest three months of my life. And I thought being engaged was hard. Trust me, that has nothing on this.

I have to say, while suggesting that I let her come around in her own time sounded like the only solution, three weeks of waiting, two weeks of pull-ups, and a week of total and complete urinary and bowel regression was all it took for me to take charge. And frankly, I think she wanted me to. Her bathroom behavior was like an out of control freight train, she needed a conductor to help things out.

So I took away her bottoms. That’s right, pants, undies, swimsuits, dance leotards, you name it. For over a week, she ran around in skirts. And yes, we had a few embarrassing moments, and yes, it was a very difficult week. I can honestly say that last week was the hardest week in my parenting career, no contest. But she’s far enough along in this business that for the most part, she couldn’t bring herself to do her business on the floor. The toilet was her only option (okay, minus the three times she did her business on the floor).

She had her first successful plop over a week ago, but the moment I put undies or pants on her she immediately browned them. This made me want to give her a swirlie, from which I refrained. Finally this afternoon, after months and months of poopy undies and resigned sighing and random screaming, I realized that she’s made it six days without a single accident, and nobody’s been helping her.

The best part of this whole thing? She’s like a new woman. That clinically naughty child who’s had me over a barrel and ready to report her to our home owner’s insurance, is proud of herself. She walks around all day telling me what a big girl she is and how proud Daddy is of her. And today? She listened when I spoke, and she actually chose to obey. For the past two days, her nose has been corner free and her behavior has been borderline delightful.

They say as mothers we always remember the “firsts,” but we never know when the last time has happened. The last bad dream, the last time-out, the last fort in the living room, the last game of hide-and-seek. But that last pair of poopy undies? I will remember. And man, it was the best last ever.

Don’t ask me why Rex is suddenly constantly on my writer’s brain, but this week’s column is just one more little glimpse at life with my quirky little darling.

“Our very young five-year-old, Rex, is learning to play the violin.

I’ll be honest, we (Daddy, our child psychologist and myself) thought this would be a great learning experience for him. He’d  learn to sit still, care for a delicate instrument, take individual instruction.

No one mentioned that the person really learning here would be me.

Our first week, Rex’s teacher taught him the different parts of the instrument, how to hold the bow, and made his assignment simple: Have him spend five minutes a day learning to hold the violin under his chin without hands for thirty second increments. Sounds easy enough, right?

Now imagine trying to teach a monkey to play Bach on the bagpipes. That’s what the first week was like for me. It was the longest, most exasperating thirty-five minutes I’ve ever experienced.

Rex has clinical anxiety, especially when it comes to learning new things (or trying new food, but that’s another column). When he gets anxious, he gets jumpy and worried and excited and frightened all at the same time. It’s like he’s instantly got 7Up running through his veins. He hops around, he does cartwheels–it’s like he can’t decide if he’s a monkey or a man.

With a violin in his hands, this is a recipe for splintered wood.

I’ve got to be honest, it was a major lesson in patience for me and I didn’t really do all that well. We usually only made it two or three minutes, not the whole five, and it took about three practice “sessions” for him to finally settle down and actually put the violin under his chin. (It took the whole week for me to master not yelling during practice.)

He also spent a good twenty minutes setting up all his animal friends every afternoon so they could “Watch the concert!” Rex is really into staging.

I was dreading his second lesson. I had to sit in the car and feed the baby during the first ten minutes, but I snuck in at the end. And what do you think I saw?

My boy, sitting quietly and pointing out all the key features of his little instruments. He remembered the horsehair, the bridge, the pegs, the rosin. He showed his teacher where the frog was, how to tighten the bow, and even managed to hold it under his chin like an old pro.

Sometimes we think our kid just isn’t getting it, that because they won’t straighten up and perform from square one, they’re never going to learn. But that moment of watching him with his teacher, realizing that all the things I’d been saying during the week had cemented in his sweet little brain, made me step back and see my son a little differently. All he needed was time. Was that really so much to ask of me?

Tonight is his third lesson, and he couldn’t be happier. Frankly, neither could I.”

You girls are funny. Here are a few of my favorite tags from the Ovaltine post.

Emily, who is one of my favorite blogger friends and always good for a crock pot idea, gave me, ““You think this is bad…wait until you see the ginormous root beer, bucket of popcorn and theater-sized box of Junior Mints I have stashed in my back pocket!”

Heading over to the East Coast, one of my favorite real life “let’s grab lunch” bloggers is InkMom. She’s funny and sharp and really hit it with, “It’s never too young to start drowning your sorrows in chocolate.”

Tonya, who has one of the very best blog book reviews for kids and a T that I’d know anywhere, says, “Happiness is a whole can of Ovaltine. Quiet? Quiet is a sure sign of trouble.” That so completely signifies my daughter, I almost can’t stand it.

Then there’s Boy Mom, appropriately named since she’s got seven (count ’em) male offspring. Somehow I think she’s seen this before. Hers were all funny, but my favorite was, “Ovaltine, now in a convenient travel pack.”

First Runner Up goes to Miss Mel, a fantastic mommy blogger who knows just how to put it out there (scroll down a few posts to see the one about her daughter and fear, it’s sooo good) made me laugh out loud with, “Ovaltine…so you can drink like Grandpa and look like him too.”

But this is one occasion where there was a very clear winner. Karen, you rock. And honestly, if you’re looking for a really good read, hit her blog. I kind of couldn’t stop reading it, she’s that type of writer. And the winner is:

“Hello ladies. Look at your kid. Now back to me. Now back at your kid. Now back to me! Sadly, she isn’t me. But if she stopped eating Hershey’s syrup and switched to Ovaltine, she could look like me. Ovaltine: the kid your kid could look like.”

So this morning I laid in bed until 10 am. “Laid in bed,” in mommy language means, “frequently got out of bed to feed/change/discipline children.” I wasn’t really sleeping, just avoiding.

“Mommy!” Rexy yelled, “Come on in for the wedding!” Since I was only half alive, I knew something about this phrase didn’t quite make sense. Wedding?

“What?” I yelled back.

“Hurry up! Princess GiGi is getting married!”

Married? To who?

“What??”

“Come on! King Rex and Queen Junie are waiting for you! Princess GiGi is marrying Monkey!!”

Yesterday Jason took Rex and Junie to Burger King where they were anointed king and queen of the universe. Ever since, Rex will only respond to “King Rex” when wearing his crown, and quickly corrects me if I misadress His Majesty.

Here’s a photo of the happy couple. Monkey is tucked in behind G, I didn’t see him until I went in for a diaper check. They were snuggled up like two happy little newlyweds.

In an attempt to fulfill New Year’s Resolution #1, Be A Better Mother, I let the little kids make cookies in the afternoon. Here’s a picture of the backside of Duck. Rex informed me that she was “just keeping the eggs warm until we need them”. Look closely, you’ll see.

Last week after writing about Rex (5) and his karate class, we received some unsettling news. Oh let’s face it, it was crappy news and I wanted to throw up in my diaper bag. The Dojo we attend gently invited us to enroll Rex in “private lessons”. In other words, he was being kicked out of class.

I get it, really I do. But standing behind my husband while the head instructor gave us the suggested course of action, I had to quickly make my escape before I bawled all over her Gi. He’s doing do much better, he wants to go, he loves to go–and now he can’t go.

I asked Jason if we would be able to finish out the month before starting four weeks of detention (aka more expensive private lessons), and he said yes, Rex could attend.

So Tuesday we walked into the Dojo and sat at the table. Three feet in front of us Rex’s class was called, one by one, to stand on the floor. Everyone was called but Rex.

They didn’t look at us.

They didn’t speak to us.

His teachers acted like we didn’t even exist.

Rex sat on my lap and played quietly with his lobster (come on, are we really that surprised?). But I don’t care how distracted he seemed, he knew exactly what was going on. We were not welcome, period. Even the head Sensei, the one who had made arrangements with my husband, treated us like we had some kind of disease.

I couldn’t escape to the car fast enough.

“Rex will not be going back to that place,” I told Jason in the privacy of our bedroom later that evening. “They don’t want us there, and I will not put my baby in that environment.”

Now, Jason tends to be less emotional than I. When I kick and scream, he looks thoughtfully out the window. When I throw hair brushes, he inspects his nails. When I over parent, he calls me on it.

“I am so sorry,” he said, “I misunderstood her…”

“No! I’m not taking him, you can’t make me!”

“Honey, I’ll gladly come home and take him my–”

“NO! I’ll hide him from you! You can’t make my baby go back there!” (Don’t ask my why I still think my theatrics will work on him.)

It will come as no surprise that I stayed up late with old episodes of Chopped and Cupcake Wars, determined to win this stand off. By the time I made it to bed the house was silent and my anger had cooled.

And wouldn’t you know that I didn’t get three words into my nightly prayer before the Lord made his desires unquestionably clear to my eternally stunted mind? I didn’t even have the chance to pray about it. It was like the answer was just waiting around, ready to dump itself into my brain the moment I opened the channels of communication.

This thing with Rex, it’s not about me. It’s not about protecting him or sheltering him or loving him, it’s about letting him. Letting him learn the hard things life is determined to throw at him, even at the tender young age of five.

As parents, sometimes we’re there to direct, sometimes we’re there to defend. But mostly, we just need to be there, believing that our little children are in someone else’s more capable hands.

Tonight Rex had his first private lesson. He cried for fifteen minutes and I wanted to die. But the last ten? He loved.

It’s a good thing I’m not in charge.