Per Kristina’s suggestion, I think it’s only fair I give credit where credit is due to the Ovaltine picture.

On Monday, my bestie and I headed out to run errands. It’s been a tough couple of weeks for June (and subsequently for me). Her world is in grade A trauma from the infant we call Sister, and she seems determined to get attention by any means possible. Riding in the car with her during the past few weeks has been less than pleasant. She likes to yell at me. “It’s Red!! STOP!!! No, Green, GO GO GO GO! You’re not going fast enough! Beat him, Mommy, beat him! Oh, and I just pooped my pants!” Kinda like that.

On Monday we headed off for preschool (Rex and Maggie), and for the first twenty minutes in the car June sat in the back like a beautiful little mute angel. I couldn’t believe how my luck had turned. I kept complimenting her, “Junie baby, you’re such a good girl! Thank you for riding so quietly.”

Then I stopped and went to get her out of the back. That’s when I saw it. She had smuggled the entire can of Ovaltine into her purse, with a spoon, and was shoveling it into her face as fast as possible. Oh, let’s look at it one more time. Just for fun.

So if you have nothing better to do, I’m still open to any tag line your pretty little head comes up with. Here or there, doesn’t matter.

Because I’m a technological idiot, I can’t seem to figure out how to embed the video from KSL into this post. So check out this link right here to see today’s blogging clip on Studio 5.

With absolutely no explanation for how this picture came to be, I give you June.

Go ahead, give me your best tag line for this photo. The winner will get something fantastic in the mail from me. Best tag line announced on Friday. Also, I’m doing Studio 5 in the morning, check it out if you’ve got laundry to fold.

Here’s this week’s Standard Examiner column, pasted in. I need new clothes.

“Last Sunday I experienced a typical pre-church morning. The entire hour before blast-off was spent chasing down shoes, diapers, hair bows and ties. There were shirts to press, teeth to brush, quiet toys to track down–it was a beautiful example of just how far a little procrastination can take you: right to the edge of patience.

Per our usual morning ritual, we had eight minutes left on the clock when I suddenly realized I was running around in nylons and a slip. My hair was not brushed, my makeup consisted of the previous evening’s smudged mascara, and I had nothing to wear. When I say nothing, I mean one skirt that I’m seriously sick of.

This has been a rough year on my closet. I went and gained 50 pounds in the course of growing a baby, and unfortunately the fetus came out weighing 7, instead of the much anticipated 42 pound kindergardener I had half convinced myself of. The consequences have put a serious strain on my zippers. It’s been four months and I might have lost the initial 40, but these last ten might as well be Mt. Kilimanjaro.

With 42 seconds left on the clock and my husband honking the horn, I stared with desperate vanity at my limited selection. Gray skirt, white blouse. Gray skirt, black blouse. Could January be more depressing?

It was at that particular moment my eye lit upon an old green number from days gone by. If I remembered correctly, it had always been a little roomy, maybe I could squeeze myself into it.

I grabbed the sheath dress, scrambled through the opening, and presto! We had liftoff. Zipping the back up to the top, I looked in the mirror and saw a glimpse of the girl I used to be before girdles and support hose took over my wardrobe. I thought, who needs to lose ten pounds when you can fit into a dress this cute? I grabbed a sweater, earrings, a couple diapers (for the baby), and we were off like a well starched suit.

I sat in the first meeting with the baby on my lap, feeling way too cute for comfort. Mothers aren’t supposed to feel too good about how they look, it’s part of the job description. We’re supposed to feel frumpy and outdated at least 85% of the time (minus date night). This thought alone made me slightly nervous. The baby sat on my lap like a happy little puppy, blowing spit bubbles at the teacher and cooing at the girl next to me.

I looked at my cute little dumpling and thought about how much I love being a mother, what a wonderful, selfless job it is, how this little child depends on me for her very existence, her well-being, her…food. Wait, she depends on me for her food. The food that I keep in my shirt. Not my dress, my shirt.

It was at that moment that I realized the fatal flaw in my sabbath getup. I had forgotten the number one fashion rule that all breast feeding mothers must never overlook: no matter what you wear, you must make sure you can feed the baby. One look down and it was all too clear that there was no getting into that dress. Three hours of church to go with a four-month-old who think she’s going to starve when the clock hits 120 minutes, and I’m locked into my dress like a snug little sausage.

For the last thirty minutes of class I sat and tried to think up a solution that didn’t involve public nudity. Sheath dresses are cut high at the top, and straight at the bottom–getting into them without completely removing the dress is a trick I’d like to see Houdini master.

After class, I headed out to find my husband. The only solution I could think of involved a trip home and a change of clothes. Waiting for him to come out of class, I stood and visited with a few of the teenage girls who wanted to hold the baby (the baby who was suddenly getting hungry and fussy).

“Girls, I don’t know what I’m going to do, I’ve got to get keys from my husband so I can go home and change my clothes. There’s no way I can feed the baby in this dress.”

Without skipping a beat, those brilliant little women took one look at my outfit, another look at my baby and said, almost in unison, “Why don’t you just turn your dress around?”

And that is how I ended up wearing my clothing backwards on Sunday. My baby thought I looked fabulous.

With a little nudge from Rex’s child psychologist, we decided to enroll him in a number of extracurricular activities this winter. He’s five, but his anxiety really holds him back emotionally. He’s more like a three-year-old in a lot of ways, so I basically have three-year-old twins, which means I’d like to bang my head against the door knob at least fourteen times a day.

Last week we started karate at a highly recommended Dojo here in Layton. Unfortunately, they were running a special (which we didn’t realize) so 57 other 5-7 year-old’s decided to sign up as well. Talk about karate chaos.

Watching Rex try to do Karate is kind of like watching a gold fish try to dance the polka. He’s so cute, and so funny, and so kicking around in left field. I’m already seeing a huge improvement (tonight was his fourth class), but even so he’s always at least one Ki ai (hi-ya) behind the rest of the class, and prone to somersaults and standing on his head when he’s supposed to be watching the Sensei. I think he gives the teacher hives, he’s so polar opposite your typical little soldier.

To be honest, it’s funny and slightly painful to watch him. I want him to have a blast. I want him to learn to listen. I want him to get some energy out. I want him to act his age. There are a million things I want him to get out of this experience, and there’s not a thing I can do about it.

Like all things we try to teach our kids, I’m experiencing a learning curve. This karate business is showing me that I can’t make people like my kid. I adore him. He’s hysterically funny, totally quirky, and all about hakuna matata.

But no matter how hard the karate teachers try to enforce seriousity, Rex is more than a little too loosey goosey for their comfort level. I can see and feel their irritation, I know first hand how exasperating it is. Yesterday there were a few moments when I just wanted to cover my face with my hooter hider and go out to the car.

I also see how much better he’s doing in just four classes, and how great this has been for him. I don’t want to take that away just because it makes me cringe to watch.

There’s nothing I can do to make them see how compassionate and tender-hearted and sweet tempered he is. My little boy is special, and fun, and doesn’t really care too much about conformity.

It’s hard to watch other people dislike my boy.

So, you know how some times I give too much information? Now that this has gone out in print to X number of readers who didn’t ask for it, I’m wondering if it was such a good idea. Oh well, it’s fish paper by now. Here’s last week’s column.

“I am sick. And tired. For the last four days I’ve been fighting the nastiest cold this side of the Great Meltdown, and it’s winning. I finally came down with an ear infection last night and am pleased to announce that I can now justify antibiotics. (Feel free to insert any homeopathic methods in my comment box).

But the worst part of this cold has been my sinus problems. I can’t smell a thing. On the one hand, this rocks. I have zero appetite because everything tastes like paste. On the other hand, I can’t smell. Anything. In just a moment, you will see that this is a major problem.

So yesterday morning I dragged myself out of bed at seven and spent an hour getting everyone fed, nursed, brushed, coated, and out the door so I could make my 8:15 doctor’s appointment. It will not surprise you that this meant no shower for Mommy; with four children who range from completely incompetent to frequently obstinate, that’s no surprise.

I visited the doctor (note to self: next time don’t wear girdle to doctor’s appointment), then ran like a demon to meet some of my girlies for an early playdate. We crowded into a table at McDonald’s and spent the morning talking about how stupid they think it is that I’m moving to Germany. I will miss my wonderful girls.

I went about the day with my usual list of to do’s and didn’t actually make it home until 2:30. By then I decided the shower was a distant dream, and my hair would have to wait one more day for a good wash (it was day five–one of the upsides of extremely damaged hair is its inability to produce enough oil to matter. I love shower caps.).

Harry came in an hour later crying with an ear infection, so we threw everyone in the car and snuck into the pediatrician’s office just under the wire–me and all four of my children. It was a good thing we went, Gigi also has an ear infection.

By the time I dropped off all our prescriptions at the pharmacy, it was dinner time. We went to Wendy’s, picked up our meds, and raced home to make Harry’s 6:30 piano lesson.

When I finally saw Jason at 7:00 I was completely frazzled. I took my hungry baby downstairs, crashed on the couch to nurse, and let him handle bedtime.

He walked into the basement at 7:30 and looked across the room at me.

“Um, honey?” he said, “So, did you make it to the shower today?”

“Are you kidding? Do you have any idea how crazy my day has been? Why? Do I look that bad?” I thought of my thrashed hair, smudged makeup, and shirt covered in spit-up. Yeah, I looked horrible. It happens.

“I hate to tell you this,” he said, “But I can smell you from here.”

And that is why sinus infections stink.”

So you know how the whole world is doing P90X to get skinny? I’m not sure why, but I would rather move bowling balls for a living than put myself through that kind of torture.

After Harrison got on the bus this morning, I took the baby downstairs to “work out” (aka breast feeding). While I was sitting on the couch staying hydrated (because we all know how important hydration is when you “work out”), I happened upon an infomercial for Turbo Fire. It took five minutes and before I knew what was happening, I was begging and pleading Jason to let me spend a small fortune on this guaranteed life changing set of DVD’s.

And what do you think he said?

“Give it a week, if you still want to order it ,it’s yours.”

Um, hello? A week? In another week I’m going to be too lazy to click on the bookmarked website. I need to do it now, while all these young mothers are testifying of it’s body sculpting powers and life altering influence. Give me three months and in less than 55 minutes a day, I could potentially look like Halle Barry as Catwoman. Hey, I bet I could even find a catwoman suit on the internet to celebrate my Total Transformation. Doesn’t he want me to look like Catwoman?!

The thing is, I’m doing a decent job with the weight loss. I’m down to my last nine postpartum pounds (from 50) and I’m happy that the scale is dropping, but the thinner I get, the more I realize that there’s nothing under all this fat but more fat. I’m kind of an atrophied mommy mess, who’s only definition appears to be in my arms, because my baby is chubby and spoiled and wants to be carried all the time.

So please, please remind me next week to put down the remote and order this fitness stuff…wait, what’s it called again? Oh look! Golden Girls is on!

(Mel, also known as Melinda, also had a baby a few months ago. She looks fabulous, life is unfair, yada yada yada. Check out Melinda who’s way too cute right here.)

Thank you thank you THANK YOU, for all the moral support and subsequent puns from yesterday’s pooping meltdown. I’m feeling a little less emotional constipation.

June has browned two pair of undies today already (both of which she happily rinsed out herself, and both went in the trash–to which she didn’t bat an eye), so I’ve made an executive decision.

“Junie,” I said calmly after folding the load of stained undies that was fresh out of the dryer, “We’re not putting these undies back in your drawer. They’re going up in your closet, and you can have them back when you’re ready to poop in the potty.”

“Okay,” she said, “Cause they’re for big girls, and I’m just a little girl. I’m not a big girl yet, so I can just wear my diapers.” Then she plunked herself down in the baby carrier and said, “Goo goo ga ga!”

Uncle.

(See Melinda’s blog right here.)

Get CPS on speed dial, because I am a terrible mother. And after you call them, you can go ahead and call me an ambulance because I’m ready to shove toothpicks into my eyeballs. I’m pretty sure that would be more pleasant than my current situation.

Today my BFF and I went to Ikea. After our initial free hour of childcare, we took the kiddies (3 of mine, 1 of hers) to lunch (free right now, check it out) and were about to head to the car…when we thought of something. Else. Because at Ikea, there’s always Something Else.

Just as we got over to the media shelving stuff, June looked up at me with her baby blues, smiled into my loving eyes, and said, “Mommy, I pooped my pants!”

Now I know you’ve all told me that there’s nothing I can do about this, and I know from personal experience that you’re right. It’s been two months, and every stinking day I take time out of my afternoon to clean out a pair of stained undies. Why? Because if I put her in a pull up, she stops using the toilet completely, and I’m not about to give up on the totally potty trained ground we’ve got under our feet. She’s good to go…until it’s time to poop. Then, no matter what motivating factor we throw her, she squats down and does her business right in her tighty whitey’s (or brownies).

I’ve been patient, I’ve refused to react. I don’t beat her, leave her by the side of the road, lock her in the bathroom–my reactions these past few weeks have bounced between total nonchalance and slight irritation. I try my hardest not to react (and she’s begging me to react, by the way).

Until today.

For some reason, today I realized that I kind of don’t like her right now. She’s so smart, she’s so capable, and she’s doing this on purpose. I’ve given her a little potty that’s not scary, I’ve asked her to just put a pull-up on when she needs to poop. Do you think she’ll do any of those things? No. She poops in her pants so that I can clean them out. I went an entire week where she spent a half hour in her room every time she pooped without using a pull-up or the little potty. She didn’t even blink about it.

So, much to my regret, today I told my daughter that I don’t like her right now. I looked her right in the eyes, and with all the frustration I’ve been feeling, I told her that when she poops, I don’t like her, I don’t want to be her mommy, and I don’t even want her around.

And then she cried, and I wanted to die.

I know what I’m supposed to learn here, and I’m learning it. I have no control over her choices. Whether it’s pooping or smoking pot, my kids are going to live their own lives, and sometimes their choices will affect me. This is part of parenting, and I guess it’s better that I accept it right now than act surprised in ten years.

Sometimes parenting is a really crappy job.

(Be sure to check out Melinda’s non-crappy blog today, I’m sure she’s got something way more uplifting for you.)

Here’s last week’s column. Basketball, here we come.

“The holidays might be over, but the games sure aren’t.

This is my husband’s favorite time of year. He’s got a few days off work, he’s got cable, and college teams everywhere are filling his bowl with football.

“Hey,” he said the other day, walking into the kitchen. “Would you mind if I spent Saturday afternoon with my brothers watching games? I’d like to leave around noon, and won’t be back until late. We’re going to catch a late movie and make a day of it.”

Now, I’m all for supporting his football cravings, but this has been a big couple of weeks. Trying to keep it together with all my kids home for the break is like trying to move soup with my fingers.

“Again?” I asked. “Didn’t you guys just do that a few weeks ago?”

“Well, yeah, but this is the last big football day of the season, and I’d really like to spend it with my dad and brothers.”

What’s a girl supposed to say to that? No? Stay home and be miserable with me all day? I couldn’t even come up with a good reason in my own head to hold him off. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Two days later we left the babies with a sitter for some much needed alone time. Things were going smoothly until the game day excursion came up.

“So, you’re still okay with me going on Saturday, right?” he asked.

“You know,” I said, “I wish you wouldn’t. You’ve gone to every home game this season, plus a few soccer games, and I’m tired. The kids wipe me out during the week, and Saturdays are the worst. Besides, it’s not like I have anywhere to escape to…”

And right there date night was ruined. It turned into one of those potato potato discussions where everyone has a valid point, but the judge and jury can’t quite decide which right is most right. I played the poor housewife card, he played the brotherhood bonding card, and on and on it went.

Ten minutes into our surprisingly civil discussion (I highly recommend Cafe Rio for hot topics, you’d be amazed at how well behaved you both are when you’ve got neighbors sitting six inches away) there was no end in sight. I was determined to be right.

Things were escalating and the conversation was almost to the “let’s finish this in the car” phase, when I thought of something.

My husband, doing dishes. Every. Single. Night. My husband, walking in from work and straight through the door, taking the screaming baby out of my arms. My  husband, fighting his way through bath time. Fetching the baby for me in the middle of the night, cleaning up puke from the back of the car, shoveling the snow that I’m always so delighted by (personally, I’m not actually sure where the shovels are kept), and so on and so forth.

In that moment, I realized that I was being nothing short of a total and complete jackass. My husband asked for an afternoon off. If you count the entire football season, that made a total of eight afternoons in four months. My really great guy, who routinely puts the kids to bed so I can go to the grocery store for some soothing elevator music, wanted a moment to himself, and I was acting like a bulldog with a dirty sock to play with.

In one split postpartum second (something he’s surprisingly used to), I was humbled. There are moments in every relationship when we have to decide, do we want to be happy, or do we want to be right? Sometimes being happy is totally it.

In marriage, there are hills, and there are hills. Some we climb, some we die on, and sometimes if we’re smart, we let our spouse be king for a day and stay home with the kids.”

*Remember to check out Melinda’s blog as many times as humanly possible between now and the day you die. Yes, she is that awesome.