I love this time of year. Not because the leaves are changing, not because the kids are back in school, and not because of football season. I love this time of year because it means I can leave my doors open all day, and that, inevitably brings in the flies.

I. Love. Flies.

See, I’ve discovered lately that I have a penchant for murder. Right when the kids have pushed me to my limits, right when I’m ready to wring someone’s neck, sure enough, enter the flies. And in three seconds, I can kill somebody without killing anybody. They’re like little flying angels of death, offering themselves nobly and innocently. Kind of like suicide bombers. (Okay, maybe not suicide bombers, but definitely self-sacrificing for the greater good.)

I can easily kill them with my bare hands, but I like to keep a fly swatter tucked in the back of my pants, just in case.

I have to admit that I did hit a bump this week when Rex and June introduced me to their “…new best friends, Buddy and Tiny.” It really threw off my game. For two days the kids wouldn’t let me kill a single fly because they were all Buddy and Tiny. It kind of broke their hearts when I finally told them that someone had to die, and it best be the flies.

And if flies aren’t available to you, might I suggest rug beating? It’s a lost art, we just shake and wash now, but let me tell you those women had a reason for pounding the crap out of rugs, and it wasn’t just cleanliness.

Have a good, stress free weekend.

This morning I was up at 6:00. By 8:30 am, I was completely defeated.

Why is it life is Hell bent on ruining my best laid plans? I had every intention of getting started bright and early on the mountain range of laundry from our weekend vacation to Yellow Stone. I was going to take the house by storm, one room at a time, and by the time the kids were all running at full speed, I could take a nap.

Enter the baby.

The baby. My darling little Georgia Tess, light of my life and chub of my heart. When that girl decides to eat, she’s all business. Sure, I’m now getting a solid seven hour block of sleep every night, but in return I have to nurse her from 4 pm to 9 pm. Do you know what that does to the dinner schedule?

So usually she’ll eat early in the morning, then have a good sleep until Harry leaves for school–hence my big plan. But this morning? No sooner was I strapped into my day bra than she was hollering for nourishment. So I fed her. And fed her and fed her and fed her.

By 8 am we were on round three (that’s six sides of breast milk), blocked out at 15 minute show times. Do you  know how it feels to sit on your bed in a trashed room with an infant who just won’t give it up, and continues to eat like she’s from Ethiopia?

(And let the record state that she never spits up. Where in the name of Twinkies is all that going?)

When I heard the garage door close with Jason’s leave, I kind of lost it. How am I supposed to do all this alone? Where is freaking Mary Poppins already?

In that panicked moment of desperation, I called my mom. In a nutshell, let me tell you how she talked me down off the counter ledge (it was the tallest surface I could master within walking range).

When it comes to the next twnety years, there will only be a few magical moments when my house and my laundry pile will look exactly like I want it to. It’s like our old laundry shoot at home. As soon as she’d finish all the laundry, someone would go and throw down a pair of stinky undies and ruin the whole thing. Frankly, there’s always going to be another pair of dirty undies, no matter how hard I try.

After talking to her, I realized that I’m not raising couches and carpets, I’m raising babies. They’re stinky and messy and horribly uncivilized, they’re selfish and self involved and totally unaware of just how much trouble they cause me.

And with all the crap comes moments of wonder, like when the caterpillar they caught cacooned while sitting on the bedpost. Or when they realize that all you need for a parade is a wagon. The pillow forts that drive me crazy bring hours of fights and laughter,  the apple peels under the counter mean I’ve successfully taught them to eat things other than candy, and they think I’m smart because I can read books and they can’t.

In twenty years all of this will be gone. Forget defeated, by the time I got off the phone with my mother all I wanted to do was snuggle my baby and listen to my children prattle on about Monarch butterflies.

And for the record, I also called my best friend, who came over for an hour of chatter and hard-core house cleaning. If you haven’t let anyone into your mess yet, I highly suggest you go there. Friendship can fix a whole crap load of things.

Today I discovered a little piece of unappreciated Heaven.

Due to the budget, and all the small sticky hands constantly clinging to my apron strings (no really, June has a thing for pulling on them), I don’t really do the whole pedicure/manicure/masage bit. In the past three years, I’ve had one pedicure. Doesn’t happen often.

But today the stars alligned, and I snuck twenty minutes to reacquaint myself with that wonderful, Heavenly gift that comes out of the bathroom. My shower.

Honestly, I am kind of in love with showers right now. Who needs a massage when you can stand, buck naked, under a shower of hot, steaming water, slathering your body with delicious smelling Equate knock-off body wash, completely uninterrupted? (For the record, the uninterrupted part only happens occasionally, but when it does, it so rocks.)

See, as girls there’s nothing better than a weekend shower to excuse us from all parenting. “Oh, sorry honey, I just have to shave my legs. You’ll have to change her…” Me and showers are Jason’s least favorite combination right now. Girls have so many excuses to stay in the shower, so many opportunities for necessary hygene, men can’t hope to compete.

And the best part? When you’re unwillingly about to step out but you suddenly remember: You forgot to condition your hair. Awesome. That’s at least another five minutes (because we all know conditioner needs time).

You can keep your massages, I get to shower on Jason’s dime at least five times a week.

(If I’m lucky.)

I have been dying to post this ever since it happened. Here is this week’s column, and possibly the best mommy memory of my life.

“You know, sometimes there’s nothing like a good undeserved pity party to brighten a girl’s mood. Like when you stand around thinking about how much they’ll all miss you if you get hit by a bus, or die from a case of lethal Mastitis.

As a disclaimer, I’ve got to say that since number four has come along, my man has really stepped up his game. When he’s home, he’s my right hand. It feels good to depend on him and know that he’s willing to take a turn with the baby at 4 am when she’s ready to be social. He’ll change any poopy diaper in the house, take the kids twilight hiking just to give me some space, pick up dinner if I’m freaking out–I have no complaints, only compliments.

That’s the logical response. But we all know that I’m neither logical, nor particularly careful with my responses these days, so I’m going to go ahead and tell you how ungrateful and horrible I am.

Last night my man had to miss dinner for work. Unfortunately I had a houseful of company over and kind of wanted him here, but an undisclosed work situation detained him. I smiled and played supportive, knowing he well deserves a good, understanding wife.

Grrr.

Tonight was a repeat situation, only this time he got held up an extra hour and a half with the Scouts. They were doing a Ropes Course and it took longer than expected. The other leaders all had to leave, so Jason stayed so the boys could finish. Good, honorable servant of the People.

Me? The last two nights have wiped me out. Not only did I throw a dinner party for nearly a dozen people last night (WHAT WAS I THINKING??), but tonight was equally difficult. Stuck at the soccer field, both baby girls stinky, the five-year-old ready to do a number in his own pants, me far from the car and further from home–by the time we walked in the door all Hell had broken loose and was doing the Bunny Hop on my kitchen counter. I spent an hour listening to my starving baby scream her head off while I tried to feed and bathe and bed down the tribe. Tragic.

As I finally made my way back to the kitchen, I suddenly thought of my husband, with his big secret fancy job, and his “service” calling that consisted of things like water skiing and rock climbing. In a fit of angst, I turned to my seven-year-old, Harrison.

“You know,” I said, “Just be glad you’re a boy, because that means you get to grow up and be a dad, not a mom.”

“Why’s it better to be a dad?” he asked.

“Because dad’s get to have cool jobs, and drive cool cars, and go hiking and have fun. Mom’s? Mom’s don’t get to do anything.”

“Well, why don’t you just go with dad?”

“Who’s going to take care of the kids? Who’s going to clean the house? No, mom’s get to stay home and work.”

(Yes, I’m a horrible person.)

I stomped around the kitchen, furiously wiping counters and trying to keep from crying.

“Mom?” I heard my boy say, “Would you teach me how to do the dishes?”

I spun around and looked at my little seven-year-old, standing at the sink looking up at me with nothing short of concerned love all over his face. “And maybe the laundry? I could do laundry…”

And in that instant, I knew there wasn’t a job on this Earth that could take me away from these children. My poor sweet husband, away at work, missing out on all the love. Because that’s what I saw, looking into my child’s eyes, love. Love for me and my chosen profession, enough to tie me to this wonderful bit of life for as long as the Lord will let me live it.

Thank you, Heaven, for dirty dishes.”

Hooray! It’s my birthday and I’m happy.

Yesterday my sweetheart took me to lunch a day early. He told me over Chinese food (healthy, skinny-inducing Chinese food) that I’ve been really happy the past two weeks. He wanted to know if this was a phase, and should he prepare himself for the fall-out?

And you know what I realized? I am happy. I’m not on bed rest, my back no longer hurts, my kidneys both function properly, I have feet that fit in all my shoes (we won’t mention whether or not anything else fits), my baby is gorgeous and healthy, I can do simple household chores again–life is so very good.

So this year on my birthday, I’m thankful to be right where I am. I’m 32, and the Lord hasn’t given up on me yet.

If you’re reading this, make my day by wishing me a Happy Birthday! I’m not going to pretend that I wouldn’t love it, I want a crapload of good birthday wishes this year.

Because who needs an orange Kitchen Aid when you have so many wonderful friends?

There comes a point in every woman’s life when she has to ask herself that dreaded question: Do I want to do laundry, or go buy everybody socks?

It’s not that I haven’t been doing the big stuff, I’ve just been avoiding the under the bed clothes, the pieces that get mixed in with the toys and the camping gear. The behind-the-couch crap, all those bits we like to pretend no longer exist.

But, since I’m a frugal soul who doesn’t want to drop an easy $20 on any more socks (since I’ve been buying them weekly), I embarked this morning on The Great Sock Hunt. Wow do we have a ton of forgotten socks. I found socks from when Jason was a baby, it’s been so long since I looked.

(Also, I like to have an excuse to go to Ross.)

And I might as well tell you all where I’m at with my awesome post-pregnancy weight loss. It’s been five weeks and I’m losing it so fast (lie), I can’t believe how skinny I feel (big fat lie). It’s like the baby weight is just melting off me faster than I know what to do with (oh crap, there goes my nose again).

This is me practicing the fine art of, “If you say it enough times, it will come to pass.”

Okay, I can’t sit here burning nap time any longer. The sty is calling.

This morning the kids were up at their usual cheerful six am. Since I spent two hours walking and feeding the baby in the middle of the night, my husband most graciously handled the chipper chickens and let me sleep.

He had to be at work by seven-thirty for an important meeting, and gave me as long as possible before handing over the reins. On his way out the door he checked his bag for the essentials; bullets, badge, mace, credentials–wait, where were his creds? Back into the bedroom he ran, tearing things apart in a frantic search for his ID.

I don’t know about your husband, but mine hates to misplace things. It’s probably one of the few things that can really upset him, and let me tell you, he was on his way from seriously ruffled to full-blown panicked. He’d had to change clothes last night at Scouts, and who knows what fell out where?

Since it’s wisest to leave him alone in these situations, I quickly decided that instead of studying the scriptures, the kids and I we were going to have an object lesson.

“Kids!” I called, “Dad lost his creds and we have to say a prayer to help him find them.  Kneel!” They dropped down around me and all three started praying at once (actually it was four since Rex’s bird was praying too).

We managed a fervent prayer on his unknown behalf, then scattered. I headed straight to his extremely spotless car that had already been searched twice. I opened the backdoor, reached under the passenger seat, and voila! Creds. Took about 26 seconds from the “amen”.

I don’t know how much this experience will teach or affect my kids, but I was once again astounded at the power of a little prayer and faith on another’s behalf. There is help all around us, why are we so stubborn about utilizing our resources? Whether it’s feelings of frustration with your kids, concern over a child’s health, or even lack of inspiration in your career, I have the feeling that as far as the long run goes, a little more prayer and a little more faith might change my world.

I read a quote once that said, “There is a vast difference between saying prayers and praying.” There is power when we get down to the nitty gritty of things and just pray.

Dear Jason,

Happy eleventh anniversary, myboy. You’re still the one I want to reach for in the middle of the night, and with all the people who want me during those hours, that’s really saying something. Thank you for eleven years of thoughtfulness, forgiveness, willingness and tenderness. I’m bossy and moody and cry way more than you deserve, but I’m also madly in love with you. Neither wild horses nor screaming newborns could make me want you less, I can’t wait for these kids to beat it so I can have you all to myself.

Here’s this week’s column, posted yesterday.

Love you too, bud.

annie

“Tomorrow is my eleventh wedding anniversary.

Eleven years into this, not a day goes by that I don’t thank the Lord for gifting me with such a good man (okay, maybe a day or two here and there). My mother always says that a girl doesn’t know what she’s really gotten herself into until she’s got a good three years of marriage under her belt. With a decade of marriage and four children to boot, I am the luckiest girl I know.

Call us old-fashioned, but on our wedding day my sweetheart and I didn’t know each other, biblically speaking. Trust me, it made for a very eventful and momentous occasion. We were married in the afternoon, had a large dinner party with our closest family and friends, then climbed into the car for a two and a half hour drive to our hotel.

And that’s when my wonderful new husband turned on The Game.

Here’s the thing. We had never spent a football season together. In fact, we’d met over the summer, I left to study overseas for a number of months in the fall, came home in the winter, and started seriously dating him at the tail end of basketball season. We were engaged over the summer and married in October. I had no idea that I was marrying a Fan. (Girls, this is why you need to know a guy through all four seasons before getting yourself committed.)

It will come as no surprise to you that we spent the entire drive from Portland to Olympia listening to his team. He would ever so politely turn down the volume during the commercials, attempt small talk, then quickly smile and shush me once the ball was in action.

This was, without a doubt, the most miserable two hours of my life. What had I gone and done? Who was this oaf? Where was the sensitive man that was supposed to qualm my wedding night jitters, or at least try to make vehicular advances to me during the pre-game car trip? Unfortunately, I was too nervous and nice to tell him to turn off the game and pay attention to where the real action was–in the passenger seat.

So last week Mr. Fan casually walks into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he said, “You’re never going to believe what’s happening on our anniversary!”

“What?” I asked, sure he’s going to tell me about some romantic dinner theater or equally appropriate celebratory event.

“We’re playing Utah State!”

“And?”

“Don’t you remember, the night we got married? It was a Friday night, and we listened to the Utah State game in the car on the way to Olympia. It’s the same night, same place, same game! Isn’t that awesome?”

“Uh, yeah. Awesome.” About as awesome as getting sprayed by a skunk. He slowly exited the kitchen, shoulders drooping. After eleven years of marriage, he’s learned that football is not this girl’s idea of a good time.

“Wait!” I said, knowing full well that any wife worth her salt wouldn’t let him down here. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and asked the one thing I thought I’d never ask him: “Wanna go to the game with me?”

“No, you don’t want to go to a football game for your anniversary…”

“Of course I do! This is our game, there’s no way we can miss it.”

“Really? You’d do that for me?”

“Baby, I’d do anything for you.” Once I said it, I realized that it was true. Making that man happy is the most important job I’ve got, hands down.

And so we’ll be spending tomorrow night sitting in the stands, cheering for our team. Hey, it will sure beat driving around in the car for two hours.

The other morning we were doing our little daily devotional and reading a story by President Monson from The Friend. It was a memory from his childhood, about a boy who had lost his mother. As I started to read and got to the part where it mentioned the mother dying, my Junie Bug, who’s two and a half, says, “Mommy! Are you gonna die? Don’t die, Mommy! We’ll be tho thad!” (She can’t say her s’s.)

A couple of things. First, I was shocked that she could make that connection so quickly. I am not bragging here, we’re still trying to explain to Rex who Jesus is, and that no, he isn’t going to dress up as Santa and bring us presents.

Second, I felt kind of good.

This got me thinking about my job. Let’s face it, what I do doesn’t affect the greater good in general. I do a lot of laundry (or should be doing), spend every other hour being milked, try to throw out something decent for dinner at least twice a week, and consider myself an overachiever if I manage to actually read to the kids before screaming them off to bed. As far as my achievements go, there are moments when I feel extremely insignificant.

At one time I had big plans for my life. Once upon a time I was all bent on making my way to New York City, hitting the acting scene. Then I was going to travel the world before I settled down, you know, learn a few languages, kiss a few foreigners. I considered being a spy but we all know I can’t keep a secret. Whatever it was, I was going to do something and it was going to be big.

And now? Since my daughter’s comment the other day, I’ve been paying attention to the big things around me. Holding three kids on my lap at once while nursing the baby so no one feels overshadowed is big. Inviting neighbor kids over to play and talking nicely to them is big. Making meatballs from scratch, even though they didn’t turn out as good as usual, is really, really big.

I’ve realized this week that when we move away from the Land of Stay-at-Home Mothers with Many Children, most likely somewhere overseas, our family, my little family, is going to be big. And my job? It’s a darn big job and I’m freaking awesome at it. Yes, sometimes I hide in the bathroom, and sometimes we have cookies for dinner, but this is a big job and what I’m doing really matters to somebody, even if I periodically mess up.

Big is extremely relative. Don’t doubt that whatever you’re doing with your life, it’s probably big to somebody.

Here’s last week’s column, written about two weeks ago. I’m  much better now, I promise.

“So, you know how sometimes it looks like my life is beautiful and perfect and lovely? Yeah, that is false advertising. Criminally false.

Here’s the thing. My husband has been away from us for six weeks. Six long, lonely weeks for him, six weeks where he pined for us every night, wanted to skype with the kids at every possible opportunity, felt guilty, horrible, and anxious–six flat out frustrating weeks.

Sounds sad.

It’s not.

Because coming home after six weeks off is like coming back from a long stay at grandma’s house, where life is one big show of oatmeal cookies and tinker toys. Good to see everyone, but boy do you realize how nice it is to live an uninterrupted life.

And did we point out that within 24 hours of being home, he added a kid to the foray and his wife underwent major surgery? Kind of a lot to process.

He’s absolutely helpful. He does his duty, the kids are cared for, the man stuff is accomplished, all looks well.

BUT DARN IT, I NEED A HUG.

I don’t care how nice the lawn looks, I’m a stupid girl, and the love language I speak is one of mauling, kissing affection. Anyone who knows me knows this. If I love you, I will hug you and crush you and love on you until you can’t possibly get away fast enough. This goes for anyone and everyone I meet in person and even slightly like.

Jason? He does service. Hugging and kissing me when there are things to do is so not in his nature. His natural man will clean the toilets until they shine and detail the cars for no reason at all. (Personally, the toilet has been more affectionate to me lately than my darling, helpful husband.)

I know a gentle reminder is all he needs, because he’s absolutely willing to be tender with me, no matter how concocted it might be. And for the record, I do not mind forced affection. I also have no problem with plastic surgery or leg makeup.

But this lack of love has made me kind of emotional and slightly unstable.

So today in the car while talking to my sister on the phone, I kind of let loose and bawled in a really ugly way about my life and hormones and the robot I like to call husband. I was such a slobbering, blubbering mess, the lady at McDonald’s could barely take down my order.

As I pulled forward, trying to get a grip on my tears, I reached out to retrieve my fast fried comfort food, and somehow the unthinkable happened: the bag dropped. On the ground. Where me and my c-section and my extremely stuffed nose couldn’t reach it.

I don’t think my life has ever felt quite so tragic. I let out a wail of agony so  loud, the entire Mickey Dee’s team and company turned to stare at the crazy lady in the drive-through. And the poor girl at the window was ready to upgrade me to a milk shake just to make the shrieking stop.

Frankly, we all know that’s not going to happen any time soon. But I will get a hug, I guarantee it.