I hate Pamela Anderson.

So the fam and I have been soaking up the southern Utah rays the past few days (hence my blog free foray). Sounds great right? All rainbows and sunburns.

Honestly, I was so excited to go to the pool. I know, pregnant albino whales don’t usually feel anxious to don a bikini with a maternity tank top and float around in public places, but I really thought I was over it. I mean, I’m a confident gestating woman, right? I have no problem rocking the tummy panel and changing out my stilettos for flats (okay, so that one has been hard.) But when it comes right down to it, I have no current pregnant complaints.

(We all know that last statement was a lie.)

So just when I’m feeling all light and buoyant, checking my top for tan lines, this stupid Pamela Anderson Minus Ten Years woman walks into the water area. Not only is she skinny and tan and blond and bikini clad, but her oil saturated body was followed by no less than four children.

Oh my gosh, she even took my excuse away. Those blasted kids.

In point two seconds I went from feeling like a prima-donna fertile goddess of the sun, to a pasty roly-poly newly emerged from under her winter rock. All I could think of was, “How can I disappear without anyone noticing I’m gone?” I’ve never wanted to get my hair wet so badly. I think I spent the majority of the following hour completely submerged in I Hate That Girl horror.

And yeah, I’m vain. If I’m being really honest, the only reason I hated her was because more than anything in the world, at that moment, I kind of wanted to be her, boob job and all.

The only slightly redeemable aspect to this entire self-confidence crushing fiasco was the fact that somehow, my husband managed to not look at her (or at least he did it undetected). Trust me, I glared and glowered at him from across the pool for nearly ten minutes, with just my angry eyes peeking out from the depths of the kiddie section.

I don’t know if it’s his super special secret agent training or what, but during that very green spell of my life, he managed to almost fool me into believing that he hadn’t seen her, and that she wasn’t hot enough to warrant a glance from him.

He did lovingly pat my thigh later and tell me that I was the most beautiful albino whale he’d ever seen. Yeah. And we all know how well that comment went over.

So I wrote this week’s Standard article as a spin off from last week’s blog post about children playing sports. (In case you’re wondering, I might have changed some names to protect the innocent, aka my son. Hey, you never know who is going to read it and hate you through him.)

Shortly after writing the article, I read this post by Vanessa over at I Never Grew Up. She voices the concern we all face as mothers: how much is too much? Since then I’ve been thinking of ways to combat this whole Must Do Extracurricular Activities mentality, and earlier this week I came up with something that I think might work for us.

I’ve decided that if we want our kids to learn baseball and soccer and tennis and basketball and singing and dance and yoga, we need to play with them. As a family. Jason and I are athletic (okay, maybe just Jason) and talented (ahem), why shouldn’t we be the ones to teach them? Why should we depend on little league and camps and lessons for everything when we’ve both got the time and energy (again, mostly Jason) to do it ourselves?

The thing is, by teaching your kids to play sports in your own backyard, you accomplish three things. First, you save money. Second, you learn to play together and have fun as a family. And third, no one is going to give your kids the time and attention they need like you will. Besides, it will mean more to them that you were the one to teach them. What kid doesn’t want that kind of attention from their folks?

To solidify this idea in my mind, I received an awesome email today from a dad who’s done just that. In response to my article, he emailed to tell me that since his kids were little, he’s organized family pickup baseball games at their local park–parents included. They’ve never depended on organized athletics to teach their kids sports, and their family has been richly blessed because of it.

His email not only impressed me, it reminded me that no one can teach them to have fun and play sports better than I can. Probably because I am the Fun Queen of the Universe. When I’m not yelling. You get the point.

Let’s be frank. Family home evening isn’t my best bit of mothering. Don’t get me wrong, 80% of the time we manage a prayer, a song, some random bit of lesson that may or may not be scripturally based, almost always followed by a rousing game of charades.

I am bad at FHE. I know it’s one of the most important things we can do, and I feel desperate to fulfill this part of parenting, but I didn’t grow up with it. It’s hard to do something that you only did on the random occasion when you were all locked in the car waiting for Dad to finish his business deal, and Mom had a church magazine handy.

But last night I had a full blown revelation. Actually, I got it last week and it stuck around, so I thought that for once, it must be a valid idea.

We decided to do a Title of Tintle’s, kind of like Moroni’s Title of Liberty. Actually, it was nothing like the Title of Liberty, but I wanted some kind of scriptural reference so my kids wouldn’t think us complete heathens.

We took a big piece of poster board, gave everyone crayons, and proceeded to come up with words and phrases that describe our family (only the good/hopeful ones, not the bad/realistic ones). We talked about loyalty and listening, paying compliments and showing affection. We wrote about patience, love, Jesus, playing games, being together, vacationing, playing in the backyard, jokes, and paint. The paint was Harrison’s idea.

It is currently posted in my kitchen, and every time I walk by it, I feel this little stirring of hope that maybe, just maybe, my kids will turn out okay. Maybe they’ll eventually stop hitting each other and lying to us, and maybe they’ll actually learn to like cleaning toilets (I slipped that one in when no one was watching).

The point is, we can’t predict what our family will be, but if I’ve learned anything from famous goal setters and dreamers, it’s that we can do more than hope for the best, we can and should reach for it.

(I’ll let you know how the toilet cleaning works out._

Is it mean that I don’t want to share my leftover pineapple orange juice from Mother’s Day with my children?

Here’s the thing. I’m willing to give them just about anything they could possibly need, and plenty of what they want. I would include here my makeup and personal hygiene paraphernalia, as well as morning television viewing time (like I want to watch PBS kids?), any and all spare change they find in the bottom of my purse, and on a rare occasion, my Russell Stover Sugar Free Mints.

But you know what? I don’t want to share my juice. I don’t care if we never have juice in the house. I don’t care if they look at me with those great big cow eyes and salivate all over my shoes. I don’t even care that they’re thirsty. It’s called water, people. Help yourself.

Because when it comes to this annual drink (I only have it on Mother’s Day), I want to savor every stinking drop of my calorie inflated sugary bliss. Keep the eggs and the toast, go to town on my chocolate bar from Church, but leave my juice alone.

Right now I have very of anything that I can truly call my own, body included. But when it comes to my pineapple orange juice, hands off unless you want to lose them. Seriously.

It’s Mother’s Day this weekend, and I have to tell you, this might be my favorite holiday. Why? Because I always think Jason will forget about it or ignore it, and he always exceeds my non-expectations. Somewhere in the last few years I realized that the trick to a fabulous Mother’s Day is just that–go expectationless.

Don’t get me wrong, my gifts usually come from the dollar store, and it’s not like he brings in a marching band, but when you’re not expecting anything, dollar store gifts kind of rock. Besides, I’ll take an omlet in bed over a brass band any day.

When it comes right down to it, my favorite thing about Mother’s Day is the fact that I have kids. Sure, sometimes I want to run away to Mexico, and it’s no secret that I tend to curse in the laundry room on a regular basis, but I like them, stains and all. They’re independent and intelligent, and most of all, they make me want to get to Heaven because I know all three of them will probably be there (actually, the jury’s still out on the June Bug).

So I’ll put up with tantrum’s during church and routine poopy diapers, and I’ll try to breathe through Harrison’s sassy phases without smacking him. I can even brave these last few months of incubation with number four because I know that in the end, we’re going to get one more willful little angel out of it all.

My job is divine. My kids are amazing only becuase they’re mine. I have no idea what they’ll look like in twenty years, but I don’t doubt that I’ll learn more about love and forgiveness and patience and humor than I ever wanted to know.

Whether you’ve been there, are there, or hope to someday be there, may your Mother’s Day be filled with unexpected moments of joy, and if you’re lucky, a dish-free sink. Hey, we take what we can get, right?

Here is this week’s Regarding Annie column. It was killer not to post it straight to the blog, but I do have deadlines and all that jazz. Gotta give them something that makes the word count. Enjoy, because I certainly didn’t.

“So, nearly two weeks ago I went in for my monthly baby doctor appointment and left a nice little yellow sample for them to splash around in. During my visit, I mentioned to the doctor that I was a little concerned that I might be coming down with a UTI. (If you don’t know what UTI stands for, I hate you.) He said they’d run some lab work on it and get back to me.

Of course, we all know that I never check messages. In fact, last I checked my home phone had 97 new messages, despite the “Please DON’T leave us a message because I’m too cranky to check them,” verbal warning on our machine.

So seven days after my appointment I checked my cell phone messages, only to find out that I had been supposed to pick up a prescription a week ago. But I wasn’t feeling sick, so it was probably nothing. I called the nurse, and we decided that if I should feel even the slightest twinge, I needed to call for a prescription pronto.

Of course, the next morning I woke up feeling … infectiony. I called in, they ordered my prescription, and then I forgot about it completely, left it sitting at my neighborhood Wal-Mart, and left for Women’s Conference, a two-day religious revolution for girls, an hour and a half from my home.

By Thursday I was nervous. Not only was I frequently urinating (bad sign when a pregnant woman pees more than usual), but I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable, if you know what I mean. (If you don’t know, then I hate you.) I chugged some cranberry juice and decided I could probably hold out until Friday night, that was only two more days. How bad could it get?

Friday morning I woke up in a fog. It was day two of Women’s Conference, and I knew the classes I wanted to attend would all potentially get me into Heaven. I shuffled to the bathroom and could barely find the energy to brush my teeth.

“You need to go home,” said a little voice over my shoulder. Instantly I knew it was the devil, because there was no way he wanted me to hear about Jesus today, right? Stupid devil.

For the next hour, I fought his insistent nagging, certain that Satan himself was trying to drag me to hell, minus one Jesus class at a time. How dare he interfere with my salvation? Did he really think I was that stupid?

Don’t ask me how I made it to campus and out of my vehicle, or how I managed to walk nearly a mile, then sit through an entire class, before it finally dawned on me. I was ill. Very ill. And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t the devil, but a little angel that was screaming at me to get myself home and get some medication before I ended up dead.

So here I sit with a full blown kidney infection. Talk about getting my wires crossed. Let me tell you, sometimes the voice you hear loudest is the one that loves you best.”

Sorry, sweetheart, but the girls have got to go.

Let me tell you, I’m not sure if it’s been my impressive weight gain or my impressive pregnant hormones, but the girls are literally getting bigger every day. At first I was all, “Woo-hoo! Go bigger bra size!” Now? Not loving my ginormous enhancement.

It’s funny, because when I was in high school and even beyond, I envied my well endowed sisters. Like the inability to go running was some sign of True Womanhood? Like having a large chest makes you feel more qualified to handle life in general? Let me tell you, as of this week I have realized something: it doesn’t. Back pain? Yes. Eternal wisdom? No.

I’ve realized that big boobs make me feel fat (along with my gradually growing gut). Between all these massive mounds I’m now sporting, I feel like a walking mountain range, not a glowing statue of fertility. If fertility means I can no longer button a single jacket, then I’m not one bit sad about giving it up after this baby. (Not that I’m dogging fertility, Heaven knows how many years I’ve spent running after that train. First Class is never as good as you think it is, by the way.)

And so, much to my husband’s total heartbreak, when the time comes for me to have my tummy professionally tucked (oh, do not doubt that I shall, I shall), I think I’ll leave the rest of my goods alone. I am missing my barely there B cup. Sure, when my nursing days are said and done I’ll be left with nothing more than a ghost of these blazing glory days, but frankly, it’s a nice, manageable little ghost.

My son is in baseball.

This should be a fun, exciting time of life for me, being the mother of a budding athlete, but it’s not. Watching Harrison (almost 7) play baseball brings back an onslaught of painful memories from being a kid who thought sports were the only road to true, lifetime happiness–happiness that was unattainable to me because no matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t going to be that athlete.

So, for the past week, I’ve watched my beautiful son get stuck in the outfield and be last every time to bat. It’s not that he’s bad at sports, it’s that he’s the youngest and the smallest on his team. And I feel like throwing up.

Yesterday I went to a funeral. It was for a boy in our ward who has spent his life struggling with muscular dystrophy, the disease that finally took his life.

Kevin has a huge family of mostly brothers, and these boys love to play sports. They love to play them, watch them, breathe them–they’re about the most passionate bunch of athletes you’ve ever seen. And this sweet, wonderful boy spent his life on the sidelines, watching and cheering. Nobody loved sports more than Kevin.

During the few years he was able to play when he was a small child, he never got on base, never scored a run. And still he was happy.

My friends, I have realized that these things we choose to agonize over as mothers have just about as much validity as spit. Harrison loves baseball, he doesn’t even know the outfield isn’t the best place on the field. He loves his glove, he loves practice, he loves his uniform. He may never be the best at anything, but who in the world cares?

My boy can run. My boy can play. He can hit the ball and make it from first to home, without a thought in this sweet little head. We can hug without worrying about the confines of a wheelchair. I will thank Heavenly Father every day of my life that he’s still here, and he’s still ours.

If you have the time, check out this new video of Stephanie Nielsen, aka Nie Nie. Very inspiring.

My scale is completely out of control.

Non-pregnant annie is a thoughtful eater. She eats small amounts, plenty of veggies, and avoids the white stuff. When she wants a brownie she has one, but not the whole pan. She checks her weight a few times a week and stays within a five pound area.

Frankly, I have no idea who that person is because she’s so far from this pregnant whale sitting before you.

I am 24 weeks pregnant, and quite frankly, I have no problem with gaining 30 pounds during pregnancy. 30 pounds is healthy, it’s more than substantial, and it’s expected. Just not at 24 weeks.

This is what happens when you pretend for a month that your scale is broken, and only venture to step on it when you’ve been sick and fasting for the past two days, because you’re sure that you’ll get the best possible result. But what do you do when the best possible result is at least six pounds more than you thought it would be?

Up to this point I’ve been kidding myself with lectures on how this is my last one, I’ll never do this again, just enjoy the pregnancy. But how can I enjoy the pregnancy when my tummy panels are now tight? What kind of happiness is that bringing me? I’m already waddling, for crying out loud.

When all is said and done, I don’t want to have a seven pound newborn and a twenty-pound brownie on my back. That does not sound like postpartum fun. I’ve got to get a grip sometime, today is as good as tomorrow.

And so, as of this morning, I am starting fresh and getting reacquainted with that girl who used to say no more than yes. There’s no reason for me to feel any worse about myself than I feel right now (which is pretty bad). I am suddenly remembering how much more I like myself when I use the brake handle and exercise a little taste bud discipline.

In case you’re worried, I am not going on a diet. I am not trying to lose weight. I just need to stay where I am for a while–like the next 14 weeks. If I can firmly hold back the tide of my ravenous appetite, I think we’ll all be a lot happier. (All, meaning me and the people who have to live with me/socialize with me/help me in stores.)

Because there’s two of them.

So last Saturday I spent the afternoon at the Women’s Expo with my dearest friend Elisa, the great brain behind the Casual Blogger Conference and Mormon Mommy Blogs, plugging all things blog worthy to every passing female that stopped to steal candy from us. (Seriously, there were some major sticky fingers out there.)

After getting myself comfortable, I turned to the table of bloggers next to us. Once I said hi and took a good look, I was shocked to find myself seated next to none other than Marie Osmond, minus a decade or two.

So I started chatting with her in my usual let-me-give-you-way-too-much-information-about-myself kind of way, and suddenly I had to do a double take because, get this,  there’s freaking two of them.

That’s right, Marie-Osmond-Only-Better: Twins.

These girls are amazing. Not only are they gorgeous, but they’re fun and talented in a way I can’t personally fathom. They’re the creators of The DIY Dish, one of the best blog crafting how-to site’s I’ve found, and unlike Marie, their creative ability actually stretches beyond doll manufacturing (although I don’t doubt they could do that as well).

And not only do they regularly come up with how-to tutorials, but they actually film a demonstration every week and post it on their blog. For idiots like me who need to see it in action to understand it, this is ideal.

I know, I just met twin, Marie Osmond, crafting movie star geniuses.

So pop on over there, meet my new creative let’s-do-lunch twin girlfriends, and get your how-to fix for the day.