I recently committed the most horrendous, I-should-know-better-especially-right-now sin in the entire world. I asked another mom if she was pregnant. And she wasn’t.

Let me back up a second. On Saturday we went to Lagoon (thanks to the generous and loving hearts of my babysitters who got us in super cheap). It’s an amusement park. That’s right, everyone’s favorite Saturday activity: cart three small, screaming children around all day and force them on rides.

Due to the tender ages of my offspring and my current delicate condition, I find nothing amusing at amusement parks. I spent somewhere around seven hours transferring toddlers from ride to ride, trying to keep my little serial cutters from pushing the smaller, weaker, politer children aside so they could satisfy their adrenaline lust.

As I was standing in line, trying not to watch my kids spinning around in decrepit old helicopters, the mom at the fence next to me struck up a conversation. We visited about our kids for a second, and bonded over the fact that we both have three small children, and like bald men. She was tall and pretty, certainly not fat, and was wearing what appeared to be a maternity top.

“So when are you due?” she asks me. Frankly, I was kind of surprised she said anything. I feel like I’m still in the “is she fat or pregnant?” stage of things, sometimes I wonder if all that thumping around is really just indigestion from too many cupcakes.

“Oh! Um, I’m due at the end of the summer, what about you?”

Okay, let me clarify something here: Up to this point, the only strangers who have publicly asked me if I’m pregnant ARE PREGNANT LADIES. I just assumed that she wouldn’t have asked me if she didn’t want me to ask her…right?

“Oh, I’m not pregnant, just fat.” And then I wanted to die.

I seriously considered throwing myself into the duck pond at that point, I felt so horrified and stupid. I casually played it down and explained why I asked, besides, she definitely didn’t look fat. But it doesn’t matter how you sugar coat it, once it’s out, there’s no putting it back (kind of like having a baby).

I was tired, the kids were tired, and all I could think of was how badly I wanted someone to threaten me with a nap. I’ll tell you, I would have gladly accepted the punishment.

Here’s this week’s Regarding Annie Column from the paper. Thought it might be easier if I just pasted it in for you.

“Is there anything more harmlessly dangerous than a domesticated husband?

Here’s the thing about men in their 30s with stable jobs and good marriages: It doesn’t matter who they were in their 20s, what condition their hairline is in or how schooled they are in the fine art of seduction, women everywhere want them. Why? They’re tame, they’re not out to impress anyone, and they’re hopelessly ignorant to their own attractiveness.

In other words, humble and friendly is to the 35-year-old divorcee what sexy and single is to the 20-year-old clubber. And my husband is absolutely clueless about it. To make matters worse, these poor stupid men have no idea that their idea of friendly regularly comes across as flirty. Flirty with big red flags and blowtorches.

So the other night Mr. Sweet Talker stops for a milkshake at the local drive-through.

“Hey, can I get an Oreo shake?” he asks the girl.

“Sure, no problem.”

“I’ve just got to ask, is there any chance you still have that peppermint shake available?”

“Sorry, we discontinued it after Christmas,” she says.

“That’s too bad, I loved that shake! Man, I would get one of those every day if I could.”

Now to some idiots, like my husband, this might sound like nothing more than friendly conversation. But to his wife, who knows that his flirting button broke about 10 years ago and he now spews forth all kinds of innocent chatty fodder to every woman who crosses his path, this could be the start of something … else.

“Yeah,” she says with way too much warmth for a person discussing ice cream, “that shake was awesome. But hey, we’re bringing our peach shake back, you should come by and try it sometime.”

Let me translate: “You sound hot and friendly and I would totally go out on a date for peach milkshakes with you.”

“Cool,” he says, “I’ll have to do that.”

Now, what he meant by that was, “peach milkshakes sound good and I’d like to try one.” What she heard was something a little closer to, “let me get your number and we’ll share a peach milkshake and maybe something more.”

As he pulled away from the speaker and inched the car closer to the payment window he noticed my You Poor Idiot look.

“What? Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

“No honey, you said all the right things,” I replied.

“I don’t get it,” he said.

“I know, but she does, and she’s going to be really disappointed to see me sitting in the passenger seat when we pull up to that window.” I then gently explained to him for the 89th time that he’s sweet and friendly and women find it irresistible. Since he’s the most single-minded loyal hound on the planet, the thought that anyone would find someone as old and settled and married as he is attractive is inconceivable to him.

Let me tell you, she wasn’t any too happy to clamp her eyes on me as she handed him his peach milkshake. Frankly I don’t blame her, there’s nothing as appealing as a friendly puppy dog, especially one that’s house trained.”

Pregnant Annie is kind of like Mother Bear on crack.

While lying in my bed last night, I realized that in the past two weeks, I can think of at least five perceived threats to my children that had nothing to do with anything but my insane need to overprotect my offspring.

Why haven’t doctors targeted the Mother Bear hormone yet, and where is the cure? I can tell you right now, it sure isn’t Pepsi products, nor is it prenatal vitamins. In fact, I’m thinking the pills might be making my particular case worse. I was way more mellow when my iron was low. It was more like, “Oh look. A semi heading straight for the ba—snoooz…”

I’m trying to remember what life was like when I wasn’t running around protecting my children. I used to be way more laid back about their feelings, and in fact, if you look closely you might find blank spaces in my memory when I forgot that they had feelings.

I think I’ve had no less than three sisters, on BOTH sides of my family, gently lecture me lately on Overactive Imaginary Threat Syndrome and how I Need to Relax. I will tell you secretly, they were not wrong. I’m hoping now that I have jeans that fit maybe I’ll chill out a little and get back to normal. (Tummy panels are of the gods.)

Oh crap, I just heard June fall out of bed. You know, I’ve about had it with that mattress. I’ll bet that blasted bed is why she isn’t sleeping during the day, poor baby. If you’ll excuse me, I have a few words to say to Serta…

My two-year-old daughter has decided that she no longer wants to takes naps. She has displayed her discontent with this whole napping situation by laying on her back by the bedroom door and kicking it as hard as she can with her frighteningly sturdy legs until nap time is officially “over”.

(And yes, her abs are freaky strong with this new exercise regimen.)

I cannot lose this battle. Do you realize that in under five months I am going to have not three, but four very small, very headstrong children to deal with? If I don’t get some solid footing under my feet right now, I’m going to be no better than a mess of bubble packaging for my kids to stomp on.

To make matters worse, this pregnancy is really taking it’s toll on my energy level, I desperately need a nap every day. My older boys will happily sit down to a movie in the afternoon so I can grab a few winks, but June? Absolutely not. If she’s awake, then I’m awake.

Unfortunately, no nap for her means no nap for me, and without it I turn into a rather volatile zombie who’s incapable of things like cooking dinner and talking in quiet tones. I also tend to get red in the face at the slightest provocation, and have the distinct urge to revert to corporal punishment whenever the opportunity presents itself.

So here are my options. I can let her stay in her room for an hour and a half every day, waiting for her to either fall asleep or spend the entire time kicking the door (which she’s done the last two days), or I can let her out to torture and torment me with her wakefulness.

Keeping her in offers no rest for me, because she kicks the door so hard and so loudly that there isn’t a quiet corner in the house to escape to. Letting her out makes me want to run away and join a pregnant lady circus (I am convinced they really do exist). Help. Please. Someone. What do I do?

My fish is on his last fin and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Last year Harrison got one of those little red fish that can’t have any friends for his birthday. You know the kind, a great excuse to only have one fish and not twelve. He named him Indie, I set him up by my kitchen sink, and he has become the best pet ever.

This is a shocker, since I’m totally not a fish/reptile person. I like things that are warm and soft, not cold and wet. But I’m telling you, this fish has personality. You should see how happy he gets when I do dishes once a week.

A few weeks ago Indie started ignoring his fish food. Not all the time, but enough to make Mama wonder if her little red man was feeling ill. When Jason got home from his big trip, he cleaned the tank and refitted the fish with his favorite pet shark statue. But it’s been all underwater from there.

At the moment, Indie is floating on his side right up at the water line. He’s been in this position for the last four days. At first I tried to play it off with Jason as his new trick, “Play dead, Indie!”. But since he kind of never comes out of it, I’m starting to think he’s in serious trouble.

I even ran to Walmart yesterday and bought a gallon of distilled water, just in case something from my faucet was killing him. No luck. He’s as near dead as ever. But every time I pick up the phone to call the priest, I tap the tank and he waves a little reluctant fin at me, letting me know that it’s not time for the toilet, not yet.

What do I do? This is the first time I’ve been faced with offering a family member euthanization, I’m new to this principle. It kind of goes against everything I believe, yet he looks so sad and miserable and comotose that I can’t stand it anymore. Jason and I are both avoiding the dishes because who wants to stand at the sink and watch your fish try to die?

Okay, I need to go practice my musical number for the funeral. We should have a funeral, right?

You’ve got to love the way literature makes pregnancy sound so incredibly romantic.

Take babycenter.com for example. I love this site, really I do, but I’m sorry, no matter how you paint it, there is nothing desirable about that dark line running from your belly button to your pubic bone (referred to medically as the “dark line”). Even the name is horrible. Why can’t they call it something more appealing, like really ugly line. That would be better.

Or how about all their awesome heartburn advice, like avoiding chocolate, carbonation, orange juice, fatty, fried foods, and anything else that might taste even remotely appetizing to a depressed middle-aged mama who’s quickly losing her waistline (please do not connect the dots with the loss of waist line and my diet, thank you very much).

The thing is, I can’t help feeling all the time like this is it, I am never going to do this again. My ticket to eat like a reckless truck driver at a carnival is going to be short lived, especially now that the heartburn is starting to kick into high gear. I’m 19 weeks, and in no time flat this kid is going to crowd my stomach out of any enjoyment. I’ll be down to tablespoon portions just so I can sleep at night. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we start on heartburn management.

But even with everything I know about motherhood, all the crap and the sleep deprivation and the stretch marks and the loss of breast tissue (yes, it happens), not to mention the stuffed up nose, migraine’s, and regular vertigo (probably off kilter from all the rapid weight gain), I still sit on the couch by myself before bed every night, and wonder at the wonder of this little angel coming into our life. I’m amazed that there’s already so much room in my heart for another needy little ameba.

No doubt this will all be worth it by the time It’s 18 and moving out of the house. Until then, you’re probably going to listen to me whine about this one. A lot.

Is there anything more dreadful than the moment when irreplaceable furniture meets your two-year-old?

Yesterday was Easter Sunday. My husband took our three kids down to his folks house for dinner and an Easter Egg Hunt. I stayed home to clean the swamp. Sometimes there’s nothing more rejuvenating than a few hours of peaceful silence and a mop bucket. It’s amazing how much I can get done with the children out of the way.

So, while I was basking in the soft sounds of conference, and the sweet nostril singeing scent of toilet bowl cleanser, my husband and children were safely tucked away at Grandma’s house. Unfortunately I forgot that the thing I should have worried about wasn’t my family’s safety, but Grandma’s poor abused abode.

According to Jason (who gives very accurate and sometimes frightening accounts), during the course of the afternoon, someone looked over at my MIL’s beautiful dining room table just in time to casually notice that one of her custom leather chairs had white spots all over it. On closer inspection, it appeared that a rather determined ROUS (rodent of unusual size) had chewed chunks out of the furniture, leaving pieces of leather scattered in it’s wake.

(Forgive me if I get some of the conversation wrong here, I’m telling this second-hand.)

“What happened here? Who did this?” someone asked.

“Me! It was me! I did it!” the June Bug replied, running over with a self-satisfied grin. “I’ll show you!” She then proceeded to sink her very sharp teeth into the chair and rip a piece of leather from it’s surface.

And that was when the true spirit of Easter enveloped the room, and instead of killing, maiming, or banishing her, her grandparents offered the sweet forgiveness every parent prays for, and laughed. And laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

I’m taking her in to have her teeth dulled this week. Will they do that?

This morning I told my son why today is so important. In the telling of it, I realized that no matter how old I get, I’ll never stop crying over Jesus.

The Easter Bunny is hard for me. Yes, I went out and bought the stupid baskets and disposable toys, not to mention a small hoard of chocolate, but the entire time I felt like the whole thing is such a joke. Of all the holidays to ruin, the devil has been horrifyingly cunning with Easter.

Today was the day they crucified Jesus Christ. When I said those words to my little children this morning, something inside me remembered. I remembered that in spite of all the frivolous things that take up our days and our hours and our minutes here on this earth, nothing even comes close to this.

I know that the beauty of Easter is the resurrection, the fact that He lived and lives and will forever have His glorious body all to Himself again, but I can’t help aching this morning as I think about the sacrifices Jesus Christ made on my behalf. I need to remember it. I need to teach my children now, while they’re small, just how important they are in the eternal scheme of things.

I can’t wait for Sunday, and I can’t imagine how impossible these next few days must have been for Mary, the Savior’s mother, and everyone else that loved Him so on both sides of the veil. Even with a Heavenly perspective, this must have been a painfully tragic day, however much promise lay in store.

Today I’m going to sit down and think about the people and the places involved. I’m going to pull out my scriptures and read about it again, the whole hopeful mess of it all, and remember just how much I love Jesus, and just how much He loves me.

And I can’t wait until Sunday when my heart can shout, “Hosanna!” with all the other saints, on earth and in Heaven, as we celebrate the full circle of the Savior’s miracle of salvation.

And to think I almost stayed on the beach.

Holy Tony Bennett, I. Touched. Michael Buble.

So for Christmas my man and my best friend Tricia’s man, Mike, got us tickets to the Michael Buble concert. (Credit to Mike who did the actual buying, love you forever.) I ended up with a tough decision–Florida with Jason or See Michael Buble Live–and after a long hard think, I decided to come home from Florida three days early so I could be fair to both the men in my life.

I can’t believe I almost missed it.

We got there last night and they printed our tickets, and girls, we were in freaking Row Six. Row six, as in, six rows away from darling Michael, right on the inside aisle seats. I thought I was going to have a heart attack, don’t ask me how I managed to concentrate long enough to scarf down that funnel cake.

Oh, and I came straight from the airport and did not look cute at all, smelled like I’d walked across country, and I didn’t even care.

Why didn’t I care? Because not only did I touch Michael Buble twice, but he spoke to me, ME, MEEE!!! And not once, not twice, but three times. Okay, maybe the first two times he was kind of mocking me because I couldn’t stop screaming and clapping, and we were kind of surrounded by geriatrics who were sitting sedately in their seats like good Big Band patrons. He might as well have been Elvis, I’m telling you. It took everything in my power not to throw my Bella Band up on stage at his feet (that’s a maternity belt thingy, in case you were wondering).

Hands down my favorite moment came half way through the concert when he started talking about Michael Jackson, and again I kind of freaked out (because I have a thing for men named Michael who sing) and he POINTED right at me, and proceeded to say something like, “You too? Yeah, didn’t you just love blah blah blah?” And I had no idea what he was saying to me, but I kept nodding and bouncing and trying really hard to no pee on the floor in my excitement.

And I spent the entire last bit of the concert right up against the grate (the baby might have gotten a little smushed during this part), screaming and crying and dancing and singing–and my friend said we were on camera a couple of times but I was way too busy drooling to notice (I bet that looked hot on camera).

So thank you honey, for the best night of my life (funny you weren’t even there for it…). And I met a friend who actually reads my blog and noticed me (because I was screaming so loud and trying to rip off clothing and stuff). So fun to meet you Emily!

Best present ever.

Oprah does nothing for me. I haven’t sat down and watched an episode of Oprah since Harrison was a new born, when I began to realize that she’s only human and not necessarily much better at it than anyone else. Shocker, I know. I’m sure I’ll be struck down by the Cable gods any second now.

So I’m here in Florida for a few days, camping inside the hotel room with a righteous burn on my legs, and I see that Raquel Welch is on the Big O today talking about her new book. First I just stopped to gawk at how well preserved she is, but then she said something that I think is totally awesome.

Raquel thinks our culture puts way too much emphasis on sex in a relationship. Considering the fact that I am in a relationship, and (with regards to my current knocked up state) I obviously have sex, I found her thoughts not only intriguing, but wise. Plus, since my post last week, I’ve been thinking about intimacy in marriage and how it factors in, especially for women.

According to Raquel’s wisdom, sex is important, but what it should be is reflection of your relationship, of the tenderness and kindness and thoughtfulness, not the end all be all. In other words, if he has nothing to say to you in the kitchen, you probably don’t have much to say to him in the bedroom.

Here’s the thing. We’ve got to be startlingly clear with our men about our bedroom requirements. I say that because I think if a man’s unhappy in the bedroom, he’s allowed to tell us about it. I also think that if we’re unhappy in the living room, we should tell him right back. It’s not fair for us to hold that over his head, but it’s certainly not fair for him to expect something for nothing.

The trick is all in the semantics. Every guy is different, but where my man is concerned, I find the triple threat approach works best: tell him to his face, tell it to his email account, tell it to his boss–whatever it takes for him to absorb what you’re saying.

But the real catch is that you can’t just ask for what you want, you have to barter like fish trader. If you will do that, I will do this. I can tell you right now, men are logical beings. Give them an equation that equals a good payout and they’ll give you exactly what you want.

They’ll learn to love doing dishes, believe me.