So we all know I’m big on forcing my six-year-old to tell me I’m beautiful, but I realized today that it might not be clear as to why I force such compliments from him.

While I might possibly be the vainest girl you’ve ever met, forced compliments from my kid don’t actually do anything for my self esteem. Yes, I like to watch him blush and laugh and say, “Mom!” when I make my regular request, but as far as feeling better about myself, it really has nothing to do with that.

Today on the way to church as he was getting out of the car, I gave him the usual parental advice that comes on Sunday mornings. “Okay, tell me I’m beautiful.”

“Mom!” he said, slapping his forehead in the most adorably embarrassed gesture a six-year-old boy can make, “Why do you always make me say that?”

So I told him. “Harrison,” said I, “Someday you’re going to be a husband and a father, and it’s critical that you learn to tell the women you care about that they are beautiful every day. Trust me, it will make them happy, and you want your wife to be happy.”

The best part? He totally got it. I could see the little light bulb pop in his brain. And I know that my brainwashing is paying off, because when Junie came out this morning in fresh pig tails with a cute little outfit on, he said, “Oh, your hair is so cute!” What woman doesn’t love a man who can give a sincere (or even fictional) compliment on a semi-regular basis?

I know my husband loves me, but giving compliments has never been his strong suit. It’s my job as a mother to make sure my boys grow up and not only appreciate the women they love in their minds, but say it out loud and say it often. And as far as June’s concerned, there’s nothing more important for a girl’s budding self-esteem than hearing kind words from her brothers.

You want a woman to feel beautiful and good about herself? Tell her what you love about her, and tell her regularly. Sometimes we don’t even realize how much we need that kind of support until we hear it.

My mama is here for an entire week. That means Prime Rib to go (which unfortunately turns my stomach right now) and serious closet de-cluttering. I found out today that my hemoglobin is freaky low right now, which explains the crazy lack of energy and constant fatigue. Thank goodness for phlebotomists. I’m starting on iron supplements. The upside is more energy, but there’s nothing like legitimately pulling the fatigued and pregnant card (not that this will cease with the increase in energy).

In the meantime, here is this week’s article. Honestly, it was one of my favorites to write, laughed all the way through it. Life is so funny sometimes.

For those of you who missed it (because I took it down), I am officially knocked up. Almost to fourteen weeks, according to yesterday’s ultrasound (but who’s counting), and can I just say THIS HAS BEEN THE HARDEST THING NOT TO TELL YOU. You, my dearest friends who I tell everything to, keeping this to myself has been positively painful.

Luckily, the bagel stage has passed, and I’m finally starting to get glimpses of life in the second trimester. As many of you know, we’ve been working on making this child for over a year, and can I just say Hallelujah to never going through a first trimester ever again. This is it, our final attempt at procreation.

I’m planning on having the Doc fry those tubes when this kid comes out, and with my already impaired non-fertile plumbing, I’m pretty sure we won’t have any accidents that aren’t divinely planned (feel free to insert your favorite Friend Who Got Pregnant With Her Tubes Tied story here).

And so, now that I’m feeling better and the need to whine about raw meat and frozen chicken nuggets has passed (see? Aren’t you glad I kept it to myself?), we can get on to the good part of pregnancy. My boobs. Just between us, I forgot about the magical boob fairy that visits during that first trimester, it’s the one consolation prize to all the nastiness.

So here I am, emerging into the best and only nice part of pregnancy (I’m referring to my boobs again), and there’s no one here to enjoy it with. So lame. I would say it was his loss, not mine, but this is the last time I’ll have a rack like a teenager’s that’s not surgically enhanced and I’d like to enjoy it. The clock is ticking buddy, get yourself home.

So I’m reading The Bobbsey Twins to Harrison right now. Even though it’s slower than molasses and completely outdated, he’s way into it.

Now you would think that by choosing an old standard, we’d be totally safe. But I might as well go straight to Captain Underpants because there are moments when I actually have to censor this book.

Take their cook, Dinah. Every stinking time she talks, the author reminds us that she’s black and/or colored. I, of course, leave that part out because it seems so totally inappropriate and irrelevant. And when it talks about her husband, Sam, I get the distinct impression that the author is highly, highly racist. In fact, I do quite a bit of improvising where Sam is concerned because the book is hell bent on making him sound like an idiot. (Don’t worry, I’ve made Sam sound impressive enough to be the next president.)

And the more I read, the less credible this book becomes. To hear them talk, you’d think there was nothing in the world more wonderful than having two sets of twins, because obviously, they’re all best chums. I mean, Nan and Bert do practically everything together, and Freddie and Flossie (Flossie? Really?) couldn’t be more perfectly matched in coloring or temperment.

I guess what I’m really trying to say here is that THIS BOOK IS A LOAD OF CRAP. It’s such a good thing I’ve got Ramona Quimby and Super Fudge around, or I’d be feeling really bad about my parenting skills right about now. (By the way, Super Fudge is way funnier now that I’m a mother.)

Here’s this week’s article (written last week). This is what happens when you get up in the middle of the night and write to meet a deadline, then submit it real fast without letting it simmer. When I read through it today, all I could think was TMI. No one needs to know this much about my vacuuming problems.

So it looks like my kids will be staying here this weekend, it’s a no-go with their grandparents. I don’t quite know what to say, other than I want to throw up and run away to Ireland.

I was thinking about this whole single parenting gig today, and I’ve decided that really, it’s just a mind game. It’s not like Jason being home gives me much reprieve from the laundry, or the housework, or the endless stream of “I’m hungry’s” that fly from my kids’ ever open little mouths. Granted, he’s pretty good about handling bath time and pitching in with bed time, and he does usually does the dinner dishes. Okay, he helps me. A lot.

And even when I try really hard to look at the big picture and give myself a lousy pep talk, I can’t seem to shake feeling like I’m mostly alone in the world. Do I sound whiney enough? Cause seriously, I can turn this up a notch if you’re not feeling it.

So here I sit, mopey, depressed, and feeling like if any of my children even looks at me, I might fly into a crazy woman rage that involves large quantities of sugar and even larger quantities of telelvision. Because right now, I’m trying incredibly hard to be a good mother, but all those auto-pilot parenting tricks are calling out, “Use us! Use us! Come on and abuse us!”

I have an hour and forty minutes until my first-grader is home. He’s so high maintenance, wanting to be constantly entertained, I don’t know if we’re going to get through the rest of the day. Seriously, sometimes life sucks.

Quick update: I just got off the phone with my darling little sister-in-law who swooped in and saved the day–she’s helping me out on Saturday for a few hours so I only have to cancel one of the events I had scheduled for the weekend (oh yes, there were events). Hey, sometimes it pays to ask. Love you, Hayley!

So Jason called me yesterday afternoon. He’s in a seriously secret place and we only get to communicate at night when he’s done with all his classes/homework/gun cleaning/pizza parties. We visited for a second, and he says, “So how are you doing, really? Are you okay?”

I took a second for a little self evaluation, and I realized something rather frightening. I’m doing great. Sure, last week I was clinically depressed, and sure I laid in my bed until noon on Saturday eating Captain Crunch and reading magazines, but that was then. Apparently, I am a highly resilient creature. I was surprised at my own very honest response.

“You know what? I’m great. The kids are great, the house is great, we’re actually doing just fine.” And I meant it.

Who knew that I could get over him so fast? Who knew that I could be such a rocking single parent who has managed for the past two nights to NOT scream like a crazy woman at my kids (much), even when they’re awake after 7:30 pm.

Of course, maybe part of this is the fact that my kids will be spending the upcoming weekend with their grandparents, and I know on a very important level that I will have some time to regroup and drink up some necessary alone time in a completely kid-free zone. And let me tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever looked forward to a weekend so much in my entire life, honeymoon included (okay, it’s a toss up).

I’m just thankful for the friends and family members who haven’t forgotten us, it’s times like these when you can really see who gives a crap about you. Honestly, after that last three day weekend alone, in the house, with three kids for 72 hours, I almost lost it. Thank goodness for relatively expensive babysitters.

My children do not deserve Charmin.

Here’s the thing about the budget. I’ve cut back over the past year on a lot of things. Pedicures, hair appointments, wardrobe, eating out–virtually every corner of our life (minus our Comcast bill) has been scavenged for spare change. And it’s been good. We’re amazing. We’ve paid off massive amounts of our mountain, and haven’t put a penny on the credit card.

But there are some things that I’m just not willing to go without. Bare Minerals, for one. Anti-aging skin care, for another. I refuse to pass up a good deal on a girdle, will not sacrifice date night, however cheap it might be, and I insist on renting occasional movies. But top of the list? Good toilet paper.

Because let’s face it. Boys might not care that much, but as a girl, I need quality toilet paper. It’s one of the most under appreciated articles of household convenience the market. I don’t think we even realize how lucky we are to have toilet paper (versus foliage or newspaper). And no matter how hard I try to cut back, I like expensive toilet paper.

The only problem with having small children and an affinity for a classy wipe is that small children underestimate the value of a single square of toilet paper. Now that June is mostly potty trained (minus the pooping which I’m really sick of), she loves having a license to wipe. And let me tell you, that girl has some kind of handle on toilet paper.

I am now plunging on a daily basis, watching all that lovely, expensive soft tissue go right down the toilet in mass quantities. No matter how hard I try, I have to ask myself. Is this really worth it?

I don’t know, maybe the ghost of Dave Ramsey is haunting my vanity. Although, if the only thing I’ve got left as far as pride goes is a few squares of toilet paper, then I’m doing pretty darn good.

Check out this week’s column for info on Jason’s early Valentine Surprise, tomorrow I’m going to post the rest of it.

Now quit surfing the net and go make out with your husband.

I was driving down the road yesterday, listening to a Best Of station, when Air Supply came on.

Now let me tell you, I love my man. He’s the most wonderful man ever (as long as he doesn’t get too honest about my weight). When I see the sun gleam off his beautiful bald head, it makes my heart race and my stomach sucks itself in all by itself (so I look skinnier). I’m mad and crazy for him on every level imaginable–except one. 80’s music. He might have my heart, body and soul, but he’ll never have the 80’s.

I was the third of three girls at the end, and we weren’t allowed to listen to “unapproved music” until we turned 12, at which time we were given a boom box and a big fat lecture on choosing good music.

Thing is, I hit my first big crush (one that had been stewing for years) the summer before I turned 12. And we all know, you can’t be in love in the 80’s and not listen to 80’s music, it’s just wrong on so many levels. So my sisters made me an approved tape from the radio of all the best love songs in the world.

I would sit in my room and listen to that tape over and over and over, thinking about Him and how great his braces were, wondering if he was thinking of me, imagining our wedding (do not judge me, I swear you did it too).

Now, all these years later, when I drive down the road and hear those wonderful, romantic songs, I have to smile because as hard as I try, I have to force Jason’s face to the forefront of my consciousness. It’s like trying to unbrainwash the member of some relatively nice cult; nearly impossible.

I’m so glad I was in love (aka completely and totally obsessed on what can only be described as an unhealthy level) in the 80’s, I’d feel so left out if I had missed it.