Well hallelujah for grandparents.

It’s a funny thing about parenting. I’ve spent the last nine or ten months in total and complete toddler frustration. I have this darling 24 month old daughter who is so into everything and such a little doer, I’ve been ready to ship her off to Arkansas so she could work on a beet farm.

But I’ll tell you right now, my parents see her through totally different eyes. I don’t know, perhaps it’s the fact that they’ve cycled eleven kids of their own (plus who knows how many strays) through the system over the years. Perhaps it’s the fact that she’s exactly like their last child and they’ve done this successfully before.

Whatever it is, they had her number the first day we got here and I don’t think  my little June Bug has ever been so happy in her entire life. I can see that she’s going to be heartbroken to leave them, and there’s no doubt they’ll feel the same way.

I’ve been too close to the situation, calling her business naughty and thinking she was so difficult. But watching her with my parents I realize she’s not at all naughty, and is in fact quite the opposite. With the right parents, the girl is a total pleaser. She just wants to do everything.

Proving their weight, my parents caught on to that as soon as we got here. My mother has her lining the trash cans and loading the dryer, getting her own glasses of water and dressing herself. All she needs is a little direction, she’s about the smartest thing going.

I feel guilty. I feel bad. I hate that I’ve been fighting her for the past few months when it could have been so much easier. I’m so lucky to have parents who can still teach me things, and I feel like I’m finally seeing my little June Bug and all her incredibly enthusiastic potential.

My point is this. Sometimes as parents, we’re too close to the situation. When you have a difficult child, may I suggest that we all take a moment and consider what role we’re playing that might be making the situation what it is? All relationships are two-sided, get outside the box for a while and you might be surprised at what you see.

I was planning to do some grand resolution post, then I read this article today and decided I needed to yell a little instead.

I just read that my favorite go-to love show radio host enthusiast, Delilah, pulled her kids from their private school. Her reasoning? They’re being infiltrated with Mormon doctrine.

The doctrine in question is a course on Steven Covey’s 7 habits of highly effective people. Because obviously, his course is laced with underlying brainwashing tactics and mental mine bombs, planted throughout his very frightening personal improvement plan. Let’s break them down and uncover the real motivation behind these “habits”.

1. Be proactive. You might think he’s referring to taking the initiative in the work place here, but you’re dead wrong. What he’s really talking about is the Relief Society and all those meals they’re always forcing on people. Watch out for those Mormons, they’re always giving out free food.

2. Begin with the end in mind. Hello? He’s obviously trying to push salvation on people here. I mean, if this step doesn’t refer to the fact that we’re all just waiting to die I don’t know what is. Come on Steve, can’t you be more subtle an that?

3. Put first things first. Come on, do we have to hear about food storage again? Those Mormons and their 72-hour kits. Don’t they know that national disasters are job security for the Red Cross?

4. Think win-win. Church basketball. Why does everything always come back to church basetball?

5. Seek first to understand and then be understood. This certainly is not referring to interpersonal relationships with people in the work place. In fact, I find the very suggestion offensive. And whatever you do, don’t apply this principle to your marriage.

6. Synergize. Talk about frightening, who knew Covey was a mormon and a Treky?

7. Sharpen the Saw. He’s a mass murderer, I’m telling you. Run, run for your lives!

I hate this whole thing, and I’m sad about Delilah. People like this just don’t seem to get it, you know? They listen to people around them who “study” our religion, but are really just misguided haters. This is America, can’t we all just get along?  

I would love to continue listening to her program just to show that I know Christians are wonderful people (and Mormons are Christians too, by the way), but I won’t be able to stomach it anymore.

Good thing I’ve got Englebert and Michael dowloaded to my computer.

We had a little unexpected detour this past weekend.

The fam and I are currently spending the holiday up in Elma with my folks. But right before Christmas, Jason’s grandfather passed away in California. So, thanks to the kind hearts and generous wallets of his parents, we flew down on Sunday night and attended the funeral on Monday, then made our way back to Washington yesterday via JetBlue.

I have decided that from now on, I will put my children in cold storage for all in-flight travel.

I also had some time to think about being dead. For starters, when I die, I would like before and after shots of me blown up really big. You know, a picture of me at age 86 with the “before” sign, then one of my senior photos from high school with an “after” because who isn’t going to be excited to get that body back? Hey, if that visual alone doesn’t inspire more people to look forward to death I don’t know will.

I also want a chocolate fountain and banana splits and prime rib and tikki masala and pizza hut deep dish pizza, all sitting under a big banner that reads, “Here’s what I’m eating in Heaven, wish you were here!”

Because when I die, I’d really like everyone to try and be stoked for me. Granted, this is a lot easier when the person is elderly and has really lived, but even if I go before 80, I like to think somewhere, someone will be glad. (That didn’t sound quite right.)

I also want mostly awesome music. Like dream boy Englebert Humperdink’s song, “This Moment in Time.” I love that man. In case you are too young to remember him, or don’t appreciate soulful crooners, go ahead and skip over this.

For the rest of you (since I can’t figure out how to put the video in my post), here’s a link to one of my favorite hairbrush songs in the entire world.

I know, he’s so cool.

(Ps – I’m a third generation Englebert Humperdink fan.)

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no.

I have been faced with one of the worst moral dillemas known to girlkind. There’s an old addage that claims the worst decision is a choice between two good things.

And here I am, and now I have to choose between two totally awesome and amazing things. What’s it going to be?

Jason or Michael?

Santa wasn’t just good to my kids, but he apparently reads my blog. Because what do you think he left me this Christmas? A ticket. A beautiful, golden (actually it’s just a credit card receipt) ticket to the Michael Buble Crazy Love concert (currently making it’s way to Salt Lake City) with my dear-dear-friend Tricia.

Oh holy hannah, it was almost a perfect moment. Then Jason said this.

“By the way, the concert happens during the same week I’m going to Florida.”

I sat there looking at him, the word “concert” reverberating through my Michael infected mind.

“Huh?” I say.

“I said, if you want to go to the concert, you won’t be able to go to Florida with me.”

See, Jason gets one chance each year to take a week of training in Florida. On the beach. By the ocean. And I get to go with him.

I went last year and must tell you, it was the most recharging, free vacation I’ve ever had in my life. I plowed through novels and got five shades of red laying out on the beach.

The dillema is even greater because Jason is leaving me for five weeks in February to go to some big kid spy camp, so this vacation is kind of critical to my children’s safety and their mother’s sanity.

And thusly I sit. Wracked with torment. What do I do? Who do I choose? How could this be???

You know, I’m really feeling for Bella Swan right about now.

Christmas is over.

Hallelujah!!

Seriously, I don’t know about yours, but ours was full of wonderfulness and a few presents. Of course, I didn’t get what I asked Santa for (a blow up doll to sit in the front seat with the kids so I can run irritating errands like going to the post office, etc.), but I did come up with the greatest Santa trick ever.

Harrison got a relatively nice and ridiculously expensive gift (something we can do since Rex and June can still be shopped for at the Ross clearance toy section), a Nintendo DS. But if you ask me, he didn’t really deserve the best gift. The week or two before Christmas I saw an influx of fits and stomping, and I was tempted on more than one occasion to pop him one.

And so, after all the gifts were opened and he was feeling real good like, I said the following:

“Wow, Harrison, you got some great stuff. But it’s too bad you weren’t as good as you could have been. You should have heard what Santa was going to bring you.”

This got his attention.

“What do you mean?” his little 6-year-old self asked, “there was something better?”

I got all conspiratorial, looked both ways to make sure Santa wasn’t listening, and said, “If only you hadn’t thrown so many fits, he was gonna bring you a real motorcycle!” To which he gasped and choked and looked at his lump of DS with slight distain and disgust.

I have the feeling next year Santa will have a little more power.

And that, my friends, is brilliant parenting.

Twas the night before Christmas Eve and my family was making a midnight ride to grandma’s house. Over rivers and through many woods, happily breezing by those glowing beacons universally recognized as McDonald play places–we passed all the usual landmarks as the kids slept snugly belted into their boosters.

Here’s the thing about going home for the holidays. I spent the first two decades of my life engrossed in what I believed to be the most wonderful way to celebrate Christmas ever. Probably one of the hardest things about getting married was giving it all up. Adhering to new traditions was about as easy as traveling through a Utah snowstorm with rear wheel drive.

But since we’ve had children, Christmas has once again morphed and changed. And while I’m so excited to be home for the family Christmas Eve party (because it never quite feels like Christmas without it), I’m incredibly conscious of the sweet little Christmas I’m leaving here.

The last two years have been kind of precious for us. These three darling kids bring so much light and enthusiasm to our home (they also sometimes stink and throw-up, but you get the point), I’m afraid I’ll get so wrapped up in all the extended family that I won’t really see them.

Because even though our babies are still too busy dreaming of sugar plums and Santa gifts to give Jesus a whole lot of attention, I know that His spirit is in our home. We love each other, and forgive the phrase, but together really is our favorite place to be (especially if Disneyland or McDonald’s is part of that place). It must make the Savior happy to see families loving to be together, and so far we do.

No matter where the holiday might take you, may your Christmas be full of the same spirit that attended our Savior on that sacred night of his birth. May there be joy and love and family bonds, may your bridges be mended and may there be an abundance of olive branches to mark your path.

And even if you don’t get to be with the people you love the most, may the Spirit of Christmas let you love the ones you’re with.

Merry Christmas, my dear friends. Merry Christmas.

It’s one in the afternoon and this is the first time my cheeks have hit the seat all day. Holy crap where has the time gone?

I don’t know about you, but my list of to-do’s is still two feet long and I’ve checked it seven times. I have a kitty and a cape to make, two loads of must-have laundry left, not a gift is wrapped and we still have to pack. That’s right, I said pack. Because we’re taking Christmas to Washington.

And June is shredding all the Christmas paper as we speak.

I feel like the season has snuck up behind me and I’ve missed all the fun. Sure, there’s been snow and constant carols, but my shopping was done by Thanksgiving and the past few weeks I’ve been suffocating under the load of our ward Christmas party (which is like putting together a wedding reception, by the way).

And to top it off, I realized today that I haven’t made a single Christmas treat this year. I stepped on the scale this morning and it was right where it was supposed to be. I was actually depressed.

I need truffles and chocolate covered bacon. I want my SIL’s homemade caramels and my mother’s fudge by the pound. My kitchen is clean, and due to time constraints, it’s probably going to stay that way.

My only consolation has been the half pound of homemade almond roca Tricia dropped off and the plate of goodies from my visiting teachers. But it’s not the same, my kitchen hasn’t pulled it’s weight this year.

For the record, if you live in the greater northern Utah area and have piles of unwanted nut-free treats hanging around, consider me a possible dumping ground.

Down to three days with three projects to go. Here is a highlight of some of the better Christmas projects I’ve commissioned myself to make from scratch. Next year I’ll cut off a hand before attempting this kind of work load again. (And did you all know that Simplicity patterns are still written in Latin?)

Note the unfinished feet (they will not be camel toes when I'm done). This is a car pillow monkey friend that my kids think is really cool. I wanted to bite off his nose, the face was so hard to figure out. *Do not attempt this if you are under any kind of duress, or taking prescription medication.

He's going to be Rex's. Yes, I had him model the pelt before hiding it away. Rex and Coo Coo Bird think he's awesome.

Did I mention I have two more of these animals to make, and that June found/opened/destroyed the pattern last night? I wonder who’ll be getting coal this year.

Because I've had so much time on my hands I decided to "throw together" a hooter-hider for a girlfriend that just delivered. I only had to rip it out three times before getting it right, and I only hit one child in the process.

Here's Rexy's stick animal. It was supposed to be a mythological T-Rex (because we all know dinosaurs are a hoax), but he looks more like a sea serpent (which are not mythological. I wanted to make a Big Foot stick animal but I thought that might be a little creepy.).

Harrison is nuts about “Harry Potta” (whose name he says with a British accent). I decided every boy needs a good invisibility cloak, so here you go. June is modeling it on his behalf (since he won’t get it until the 25th).

I told her to be invisible. She's freaky smart.

This is her, "Oh no! It's He Who Must Not Be Named!" pose. What an actress.

I’ve also thrown together some pajama pants for the boys, as well as my latest and greatest in the great big world of stick horses. This is Pepper, made with love for my darling niece Jane.

I'll finish her up this afternoon, but if I don't post her now you'll never see her.

And that is my craft room update. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to grab a diet coke and start cutting.

Sorry, I can’t let this one go just yet.

Before I touch on The Basketball Heathens, I’ll take a moment to say that the party rocked. We ended up with twice as many potatoes and jello salads as we needed (although is there really ever enough Jello salad?), thanks to my impressive low functioning math skills. On the up side, I don’t have to cook for Jason’s work party tomorrow.

When we got to the gym this morning, what do you think we saw? Just over half of the room set up. That’s right. The basketball players from yesterday put out what looked like enough tables, spread them around real good, threw up some chairs and went home. We had two hours to decorate and no man power.

So I called my husband.

You know when you really want to say “I Told You So,” but it’s Christmas and you’re trying to be Christlike, but then fail and say it anyway? Yeah, that one felt good.

Jason came in full uniform and spent the better part of an hour redeeming himself. Good boy.

But I have to say something about Church basketball. Last week we had our dress rehearsal scheduled. We got to the building, and what do you think we found? Deacon basketball. Apparently, they have the gym EVERY THURSDAY NIGHT from here to forever. This gave me cause to panic, because the party was scheduled for a Thursday night.

So I asked the guys who were practicing for the show what they thought. Our conversation went something like this:

Me. “So, they say they have the gym every Thursday, but I’m on the schedule for next Thursday. What should I do?”

The entire lot of them stood around, wide-eyed, shaking their heads and saying things like, “Ooh, that’s bad,” and “You’d better talk to them, they do have first dibs.” First dibs? Pa-nick.

Then I headed over the room the women were practicing in and posed the exact same question.

“Kick those boys out!” and “Ward activities trump!” and “Down with Church basketball!” was the response.

See, men can’t help it. For my sister Kerry’s wedding reception (I was six), my family decorated the gym, went to the temple, came home, and a group of boys had come in and MOVED THE DECORATIONS to play church basketball. And now those same boys are grown men.

And what do you think we met on our way out of the building tonight? That’s right, the same group of single guys who show up twice a week to play. So lame. Go on a date already.

No really, hate.

I am the activities boss for the ward right now, and tonight is our Big Fat Christmas Celebration. Now, a regular Christmas party is work, but a Big Fat one? Let’s just say I was up until 2:00 am and really shouldn’t have slept at all last night.

And like a good Activities person, I have delegated duties to every neighbor and passed an invitation to every stranger. One of the most important parts of this party is seating. Cause really, what’s a pulled pork dinner and a Christmas Jazz Show without chairs and tables? Chairs and tables are to my party what our tree is to the ornaments.

So I asked the most responsible person I could think of to handle the set-up: my husband. As far as commitment is concerned, Jason is like a jihad on a suicide mission (minus the virgins on the other side, if I have anything to do with it). His job was to get the young men to set up the entire gym last night after mutual so that this morning I could go decorate without breaking my back (or a sweat).

“So,” I ask, “How does the gym look?”

“Um…”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, UM????” Yes, I kind of freaked out at that first um because I’m wound up like a yo-yo right now.

“Now calm down. See, we went to set up, but there were these guys that wanted to play basketball…”

“Basketball? YOU CHOSE CHURCH BASKETBALL OVER ME??”

“No, it wasn’t like that! They promised they’d set them all up when they were done playing, so we just…”

“You just. You just what? Ignored the fact that my entire party depends on chairs and tables??”

“Anne, calm down. If they’re not set up when you get there, I’ll leave work and do it myself.”

Since he’s not willing to leave work ever for anything that doesn’t involve the death of one of our children, I decided that was a sufficient trade.

But why is it that church basketball is as much a religion as our religion? This is the third time in the last month they have attempted to ruin my life and my party. We booked the gym for a dress rehearsal last week. When we showed up, what do you think we found? A bunch of boys who insisted we let them finish because they have “Thursday night first dibs.”

I’m leaving for the church in ten minutes. There had better be tables and chairs….