So we went to the Stake Christmas Sing-In on Sunday night.

One thing we Mormons do not do well is congregation sing, and this event was no exception. We’re quiet singers, don’t-let-the-person-in-front-of-us-know-we’re-here singers. Frankly, there are times when I think we are way too reverent.

When I think of a Christmas Sing-in, I think families and children and lots of songs that aren’t in the hymnal. There are so many wonderful religious Christmas songs that we don’t have room for, what a great opportunity to sing them!

But did that happen? No. Not only did we sit down with the 25 other stake members  who attended (seriously, 25? Where is the love, people?), but we OPENED THE HYMNAL TO PAGE 201. That’s right, we sat down and did four straight verse of each song, standard protocol 4 part harmony. Zzzzz….

My family got two songs into it before June (who is what we like to call “less reverent”) got away from me and sprinted up to the front of the chapel. I quickly followed and snagged her, but by the looks on the faces of the people in attendance, you’d think she had just interrupted the prophet during General Conference.

So we did the only thing that seemed proper. We grabbed our kids and bolted (much to the relief of the entire group).

There are times when noisy toddlers should be tolerated, and I guess this was not one of them. Most of the congregation in attendance was blue-haired anyway, so I can’t expect them to remember the days of diapers and squeaky shoes (that’s right, she had squeaky shoes on, because I’m reverent like that).

We just got back from Michael McClean’s holiday production, The Forgotten Carols. Now there’s a Mormon who knows how to sing. Man I love that man. (I also love all Mormons, good singer’s or not, because in most cases they’re seriously good people. Just clarifying.)

And this brings me to my link. It’s that time of the month, my article in The Standard Examiner came out yesterday. Check out what I would call the WRONG way to handle a noisy child in a public place.

Today I am mad.

So last night little Rexy got sick. Rex has asthma. We all know that asthma plus a repiratory infection plus H1N1 is a recipe for a dead kid, so it shouldn’t surprise you that we were kind of insane with worry.

He woke up at 10:30 wheezing and hacking. We weren’t sure if we should take him in, give him a treatment, what, so I called the after hours call center.

“No problem,” the girl says. “The doctor will call you right back.” Since we use this service a few times a year, I wasn’t worried. So we sat next to the phone with our dying boy and waited. And waited. And waited.

After 20 minutes, I figured they might have the wrong number so I called again.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, the page didn’t go through, but we paged him again and let him know that you’ve been waiting, so I’m sure he’ll call you right back.

11:00.

11:14.

11:25.

11:36.

One hour. We sat next to the phone, literally, for an entire hour, waiting for the delinquent doc to call us back. He’s not our regular doctor, and this isn’t the first time I’ve had trouble with him. Last year he was the doc on call during this same time of year, and we had this exact same kind of problem.

Rex was croupy and I didn’t know if I needed to take him in or give him a treatment or sit on my hands. It was the middle of the night and the good old on call doc. was obviously irritated to have his beauty sleep disturbed.

When I posed that question to him, he snapped, “How am I supposed to know?” and followed it up with something that was the politically correct version of, ARE YOU AN IDIOT?

At 11:45 we turned the phone off. Jason and I had been taking turns trying to calm him down so his cough would get better. Jason gave him a blessing, we bundled him up, and I took him for a walk in the snow. All that cool, damp air really helped and as of this morning, he’s still breathing.

I checked my phone this morning. He finally called at 11:51. Jerk.

Okay, must run. Taking Rexy into the Good Doc. (That’s Dr. Forebush at Tanner Clinic, in case anyone’s looking for an absolutely fantastic pediatrician. We love him like family.)

Okay, I have a wonderful bloggy friend name Bree who surprised me for the June Bug’s birthday with these amazing pixie pictures. She does them on the side, and I think they’re so whimsical and cute and creative, I have to show you all.

Seriously, how fun is that?

And check out this week’s column for my current “why my house is in chaos” excuse. It’s a doozy.

So I’m driving down the road this afternoon when suddenly, I hear it. The announcer says the most magical words I have ever heard in my life: Michael Buble is coming to Salt Lake City. And I live here.

That’s right, he’s coming here to see me.

He must have finally got one of my emails. As a True Fan, and president of the local unofficial fan club (at the moment there are three of us, our third member is only 14 though, so we’re not sure she counts), I am pleased to say that after all my efforts, I have personally succeeded in bringing Michael to Utah.

You’re welcome.

See, he thinks I'm funny.

I have to be honest, I didn’t think I’d ever find a musician that makes my heart keep rhythm the way Neil Diamond does, but once Michael was on the scene, my entire world changed. Seriously, have you seen this boy sing? And he’s even in my age bracket, so it’s not like I’m crushing on some minor werewolf boy. Hey, with Michael Buble and his Crazy Love tour around, who needs a fictional character anyway? Jacob, what a stupid, fake name.

So the big question is, how will I get some alone time with Michael Buble? And do you think Jason would mind if Michael Buble and I went out on a date? And Michael Buble sang to me? Then let me sing with him, Michael Buble, whose name I can’t seem to stop saying because even the letters are hot? (Oh gosh, I think I have to add that singing part to my dream board. All that stuff is going to come true, BTW. I saw it on a talk show.)

So Michael, darling, if you’re reading this blog post (and I know you are), get your cute little self to Salt Lake City as fast as that tour bus will carry you. And don’t forget who’s taking you home–you just haven’t met me yet.

(ps – in case you’re wondering, he looks an awful lot like my husband + hair, so Jason doesn’t really mind that I have a Thing for him–he takes it as a compliment.)

This is the second week of December, and to date I have received ONE Christmas Card.

Where in the heck are all the holiday greetings?

Okay, I admit that perhaps my own cards haven’t graced the mail with their presence yet, but that’s only because I can’t think of anything to write. Yes, I’m having Christmas card writer’s block.

This is especially sad since I’m a Christmas letter addict. There have been years where my card was printed and ready by the end of October, and here I am, only three weeks left and I can’t think of a blasted thing to say.

(Actually, I’m suddenly getting inspired.)

So the big question is, where are all the other Christmas cards? Because my wall is mostly bare and awfully sad.

BTW, if we’re friends and you want to exchange cards with me, please send me an email pronto because these babies are going out in the next 48 hours.

(regardingannie@gmail.com)

So I’m driving down the road the other day with Harrison and his good buddy Sammy. They’re sitting in the back having an intellectual six-year-old conversation about Santa’s reindeer.

“Well, there’s Prancer and Dasher,” Sammy says.

“Yeah, and Rudolph!” Harry says.

“Of course! Plus there’s Donner…” Sammy says.

“And Fiction! And I think there’s one called Dancer…” Harry says, then immediately breaks into song, “You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Fiction…”

Gotta love Fiction, but watch out: you can’t believe anything he says.

If you’re interested, check out this week’s post by clicking on my face.

Sometimes I think I’m missing a few switches in the old noggin.

My son got invited to a Halloween party this year. He had so much fun and was so thrilled by the experience, all he’s been able to talk about for a month is how he wants to have a party. Since I am a similar soul (aka Party Bound), it didn’t take much convincing for me to agree that yes, he could most certainly have himself a party.

A Turkey Party.

The Day Before Thanksgiving.

Because I Am An Idiot.

I thought to myself, no sweat! I’m not hosting Thanksgiving this year, all I have to do is prepare rolls and a few desserts, I can certainly work a little podunk party for some six-year-olds into the mix.

The problem is, I don’t like podunk parties, I like overdone, spectacular bash-like parties. So, I bit off an entire turkey breast and got to work preparing for my kid’s holiday feast. Here are a few of the things we did (most of these ideas were filched from the internet). And let me tell you, if my cute SIL hadn’t popped by and saved me from complete to-do list chaos, there would have been no party. Thank you Aunt Tiffany, from the bottom of my turkey roaster.

I tried to buy decorations two days before, but there wasn’t a Thankful doodad to be had. So, we made our own.

Once everyone was there, the boys sat down and madeTurkey hats. To wear at the Turkey party. Also a good way to get glue on the carpet.

We made Rice Krispy like Corn on the Cobs wrapped in fruit roll-ups as part of our feast. The kids went crazy for these, I give them five stars. Plus, Harrison was able to help make them, which was good. (He was also forced to slave away cleaning the house all day. Hey, it was his party.)

Ice cream cone Tepee’s. These were a disaster. Do not ever try them at home. They are a total mess, and they’re also really messy. (The kids did like them, though.)

Turkey tracks. This is just a quick way to throw out crackers and cheese with Chinese noodles on top and call it something fancy. Smart, easy, eight points.

I helped them play a few games, sent them outside to hunt for natives, and topped off the party with Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. All things considered, it was a total hit.

(After the party, I prepared two desserts and a batch of rolls, and ended up having to take Loratab a for my back by the time the night was over. Nothing like a good narcotic to make you puke the night before Thanksgiving.)

So my girlfriend was telling a funny story that happened at her niece’s ward.

It was testimony meeting and a little five year old got up in front of the whole congregation to bear his testimony.

“My mom just had a new baby,” he said. “She nurses her.” Now, if I were this kid’s mother I think I’d start to panic just about now. When I bring a new baby  home, I spend a lot of time flashing my goodies to the world as I try to remember how in the heck the whole process works.

“I was watching her the other day,” he continued, “and I thought to myself, you know, I think i’d like to try that sometime!”

Men; they’re all alike. Just give it a few years, kid.

My baby is two today. I would say that I’m nervous for the Terrible Two’s, but I think she hit them about eight months ago. When we told Harrison she was going to be two, he said, “Huh uh, she’s three!” Yeah, in my dreams.

Having a daughter has changed my life. It’s made me look at who I am as a woman and reevaluate some of my personal beliefs. Like how I feel about my body. Since my beautiful June Bug came along, everything I do matters because there is someone out there who wants to be just like me.

I decided two years ago that I was done asking questions like, “Does this make me look fat?” or saying things out loud like, “I hate the way my ____ looks in this!” Fill in the blank because most of us say this kind of thing a dozen times a week.

But I’m done with that because I want my daughter to grow up thinking she’s beautiful. The best way I can teach her that is feel that way about myself. So I do, and as long as I’m her mommy, she’ll never hear me trash who I am inside or out.

And June? She’s wild and fun and full of zest. The girl has personality running out her ears, she loves shopping and people and snuggling with mommy when she’s supposed to be asleep. She still gets a sippy cup with chocolate milk at bedtime and I can’t seem to resist her sticky little face, ever. She loves the creepy old Care Bare movies, Dora, Split Pea Soup, and dresses. She also likes baseball bats. If you’re looking for well-rounded, she’s it.

Here’s a few shots of my baby gorilla, I mean girl, at age two.

The Apple Thief

This is her power stance.

The signature move.

I'm thankful for my little built-in best friend.

This is what happens when she dresses herself. She can't decide whether she's a princess or a football player.

Note the "pretty nightgown" she put on under her BYU football jersey.

Happy Birthday, baby girl. We wouldn’t trade you for anything, even if it came toilet trained.

I couldn’t resist.

See? We're working it out!