We went to visit Jason’s grandpa this morning. Considering the fact that he currently resides somewhere in Kolob, he didn’t have much to say.

I love Memorial Day. When I was a kid my mom would cut huge bunches of lilacs and snowballs from the trees in our yard and we’d drop them off at the local cemetary. The smell of lilacs still reminds me of dead people.

So this morning we roused the kids bright and early and piled into the car to visit Jason’s only deceased relative (now that I think about it, he’s probably got a few more of them). It’s a gorgeous day and we attempted to tell the kids a few things about their great-grandfather on the drive to Ogden.

They definitely didn’t get it. I think they thought they were going to get to meet him in person. We told them about his bread truck, as a younger man he drove a delivery route for General Mills. They thought that was extremely cool. I think they pictured a big loaf of bread sitting on the back of a truck (too much Magic School Bus).

But here’s the thing about Memorial Day. You make this big deal to the kids, all “party at the cemetery” like, get everyone stoked to put flowers on the grave, tons of hype. But you get there, walk over, drop off the flowers, and spend the next seven minutes of the visit trying to keep your children from playing leap frog across the headstones.

I think next year we’d do a better job of paying our respects by keeping the kiddies at home. Of course we won’t. This is training for future years when we’re dead and gone. I want my kids to hold a grave side Memorial Day service each year, complete with weeping, wailing and bratwurst. Now that will be a good party.

There is nothing worse than a book fog.

I love to read, but it seems that each time I have a child, more of my precious literary time is leeched away by those cute little life, light and hobby suckers. Unless it’s a pressing new release that I’ve been waiting for, I try to avoid reading on any kind of regular basis.

And then I have to go on vacation and ruin everything.

Have you ever gone off chocolate, and then six months later decided you were ready to “pace yourself”? Three pans of brownies and a dress size is all it takes to make you realize the sad truth: once an addict, always an addict. Such it is with me and books (and chocolate).

I took a new trilogy of books with me on vacation, thinking I’d easilly plow through them before I got home. I forgot to take into account that each book is over 700 pages. Cause I’m smart like that. I’ve been home almost a week, trying desperately to notice my children while simultaneously engorging myself in the last and most cliff-hanging book. I keep thinking I’ll do my chores “as soon as I finish this chapter”. 247 pages and three hungry children later, the sound of their famished wails and insistent pinching finally stirs me to action: I find the fastest, easiest food and throw it around the kitchen.

This kind of auto-pilot parenting isn’t very successful. This morning I finally trudged into the kitchen to quiet their persistent calls only to find June had dumped out a Costco sized jar of Strawberry Milk mix all over the kitchen and was happilly trying to lick it all up. The upside of that mess was that they finally got baths this week.

And so, it was with great relief that I finally finished the last chapter today. We celebrated with an afternoon at the park and a visit to the library.

Because I needed a book. And a support group.

American Idol. The deal is done, the votes are cast, and so we wait.

Now that my opinion doesn’t matter, I have a thing to say about why I think Adam Lambert should win this contest (if you could call it that).

1. The man can sustain a note longer than it takes me to fold a load of whites.

2. To heck with trench coats, he could sing in mismatched sweats from the Goodwill and still rock the house.

3. He seems to have decided to be a man and it suits him (versus a unisex creature from the universe with a vocal range that could go both ways).

I once heard a literary agent say that you can always tell a great character by how people in the office react to it; they either love it or they hate it. That is Adam Lambert. I don’t think there’s a soul alive that wouldn’t give Kris his dues, he’s got a great voice and is creative and talented.

But Adam? It’s amazing how many silly things I’ve read about him, faults that people create because let’s face it: his future is so flooded with absolute success that it’s almost frightening. He’s the natural overdog, the king reincarnate, he spills over with untempered and untapped talent and charisma every time he opens his mouth.

And so despite all the people who don’t like him for whatever their reasons, I say he is greatness, the kind that only comes along every eight or nine seasons. The kind of greatness that is both appealing and repelling to those who come in contact with him.

And did I mention that I’m almost related to him? That’s right. I recently found out that he’s the cousin of an old friend of mine from Elma. Since Elma is so small, and most people assume we’re all related anyway, that makes him almost my cousin.

So here’s hoping Cousin Adam wins it big tonight. Not like it matters, the powers that be see him for what he is. Kind of freaking awesome.

My son almost got expelled last week. Actually, the term they used was “excluded”, because apparently that’s supposed to sound less painful. Check out this week’s column for the dirt.

So I went to my little SIL’s bridal shower about a week ago.

I love shopping for bridal shower presents. Don’t ask me why, but when I got married the entire planet gave me lingerie. We’re talking sweet old ladies I had grown up with, gals who usually give things like salad bowls and cheese graters, pulled out all the appliances and bought me bedroom wear.

But here’s the thing about lingerie. When you’re first married, lingerie sounds so exciting and fun–until you try to wear it. I can remember a few key instances where I felt kind of idiotic, like when you wear your Halloween costume to school thinking everyone else will too, but end up being the only person who is dressed like a hobo because everyone else decided to leave their stuff at home. Kind of like that. No matter what says, being trussed up like a gaudy birthday present isn’t always comfortable.

So we started talking about lingerie at the shower, and I realized I’m not the only married woman who feels this way. Because here’s the thing. Even if you manage to wear lingerie successfully (not like you can actually fail) before you have kids, once your body morphs and changes,we sometimes find ourselves left with new bulges and sorry flat areas that aren’t so conducive to studded leather (kidding, Mother).

Shouldn’t there be an alternative? Something that doesn’t make you feel like a cream puff? For those of you who have given up sexiness for naught, or accepted it as a thing of the past, I offer this rather modest alternative. Something that only hints at sexy without getting all lacey about it.

The next time you and your legal other put the kids to bed and sit down to watch The Office, or DWTS, or 24, try showing up at the couch in a tight T-shirt (minus the underwire) and some lacey boy shorts. Nothing that threads, nothing that pulls, just a simple T-shirt and some cute comfy undies. Hey, he might not even notice (ha ha ha!).

Because if you don’t bring sexy back into your romance now, you might never find it again, and that would be a crying shame. No matter how you think you look, remember that hot isn’t a dress size, it’s a mindset. So go be hot again, for you, for him.

Hey, there’s nothing like a new game plan.

Here is the short list of my life without kids.

Me.

The Beach.

My Book.

The Umbrella Boy.

The Sound of the Waves.

The End.

Dead serious. I kind of got over my guilt in record speed yesterday, sitting in my beach chair soaking up the serenity and sun (oh, stop cursing like that). I feel like a cell phone running on its last bar that someone finally took pity on and plugged in.

One thing about sunscreen. If you ever decide to get rebellious and wear a bikini while you’re on vacation, don’t think you’ll get away without some serious universal retribution. I’m not saying this happened to me, just saying it could happen to someone stuck in Florida for an entire week with a beachful of strangers. When applying sunscreen to your florescent abdominal area, DO NOT FORGET YOUR BELLY BUTTON. If you do, you’ll end up with a burning naval that looks somewhat like a target on your otherwise pinkened tummy.

Just saying.

Remember that movie Pretty Woman? The one where the hooker spends a week in a hotel room taking  bubble baths and listening to Prince, then entertaining her employer in the evenings with her womanly tricks? You know, the movie where she enjoys lavish dinners, insane shopping trips, a complete escape from her real life. Well, this week I’m kind of like her. Only I’m not a hooker and I am married to my benefactor (who’s really cheap, thanks to Dave Ramsey). But the rest of it is kind of the same.

We’re in Florida. That’s right, I have left my three little harpies in the able hands of their grandmothers and run away to the beach for the week. As I write this, I’m sitting in my hotel room, listening to the waves crash on the shore right outside the window. All is perfect and right with the world.

And I feel guilty.

I am so totally not supposed to feel guilty here. This trip should be full of sun tan lotion and twenty-year-old sci-fi books. (You know a 1982 copyright sci-fi book has missed the mark when it’s set in 3011 and people are still listening to tapes and writing instructions down in pencil. )

It’s not my kids I’m feeling bad for, it’s their poor grandmothers. June Bug is kind of a terror right now. I haven’t been writing it down because I keep thinking that if I don’t commit her horrible acts of naughtiness to the blog, maybe they’ll go away. That doesn’t seem to be working. She repeatedly splashes her feet in the toilet and shoves things up her nose. (I’m not ready to talk about my Mother’s Day experience yet. Let’s just say we skipped out of Sacrament meeting and took a little trip to the ER.)

So don’t worry, I won’t enjoy this trip one bit. No sir, sitting on the beach is going to be torture, and I am certain none of the five books I brought will hold my attention at all. Even a dip in the really gorgeous pool, or a soak in the hot tub will come at a price. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll do it, but only because I have to.

Oops, must run. Room service, you know.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the women in my life (and virtual life). Check out this week’s column and give yourself a nice big hug from me.

For overcoming tongue-thrust, circumcision, the first bath and routine diaper rashes, learning to eat with a spoon, cutting your first four teeth in one week, walking, talking, using the toilet (thanks be), and going to preschool. For that first bus ride, getting punched in the face on the playground, losing your first five teeth, and teaching yourself to sing with vibrato at 5, all I can say is…

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SWEETHEART!

He’s six today. I sat down this morning and watched the home movies from the day he was born. I bawled the whole way through it. Sometimes I forget just how shockingly wonderful my birth into motherhood was.

Here’s to my wonderful boy, the light of my life and the best oldest son ever. For Mother’s Day this year, he’s spent the last week and a half perfecting the art of saying, “Yes Mom!” Considering the past few weeks of serial back talking he’s been dishing, this has been an important behavioral U-turn, and not a moment too soon (there were a few times I didn’t think he’d make it to six).

At the moment he’s curled up on the living room floor clutching his stomach because it’s full of Birthday Jitters. He’s taking his Special Agent to school as his special guest today and is about to get handcuffed in front of all his friends. I think it’s a little too much for his nervous system.

Happy birthday anyway, darling, here’s to growing up with style.

Veronica Reeve Photography

You know, they should call Mother’s Day, Martyr’s Day. Let’s face it, the moment you held that baby in you arms, you began fine tuning the art of complete Martyrdom.

How often have you gotten up in the middle of the night with a child, remarking, “I’ll get him, honey, you’ve got to work tomorrow *sigh*.” It’s impressive, this ability to take total responsibility for way too many things just so people will appreciate us.

And even the best of us who routinely rope our husbands into household servitude manage to make sure we do more than anyone else, just so we can ensure total and complete adoration one day a year, for our life of sacrifice and often painful service.

Because even if we manage to pop a few bon bons during the day (i.e. a handful of semi-sweet chocolate chips which we are instantly expected to share), this life isn’t easy: we make sure of that. As mothers, we overbook ourselves to the extreme, set standards that are unreachable even with the help of a nanny and housekeeper, then routinely beat ourselves over the head for not being as good as the next mother (who is actually as bad or worse than you, she just remembered to put on her lipstick before running car pool).

So give yourself a break this week, you deserve it. And if being a sacrificial lamb makes you feel better about your lot in life, go for it. It’s not a baaaaad idea.