You’d think I’d have learned by now that when I really need help, I should just ask Harrison to pray about it. The kid says rocking prayers.

This morning after making his bed, I passed by his bedroom and heard him asking Heavenly Father to please help Rexy use the potty. Personally, I was planning on putting the whole toilet thing off another year or two, but hearing Harrison kind of forced me to reconsider. 

So, with a little more Heavenly help than I had the other day, I started to diaper and dress Rex. Instead of telling him, I asked him if he wanted a diaper or undies. To my shock and total amazement, he chose the latter. So into the pull-ups we went. My mind immediately began to swim with all of your suggestions and comments from my last post, and the one that surfaced first was Annette’s (love love love you!). I set the timer for 15 minutes and we began. 

Rex has this wonderful quality. If I tell him to sit somewhere, he does it. The kid doesn’t realize that he could actually get up if needs be. So, I sat him on the toilet and told him to call me when he’d peeped. Five minutes later we were flushing. So yay!

The big difference between today and yesterday is that every time he gets frustrated with having to sit on the toilet, I offer him a diaper. Four times now he’s chosen his undies. Now I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling pretty darn hopeful right now. 

Oops, there goes the timer. Here’s wishing Rex lots of luck and the ability to control his bladder.

If my kid pees on the floor one more time I’m going to scream. Yesterday we pulled out the training pants and our Potty DVD’s and attempted to train Rex. He knows all about going to the potty, we talk about it, sing about it, demonstrate it for him–you’d think he’d be all over it. We’ve even tried ignoring it for months on end, hoping that maybe he’d come up with it on his own. No such luck.

I’m not asking for much here, people. In fact, broken down it equals about four simple steps. 

1. Identify need to urinate

2. Tell Mommy

3. Do your business ON THE TOILET

4. Flush and wash

I know my kid is smart enough for this, but the second he smells manipulation in any form, he heads for the recliner and hides from me. I gave him five cold showers yesterday (each time he peed his pants), but do you think it made him use the potty? Candy, toys, treats, bribes, you name it I’ve tried it. I can hardly bear the thought of changing his bum one more time. He’s three and a half years old today. It is time. 

I guess we’ll try again next year.

So the holidays are nearing an end. Tarts, pies, cakes, meat, potatoes, cookies, fudge, freaky dipped pretzels and bacon (thank you Kristina)–whatever your tradition, eating seems to be the number one pastime. If you’re finding yourself somewhere in the “three more days to binge before I start my diet” mode, here’s something to consider to help spark your weight loss flame.

If you do nothing for yourself and your New Year’s uber-skinny goal, get yourself a subscription to SHAPE magazine. Despite the sleezy bikini-clad stars that regularly grace the cover, the magazine kind of rocks.

If you don’t believe me, just buy one of them the next time you’re in the store and read it cover to cover. It will be enough to convince you to drop your bagel and reach for a green refillable water bottle. It is the most motivating magazine ever, and not in the, “I’m really jealous that I don’t look that girl so I think I’ll go eat a Twinkie” kind of way, but in a “really good suggestions for better living plus motivating tips” kind of way. 

Reading it last night, I was so inspired I almost got up and this morning and exercised.

Almost.

ps – I’m not being paid to write this (but I should be). And for more on feeling good about the Christmas time scale, click here to read my sister’s holiday weight loss theory, sure to bring peace and comfort to all over-indulgers.

Let’s talk for a moment about Christmas cards. 

The Christmas letter used to be my biggest event. That was, of course, before I had a blog. Now every day is Christmas (yay!). Seriously though, putting together and getting out a Christmas card gives me serious anxiety. Who do I send it to? I have ten siblings on my side, four on Jason’s, a smattering of aunts and uncles/faux aunts and uncles who aren’t particularly computer savvy…if I were to mail a card to every single person I loved and cared for Walmart would run out of paper. 

To make matters worse, two years ago, during the December move from Maryland to Utah, I lost my carefully accumulated collection of contacts, located in a very beat up address book, to a gas station trash can. Now when I try to assemble a Christmas list, I get hives. Who have I forgotten? Will they think I hate them? What if they don’t send me a card because I didn’t send them one? My friendship radar kind of goes bizerk. 

And so, to simplify my life next year, I’ve developed a new strategy. I am ordering 50 Christmas cards. Siblings, parents and grandparents will go in the mail, leaving me 32 stamped, unaddressed envelopes. 

I will then carefully sift through the mail each day, and the first 32 people to send me Christmas cards will get cards in return. It seems like the only fair, impartial way for me to guiltlessly and fairly dispense my much-anticipated (by my mother) Christmas card. 

The big question is this: How many of you copped out and emailed it this year (Michelle, you don’t have to answer that one)? Hey, with the price of stamps/paper/glitter and the faltering economy, it all counts. Digital or paper, if you got it done then good on ya.

Santa seriously hooked my five-year-old up. He’s like an Indiana Jones Special Agent. In one hand, he continually cracks his theme music-playing whip while flashing his mock credentials to everyone who comes to the door. It’s a threatening look, trust me. Indiana Jones with authority. 

You should have seen poor Santa’s face when he asked Harrison what he wanted and Harry replied, “Special Agent stuff.” Harrison then went on to explain that he wanted a gun and mace and handcuffs and one of those things you hit people with. Santa seemed even more nervous when Harrison pointed to Jason and said, “My dad’s a Special Agent.” I swear the man was sweating bullets, practically shoving my kids off his lap as fast as he could. It made me wonder if he was wearing a disguise for a reason. 

Today we’re off to see just how good this bad economy has been for the clearance racks. This is my favorite shopping day of the year (which says a lot since I really love the other 364 of them). I think it’s my favorite day to leave the house because I can’t wait to get away from all the new crap we’ve brought inside. 

New Year’s resolution: clean the toy room.

Ten years ago, while attending BYU, I spent a semester in Jerusalem. The following story was written not long after that wonderful experience. It can be found in this December’s Ensign, listed under “Three Christmas Stories”, edited and reworked. Here’s the original version my mom loves, the one I wrote just after getting home. 

“It was a cool, windy evening as we pulled up to Shepherd’s Field near Bethlehem, all 40 of us students tired from an early start and a long day of field tripping. But this last stop was the one we had been waiting for; the field where the shepherd’s sat and watched their sheep, never imagining what was about to happen.

The field wasn’t what I had imagined. I had always pictured something green with slightly rolling hills, no trees, little lambs pleasantly seated upon the soft, lush grass for the night’s rest with a few shepherds in very authentic robes watching over them.

I wasn’t prepared.

It wasn’t a field, instead it was a terraced hill with virtually no green anywhere. We walked down a little path and our teachers told us to each find a quiet place and take some time to write in our journals.

I fumbled around and finally found a rock to sit on. It was not comfortable. It was cold and very rough and there were thorns around it. This was nothing like the field in my mind. 

They had told us there would be local shepherds who would come; we could see the sheep.

I wasn’t prepared for the children in rags.

They weren’t in nice, authentic robes, they were in very worn out second hand clothing, these bright eyed, open palmed angels.

I watched as Sister Keller made them each say their name before she graciously gave them a few shekels. They took them and were immediately off to find their next contributor.

One of the children was carrying a newborn lamb, only two days old, and he offered to let me hold it for a small price.

As I sat there, chilled from the night air on the freezing rock, I took the warm baby on my lap and started to see this picture differently. 

The cold night, the rocky field, the poor, humble shepherds, the baby lamb in my arms…

The Savior knew about the life of a shepherd. He knew about the cold nights and the rocky trails and the danger of harm to his lambs by thieves and animals. He knew about holding a baby lamb in his arms and waiting for the long night to pass while standing watch.

The wise men brought gifts of Gold, Frankincense and Mohr. But the Savior knew the shepherds could offer little, knew of their sacrifice simply in coming.

The gift they brought was not a gift of material significance. They came with humble hearts and joyful spirits to partake in the celebration of their infant Lord. Theirs was the gift I am speaking of. His gift is the gift I am speaking of.

 The Savior brought joy to a cold and dreary world. The shepherds felt it, and that night I felt the truth in the Christmas gift of the Savior.”

Merry Christmas. 

What would we do without cell phones? Not only are they handy for calling real people, but mothers all over the world can now call Santa Clause for help in the middle of Walmart during pre-Christmas meltdowns. 

I am so ready for Santa Clause to come to town, the build up is almost more than my children can bear. Listening to Rex rattle off his list–entirely composed of animals–gives me serious anxiety since we got him something else. And I swear I have been to Walmart/Target/Costco seven times in the last hour. How does a person forget butter? It’s the most staple ingredient of the entire holiday season. If it doesn’t have large quantities of butter and sugar, it’s not necessary.

I actually sat in front of the television today and ate an entire bag of homemade caramels. Does it look like I feel bad? I don’t (although I do feel bad for Jason who wanted to know what happened to all the caramels. I pointed to the kids and quickly left the room).

Can’t wait for tomorrow.

I am an idiot. 

This is something most of us know or at least have gleaned from reading my blog. Idiots are people who do really stupid things on a regular basis. Stupid, ignorant, badly thought out hurtful things. 

Yesterday was my first Sunday back at my ward since The Incident. (If you don’t know what the incident is, please go back to your gift wrap and ignore this blog.) It was also the day that I realized that PEOPLE IN MY WARD KNOW ABOUT MY BLOG. 

See, no one in my ward (except about three of my close friends) have ever said a word to me about it, and I doubt they read it regularly. I’ve never seen a comment or had anyone really mention it, so in my blond brain my blog and my ward have zero relationship. It’s my safe place. To vent. 

Apparently it’s not so safe. 

So, if you are in my ward and partook of my ranting and raving a few weeks ago, please know that I had no idea you were going to read it (unless you are Tricia or Natalie). Had I stopped to think about the fact that some of you might be checking my blog periodically, that whole thing would have gone down much differently. Like, I wouldn’t have written that anywhere. Ever. 

Please feel free to lecture me on public forums and the world wide web in general, I deserve it. And to my sweet Relief Society President, (who is very good and kind and didn’t deserve to have the entire ward know about our conversation), I hope you can forgive me. And I hope my ward can forgive me. Truly, what a rotten thing to have happen. 

Here’s to being better.

With all the traveling and packing and unpacking and shopping and (I could really use a nap right about now) last minute holiday baking, I haven’t had a second for Jesus. 

Until today. 

Let me just tell you, husband or no husband, sacrament with three small children is no easy thing. Between the candy canes and the missing shoes, I was so preoccupied when the Christmas program started that I hardly even noticed what was going on. 

Shoving Rex’s foot into his lost shoe, I suddenly heard the first few bars of “Away in a Manger” float across the chapel. It sounded like music from Heaven. And as the choir softly sang those humble words, describing the blessed plight of our Savior’s birth, all the socks and the cheerios and the clutter that fights it’s way into my life and brain, faded away and I was quietly taken back to that humble beginning. 

When the choir and congregation joined together to sing, “Oh Come All Ye Faithful,” I so badly wanted to be counted as one of the faithful. “Oh come ye, oh come ye to Bethlehem,” is a cry to the world to remember, to celebrate, to rejoice! Those words pierced my gift-wrapped heart and reminded me of what this season is really all about. It was as if the Spirit wasn’t going to let me forget why I am here. Not “here” meaning at church, but here. 

If you haven’t had time to properly worship during this sacred season, find it. Flood your heart and home with songs of the Savior’s birth and enjoy the bright peace that comes from the star of Heaven, Jesus Christ.

We were in the car listening to Christmas music the other day and that horrible song came on about the Christmas Shoes. 

“What is this song? This is stupid,” Jason said after the first few lines, flipping the radio off and rolling his eyes. 

“Have you listened to the words?”

“No…”

“It’s about a little boy who’s mommy–”

“Yes! Fine! I’ve listened to the words and I hate this song!”

“Did it make you sad because I could die?”

“Shut up.”

I love it when big men cry.