I went to a home party at my girlfriend’s house this weekend. Unlike most social events I attend this one came with a room full of strangers. When I got there I didn’t know a single soul aside from the hostess. But hey, no biggie. I love new people and pride myself in my ability to talk to anybody (except that one checker at the grocery store who runs when he sees me head toward his line).

There are specific steps to these situations in order to avoid social outcast status. Step one, take ten minutes to just learn names. When I first ask a name and talk to someone I pretty much ignore what they say and only look for opportunities to interject with said new name. “Really Mary? Wow Mary, that’s so funny. Is Mary short for Marianne?” People like their names.

Step two is to feel out the social dynamic. Here’s the thing about being a stay-at-home mom. I socialize with people at the school, the park, those who do mid-morning grocery shopping, nurses, home repairmen, and the old German man who lives down the street. I rarely (never) attend gatherings of professional women (the kind who work during the day).

So when I found myself in a room full of girls who fit the twenty-something medical professional stereotype I was surprisingly…quiet. I am super proud of my messy kids. I’m an educated woman who writes professionally for a living (when I’m not sewing or wasting time on laundry or being mostly lazy) but that’s just something I can say to sound good.

The reality is simple. With four kids in tow I am the quintessential Mama.

We sing in the car, I keep suckers in my purse, I eat a lot of sandwich crusts, I know the value of supplying sun glasses to a grumpy toddler in a grocery store, and I haven’t had a boss or a co-worker in ten years. My Pinterest boards include topics like preschool and hair bows (also too lazy to make), I mostly can’t have a conversation that doesn’t include something like, “Well last week when the kids got home from school…” because my kids are the most interesting thing about my life. Without them what would I talk about?

So I stood at the sink and listened to the conversations around me. The first was a group of girls to my left who were going off on women who dye their hair red and how sick they are of it.

After wearing 50 shades of blond I have officially been a red head for three weeks now. Not going to join that conversation.

The girls across the kitchen from me were talking about melding back into the single life after a break-up. Nope, got nothing there.

Finally I tuned into the girls on my right and woohoo! They were talking about babies. I leaned in and started to join the conversation when I heard this statement:

“All the research shows that it’s a statistically proven fact that people without kids are much happier than people with kids.”

Gah. No where to run.

This topic quickly drew everyone in and we listened as one of the girls proclaimed the values of living a child-free life. She was so convincing in her rhetoric that I found myself imagining the cleanliness of a home without markers and mud, quiet dinners with Jason where we don’t have to talk about elbows or slurping or burping or ear buds at the table. And for crying out loud, the simplicity of laundry for two.

At this point I hadn’t really come out of the closet with the extent and size of my litter and was considering reintroducing myself as Marsha, a visiting waitress from Detroit because obviously that would be preferable.

I’m relieved to say that these thoughts only passed through my head for a few moments. I looked around and was surprised to see so many bobbing heads, like this idea of a life without children is the new thing (which is obviously true since WE’RE ALL HERE). And suddenly I thought of something.

“You know,” I said, interrupting her well laid arguments, “It’s definitely a thought…” And then I told them about my afternoon.

June came home from kindergarten on Friday and burst through the door to hug me.

“Mommy,” she said, “Were you happy today?” This was an odd question but she is a girl. I had to smile because actually, I was happy. I specifically remembered driving out of the garage and feeling a nice little burst of happy just because I could. I don’t know, maybe it’s the new red hair.

“I was, June, I was very happy today.”

“Oh Mommy, I’m so glad! I prayed all during recess that you would be happy today.”

I don’t know what happy looked like before June because moments like this have completely ruined me for solitude. I’m pretty sure I’m statistically happier now than I was before she got here.

The only thing harder than leaving your kids for a getaway with your lover is having to come back home to them. Our weekend in Paris was not long enough. I will not bore you with any more of my isn’t-Paris-amazing soap box ranting. We went, we french kissed, and I ate an apple cart’s worth of pastries.

When we pulled into the driveway on Sunday night I could hear the wailing over Big Green’s woofing diesel engine. June and Georgia came flying out of the house sobbing hysterically about every single boo boo they had incurred during our 48-hour separation. We finally got everyone to bed but by 10:00 I hit my fifth wind and couldn’t sleep. I stayed up until midnight–big Texas sized mistake.

Yesterday morning I woke up with what can only be described as a pastry hangover. I’ve been off the processed white stuff and fake sugars for a while now so a weekend of binging like a runner-up beauty queen the day after the pageant really didn’t sit well with my body. I was absolutely wiped.

By the time the evening hit and I’d played catch-up with house and home (complete with frequent bouts of snuggling Georgia) I was trashed. Don’t ask me how Jason was able to function so well yesterday, the man is obviously made of steel. By dinner time the kids were crying again, I was  yelling again, the food was overcooked and under seasoned and no one would cooperate and set the table. June was taunting Harry, Harry was bothering Rex, Georgia was face down on the tile floor crying about one of her babies and I wanted to jump right back on the Ice Train and go back to Paris.

Once Jason got inside things settled down about 4%. But our meal was miserable, the kids talked over each other and June threw a fit, it was late and everyone needed baths. I was determined that if ever there was a night to skip Family Home Evening it was last night. To bath and to bed, Mama was done.

But Rex was equally determined to be all righteous and insisted we at least have a song and a game.

“Fine,” I told them all once they were clean and jammied, “One game but that’s it, then you’re all going to bed.”

But halfway through Rex’s surprisingly good game called, “What’s the difference?” (he’d draw two pictures and ask everyone to tell what the differences were between the two objects) Harrison leaned over.

“Mom,” he whispered, “Can I do the spiritual thought? I’ve got an idea.” What was I supposed to say to that? No? Please don’t share anything about Jesus with the rest of us because I’m not in the mood?

“As long as you can find a scripture to go with your topic before Rex is finished you can do whatever you want.”

30 seconds later Rex stepped down and Harrison took the stage. He then proceeded to give us a lesson on fasting, including reading from the New Testament about Christ fasting, and then thought of an object lesson to go along with it all. He drew a clock on the black board with a time, like 12:35. Then he asked the little kids to give a thumbs up or thumbs down  on whether it was ok to eat at that time on Fast Sunday.

His father and I were mostly speechless. Seriously, who are these little people?

Last night I failed as a parent. Thank goodness my kids have each other, there is hope yet.

Last week I got sick. Really sick. The kind of sick where you make yourself a coleslaw salad for lunch…and an hour later you never want to eat one ever again. Not pretty coming up, just saying.

I was so sick that I actually had to call my husband to come home from work and field the kids. This is a major taboo in our household. One of Jason’s best qualities is the way he never brings work home. The flip side of that is the neon “Do Not Disturb” sign he wears around his neck any time I get near him in his working environment. This especially applies to unscheduled sickness on my part. He hates it when I’m sick.

Note to self: Never get a chronic illness.

The afternoon was a haze of puking and sleeping and trying to not die. I have a vague memory of Jason coming home and stomping around our bedroom and sighing really loudly in a futile attempt to guilt me into a miraculous recovery but I was mostly gone. I put the pillow over my head and tried to be one with the bed.

I finally pulled myself out of bed around 6 pm and crawled to the recliner to recline. Shortly thereafter Jason brought all the kids home from their various activities and, of course, they came rushing up the stairs to see if I was still breathing.

I might as well have been a corpse, the weeping and wailing over my ailment was so fierce.

“Oh Mommy!” June cried, “You can’t be sick, you just can’t! If you’re sick who will brush our hair? Daddy never brushes our hair–” sob sob sob “and no one will EVER make us lunches again! Don’t DIE!” I might add that this monologue was given while both June and Georgia attacked my lap and my head, crying and clinging and hugging and patting. It did not help my nausea.

That night when it came time for the girls to go to bed I succumbed to their anxious pleas and agreed to lie on their bed and snuggle. But man, I felt horrible. I crawled up the top flight of stairs and collapsed between them.

In no time little hands were patting my back and stroking my head while my girls talked to each other about my state of semi-death.

“Junie, ohhhh, poor Mommy, what do you think is wrong with her?” Obviously my previous explanations held absolutely no weight.

“Georgia, she’s sick! Shh, she just needs to go to sleep.” Pat pat stroke stroke kiss kiss. “Hey!” June continued, “I know! Let’s say a prayer for Mommy that she can feel better!”

I smiled through the fog as both my girls snuggled up really tight and June started to pray for me.

“Heavenly Father…” she started then stopped. I waited to see what the hold up was and then realized she couldn’t continue because she was crying. “We love our mommy so much, and she’s such a good mommy, please help her feel better so she can brush our hair and make us food and take care of us, we don’t want another Mommy!”

At that point all three of us were bawling. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so incredibly loved by anyone, these little girls are my precious gems and I can’t imagine how lonely my life would be without them.

Considering how many times they change their clothes every day and all the laundry they’ve added to my life, it’s nice to enjoy the occasional Mommy perk. It’s not perfect and routinely comes with vomit, but it’s worth it.

This was our 15th Valentine’s Day which for me is as or more important than our upcoming 15th wedding anniversary.

I suffer from Valentine’s Day anxiety every year. Should I plan something? Is he planning something? Should I tell him that I want to plan something to make sure something gets planned or should I let the chips fall and see if he comes through and plans on his own, and possibly I end up feeling let down because I didn’t make a plan? So many, many variables and in my world it’s an important holiday that has nothing to do with my last name.

Okay maybe a little bit.

Valentine’s Day overlapped with our President’s Day weekend trip to Berlin this year. A week before the big day Jason and I made a joint decision to leave at noon on Friday–thus ensuring that our romance would be thoroughly chaperoned for the entire weekend.

Awesome. A weekend trip in the minivan with four kids hyped up on chocolate. I was pretty sure the 7 hour car ride was going to be unfortunately void of any heavy petting or unscheduled make out stops. Bathroom stops aplenty, but it wasn’t shaping up to add any romance to my life.

But that’s okay because I had previously hatched my own little Valentine’s plan that had nothing to do with the February 14th weekend. While I was in Paris my girl Christy and I came up with a brilliant scheme that would absolve us from having to plan the V Day date while still making sure our men (and ourselves) ended up totally spoiled and delightfully surprised.

And so I began to gather trinkets for Jason’s box. I bought a gold lock and key from the hardware store then had it engraved with “J & A Forever.”  We all know the only thing better than jewelry is cheesy engraved jewelry. I added some chocolates, a little Eifel tower, a calendar for March with three of the days X’d out…you get the picture. Everything in the box hinted at an upcoming vacation.

The day before Valentine’s Day Jason took me out to lunch for an early celebration. Honestly, I was so wrapped up in what I was giving him that I didn’t really give lunch a second thought. It’s not like we were going anywhere special, as far as I was concerned the entire weekend was simply postponed.

I was just about to get out of my car at the restaurant when my handsome man pulled up beside me and rolled down his window. “Wait in the car,” he said, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

There is more power in those six little words than I care to admit. I think I started tearing up and pitting out before he even parked and got back to the car. Were we going to skip lunch and go make out somewhere? Had he bought me flowers? Chocolates? Made me a mix tape? Named a star after me? I had talked myself out of any expectations, which is the only smart thing a girl can do in these instances, and was therefore stunned that he had remembered me.

That sounds ridiculous but it’s totally true.

He climbed in the passenger side with a brown paper package and closed the door. A brown paper package, four more words every girl loves. I tore the paper off and…there it was.

Jason had spent last Saturday morning at the framing center matting and framing my undergrad diploma. He hadn’t just framed it, he’d gone through over a dozen years of loose photos and hunted down pictures from my graduation day, taken in the prehistoric-non-digital era, and double matted them with the diploma in one gorgeous gold frame. Then he wrote me a letter. Letters from Jason are kind of like unicorns so when I get one it’s a big deal.

When Jason asked my dad to marry me my father had one stipulation: that I finish my education and get a bachelors. Jason took that promise to heart and after he graduated with his bachlor’s, he stayed for an entire extra year, even though he was already in his mid-twenties and anxious to start graduate school, and worked at a water softener job so that I could stay and finish my education like he had promised.

That’s love. Doing something hard because you love someone, waiting the long wait because you love someone, remembering that their future is as important as your future…that’s love.

Honestly, after his amazing and heartfelt gift my little upcoming vacation felt pale and whimsical. Then again, whimsical is one of my favorite ways to do love so I  mushed on. On Friday at noon I parked myself in front of his office 5 minutes early, quickly recorded a little reworded diddy with my uke and posted it to him on youtube, then waited.

See diddy here…

He kind of loved it.

Our weekend wasn’t anything like most of our Valentine’s Day celebrations because we were barely alone. The kids were jumping on our bed and turning on the light by 6:30 every morning, there might have been a few fist fights and at least 8 melt downs, most of them involved the children, and for the first year ever there were no flowers (kind of had issues about that but I worked through them).

Love doesn’t always have to be some new adventure, it doesn’t have to be edible or showy or involve ice train tickets to Paris. This year I remembered how much Jason loves me. It was enough.

So Friday we brought the hammer down on Harrison. He’s ten and fifth grade has been academically wonderful this year. He’s been responsible and made the honor roll (a first) and we really love this kid. There is laughter every single day with him around and I thoroughly enjoy being his mom.

Until this month. For some reason he’s been handing us an assortment of really stupid lies. It’s starting to be a habit and I’m worried about it.

I went in with him last Monday to get something from the classroom and had a little chat with his teacher. Apparently he didn’t just drop the ball on his big term pioneer report due at the end of the quarter, he didn’t even show up for the game. He got a big fat zero and took his social studies grade from an A to a C as fast as you can say Lewis and Clark.

We had a very pointed discussion with his teacher and he hemmed and hawed and tried to be a victim until I pinned him down and made him apologize for his overall lack of responsibility. It was hard, he didn’t want to say it. He committed himself to a new leaf and we moved on.

Thursday morning I went through his backpack and found two unfinished worksheets.

“What are these?” I asked.

“Oh…uh…those are from last quarter, they don’t count.” I watched his nose grow 14 inches and tried again.

“Okay, I’ll just email your teacher and clarify that math 5.5 and 5.6 are no longer due.”

“Oh, wait, let me look at those again.” Seriously. “Wait, I think we did 5.7 yesterday so those are probably still due.”

I did not explode. I did not rip his ear off. I did not huff, puff or kick his butt to the bus stop. Why? Because his sweet father intervened.

“Okay,” Jason said placing a firm hand on my shoulder, “Thank you for telling us the truth, son.” Forced truth. “Today after school at the library while you wait for me, you will have just over an hour to finish both those worksheets. That’s plenty of time, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Good,” Jason said. “I will check them as soon as I pick you up.”

At 6:00 I picked Harrison up from basketball practice. “So,” I said, “Let me see those worksheets.”

“Oh…um…I didn’t have time–” you know the rest of this. But did I yell? No. Did I maim? No. Did I take away his birthday or his dog or his bed? No.

“Look,” I said, “We have scouts so you will have to get up early and do those in the morning.”

“No problem, Mom. I’ll do them.”

The next morning he did not finish the worksheets in time for the 7:15 bus ride so Jason offered to take him in an hour late.

And Harrison? He closed himself in his room and I caught him using a calculator. My patience was about tissue thin at that point so I  demanded he sit in the middle of the family room and work on his homework  where I could see him.

And what do you think he did? He sat there and pouted and cried and accused us of overall child abuse and lamented his horrible life. When the hour was done I went over to check his work. “Where’s the other sheet?” I asked.

“What sheet?” he said.

“5.6? The OTHER SHEET?!”

“There was no other sheet.”

And that’s when my son officially played his last card. If you have kids who have lied to you–repeatedly about the same stupid thing–you know that there comes a point in every situation when their right to breath comes into question. Unfortunately for Harrison he had the nerve to yell back at me. He apparently forgot that his father was home and that we own the air he breathes.

By the time Jason was finished with the you-wouldn’t-exist-if-it-wasn’t-for-your-mother-and-me lecture Harrison was a quivering mass of fifth grade humility. He came downstairs all puffy eyes and gave me a very penitent appology.

And that’s when Dad sold the farm and solidified our position of authority in his little life. “You,” he said to Harrison pointing a finger at him, “Will not be going to school today. You will stay here and work. You will work all day and earn your place in this family. You will do every single thing your mother asks and you will say ‘yes Mom’ and respect her. Is that understood?”

He responded with some unintelligible groveling and I added to his pile. “The only things you will say to me today are ‘Yes Mom’ and ‘please come check this’. Got it?”

Grovel grovel grovel “Yes Mom.”

Harrison worked from 8:00 to 3:00 with two ten minute breaks and a short lunch break. He deep cleaned both my fridges, swept our front entry steps, cleaned the garage, washed all my windows…you get the picture. I made him listen to my old Bounce Back tape from the 80’s–a corny motivational ten step tape to help people feel better–the entire time he cleaned the fridges. I put it on four times in a row, he started it by himself the fifth time.

At one point he brought me a note asking if he could please talk out loud for a moment (for the record, it wasn’t easy being firm all day when he had such a good attitude but it was imperative that I follow through). I granted his request and he burst into tears and told me all about school and how he’s having trouble with friends, then asked, “Can I have a hug?” Seriously, I love this kid.

At the end of the day he was whistling and smiling and just before we got the little kids from the bus he said, “You know Mom, that felt really good today. I got a lot done and I feel so much better.  And that tape really helped.” Then he sat down and did BOTH his worksheets with no arguments.

It was tough love and it was so worth it.

Leave him with the kids and go to Paris. Again.

This is the second time in a row Jason has stayed home with our four children while I skipped off to Par-ee. Let’s just say his attitude was best described as “fuming martyr”.

But oh my goodness I just had the best weekend ever. It was so good that I feel guilty even talking about it on my blog because what I’d really like to do is gift it to all my wonderful friends and family so they could come over and experience it for themselves. The clock is ticking and Wonderland is about to turn into Hot Las Vegas land so I’m soaking up every last pat of butter this experience has to offer.

And this was one buttery weekend, let me tell you.

My girlfriend Ashley (who is really more like a little sister, she and her husband are some of our closest friends) put together a girls’ trip to Paris to take some classes, a croissant class and a Macaron class.

For the record, I believe that a truly fabulous experience in Paris requires a few necessary must-have’s: Cute boots, a fabulous scarf, some rocking lipstick and a best friend (husband’s count). If you’ve got that much the rest of it doesn’t really matter.

My darling wonderful friend Christy and I took the late ICE train to Paris (we made the train with 3 minutes to spare thanks to an unscheduled stop for lipstick and toothbrushes and general dawdling) and spent the two-hour journey doing what girlfriends do best; trying to fit as many words as humanly possible into our limited time away from home and family.

We were a few hours behind the rest of our group and decided to spend Friday afternoon imagining our way through the halls of Versailles. With no kids to wrangle we were able to listen to the audio tour and feel the ghostly swish of skirts. I’m not lying, I swear I could hear them.  We weren’t really supposed to take photos inside…

Let the record state that we managed to navigate the entire Paris metro system without a single break in our running conversation. That is worth writing down.

What I love about Paris? Everything. This was my fourth time and I cannot get enough of it. Paris is big girl Disneyland and I am constantly romanced by the atmosphere, the language, the architecture and most importantly…the food.

Oh, the food.

By the afternoon I had downed two medium sized baguettes, three pastries and a plate of Macarons. It was kind of a perfect day.

And the music, it’s everywhere. You can step off the metro worrying about pickpockets then get completely distracted by the sound of an orchestra wafting from one of the worm holes. You round a corner and there is a three piece Mexican band, a guitarist, or my personal favorite, an accordion player.

Our time on the metro was a hightlight, we were serenaded by this lovable yet greasy gentleman for 10 minutes on our way to Moulin Rouge. 

We spent the night before our trip watching the 1990’s version of Moulin Rouge. Of course, we had to swing by. 

Our evening was spent strolling arm in arm through neighborhoods on our way to the flat, singing ridiculous songs and acting for the most part like 8th graders. 

We met a few of our girlfriends (there were a total of 14 in our group) and found a good old Parisian cafe to dine in. Looked like nothing from the outside but the food was absolutely divine.

It was a wild night and very educational. I learned foreign words like “jank” and “tow up” from my southern girlfriend Renee that had nothing to do with French, and I was reminded of how many amazing friends I am leaving here in Germany. Not being in the old ward I’ve really missed them…I needed this. These women are the cream of the crop.

Finally, two Advil PM and I was down for the count by 11:00. Yes, a number of my girlfriends lost bets at my early bedtime. I think I was the first person asleep.

The next morning was cool and drizzly but we made the treck across town to La Cuisine bright and early for a day of French baking classes.

 The first three hour class was a crash course in making french croissants. I say crash course because it is normally a three-day process. Our teacher was a charming fellow who had been trained in Paris and cooked all over the world from America to Australia and back again. It was awesome. 

Christy and I skipped shopping and spent our 2.5 hour lunch break doing the one thing everyone should do in Paris.

We went to a cafe and sat. And ate. And sat and sat and sat.

And drank Diet Coke…

I have never seen Big Gulps in Europe, this was a first. Let’s just say that we paid through the nose for our Coke Light Steins. Worth every euro cent.

The afternoon was a Macaron class. I was really just there for the company, I will never make these again. I know they’re the hot thing but my kids don’t like them and I’m not a huge dessert baker (although seeing my friend Sharma’s pictures of the Opera House did make me think I should have played hookee). Still it was wonderful to spend time with friends.

By the time we got home I felt refreshed and rejuvenated and all the more in love with Paris. Favorite city in the whole world, I leave a little piece of my heart every time.

(Side note: My friend Geneva ran into Jason and the kids Saturday morning and they were looking rather…ruffled. When she asked Georgia where I was GG said, “My Mama’th gone. Thee went on the eyeth twain and I weewy mith hew.” It’s nice to be missed.

So we took a little trip down to Switzerland this month to visit our favorite American transplants.

What I am about to describe can only be touted as the most perfect cross-cultural experience any traveler could ever ask for: Southern hospitality laced with Swiss charm and culture. Let’s just say Hollee–who charms the world over at Moxi blog--makes me wish I lived in Europe.

I mean, I do live in Europe, but I really live in Little America Europe. My kids do American schools, I’ve got Kix and Jiffy and Daisy sour cream at my finger tips for dollar prices. It’s the most amazingly convenient thing in the world.

But it keeps me from having to live in Europe.

Hollee, on the other hand, is over here with her husband and two kids forging a path through the Swiss wilderness, going to church with headphones and trying to get a handle on the Swiss German language so she can communicate with her kid’s teachers.

Also she’s the world’s most incredible hostess. This girl has brought her southern charm clear across the ocean and has melded it with all the local customs and tricks she’s picked up from friends and neighbors. She’s like a human Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, two perfect ingredients that are so much more awesome when you put them together.

We pulled in late Friday night and Saturday morning after a stellar breakfast of Swiss potato shreds crisped in the waffle iron and Italian french toast (who does that?), we bundled up and headed to the slopes for an afternoon of sledding in the Alps.

When we got up there and realized that Harrison had forgotten his coat at home I thought our goose was cooked. Let’s just say the hills were alive with the sound of Mom yelling. Thankfully Rex had brought an extra and with a few layers underneath and a quick trip back to the house we made it work.

I am not a hiker. I don’t “do” outdoors. I hate bicycles as a rule and prefer concrete sidewalks to wooded paths. I’m not “sporty” or particularly “in shape.” I don’t “enjoy fresh air” or crave “nature.”

But. I would be a big fat winded liar if I didn’t tell you that our day on the mountain blew my mind (and my lungs). All that huffing and puffing through the hills interspersed with mildly terrifying sled runs was about the coolest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. I want to go back every weekend for the rest of my life it was so amazing. My dearest Hollee girl took these amazing pictures which is a good thing because we all know what it looks like when I start pointing the camera at things. And I have to say it, Jason was kind of hot in his furry hat with that gorgeous matching beard.

Check out the below picture of the bundled Swiss baby. They were all over the place. Super cute but NOT my fifth kid.

Of course our sledding experience wasn’t without a little whining here and there. June’s boots, despite having thermal inserts, didn’t keep her feet warm and she might have peed her pants halfway through the day for lack of a decent tree.

Rex apparently got “lost” on his way down the mountain and stopped to ask some local Swiss for directions. They pointed down. He felt much better after that.

We used the Baby in Front system, as you can see from this picture of Georgia and me. This worked incredibly well…most of the time. But we got to our last big run and I was the last one down the mountain. These runs weren’t just for sledders, there were a number of snowshoers and day hikers traipsing through the Alps as well.

I had been sledding with Georgia the entire day and was feeling pretty smooth about this whole sledding-with-the-baby-in-front system, so once everyone took off I got on my belly behind Georgia and kicked off.

Nothing happened.

Picture a beached seal trying to climb it’s way up the snowy bank and you have a pretty good idea of how I looked. Me, trying to push Georgia forward with my hands while simultaneously pushing off behind with my feet…and neither of us moving.

I think I had about two dozen Swiss hikers pass us on foot. They all openly watched this process with a mix of concern and horror for my plight which took an eternal four minutes to finally get moving. I kept waving them on and saying things like, “It’s okay, I got this,” then pushing and huffing a few more inches down the mountain while they strolled leisurely by.

Not my best moment.

And for the record, Georgia is definitely my mother’s granddaughter. The entire time we were headed down the mountain she talked my head off. “Tho, when we awe done can I put thome lipthtick on? I wuv lipthtick and bwush, and do you like my pink coat? Am I cute today? I wondew if my baby’s awe cwying, we’d bettew huwwy back tho I can check them…and put thome lipthtick on…”

We made it home that night and Hollee treated our family to real Swiss Fondu. It was so worth the three trips to the bathroom I made the next day.

Sunday we attended church in the local Swiss ward and I had an awesome time meeting Hollee’s friends. She’s such a colorful blast of fresh air, they are so lucky to have her and I’m pretty sure they know it. Afterward we came home to another amazingly satisfying Sunday dinner and I wasn’t surprised to find that my jeans wouldn’t button. Donning a pair of leggings, we headed into Lucern for an evening walk through the city.

We stayed another night and made the four hour drive home (took us 5 and a half) Monday morning.

We are so spoiled rotten over here. Amazing places and amazing faces, even with peed pants and the extra Swiss love around my belt it was a magical weekend.

I can’t believe how the time is flying and how many things I haven’t had time to sit down and record, you know, for all the great grand children I will someday have who will probably never read a word of this because the internet will have exploded by then.

Tomorrow is Rex’s IEP (Individual Education Plan) meeting. I have come to realize that the professionals involved in these “Let’s Talk About What’s Wrong With Your Kid” meetings are regularly clueless about how it feels to be on the other side of the table. A good friend of mine who is an elementary school teacher has recently been dealing with her own daughter’s IEP negotiations. We’ve talked a lot about the process and how very different the position of the parent is from that of the professional. In her meetings they expect her to be both. It’s impossible.

Anyone who has ever had a child that struggled–socially, academically, physically–knows that when you sit down to discuss your little person all professionalism and level headedness fly out the window. Those meetings are brutal on a mother’s heart. There is nothing clinical about it, but so often the professionals on the other side of the table treat it like a medical procedure, ripping off bandaids with nothing more than a “this might feel a little uncomfortable” before they give you a parenting enema.

My girlfriend worked for years as a special education specialist before having her own children and is amazed at how much her world changed when she had to sit on the other side of the IEP. Nothing can prepare you and no amount of experience with other people’s children, no matter how much you might care about or even love them, compares to the feelings you have when your own child is on the discussion block.

If only the people in those meetings realized that some little comment about your kid’s recess habit, or snotty nose problems, or inability to pay attention during PE–that kind of comment can bleed a parent. I’ve had it happen and I’ve seen it happen. Casual remarks that cut you because…because you are a part of your child. Every struggle, every success, every discomfort and every moment of hard won ground they experience is part of you. What they feel, you feel times ten.

It’s not about the legalities or thoroughalities or factualities. It is, those things are really important, but for mother’s it is a matter of heart. Every time we have to review our child and their scores? The factual data they feed us undergoes a chemical reaction in our soul and what comes out of our mouth is always going to sound like the throaty growl of a mother bear.

Tomorrow is Rex’s IEP meeting. He has made incredible strides this year in every single aspect both socially and educationally and is working with a brilliant team of professionals. But just thinking about the meeting tomorrow triggers a physical reaction that really makes me want to go put a pillow over my face and go back to bed. I think it’s why I’m still in my bathrobe at 11:30 this morning.

Can I make it through without feeling the hot prickles at the back of my eyelids? Probably not. Every time we sit and discuss our boy with his teachers and counselors and therapists I feel so vulnerable.

I want them to see his brilliance, head down to his laboratory and take a look at his inventions. I find them all over the house every single day. Boats and flying things and tracks for marbles and hang gliders for Rubber Ducky. His genius doesn’t come out at school, kids aren’t usually handed a roll of duct tape and a box of recyclable materials and encouraged to have at it.

But if you go down to Rex’s laboratory you will find piles of plastic cups and styrofoam and straws and cardboard–all picked out of my many trash receptacles. Pop cans and milk boxes and holy moly tape! The kid loves tape. When he gets upset after school all I have to do is hand him a paper plate and tell him to go “make something.” He flies down the stairs and when he emerges with his prize he’s happy and beaming and ready to tackle his homework.

Being a parent is the hardest, greatest, most divine thing that has ever happened to me. Being a parent of Rex has stretched my heart out in the best sort of way. I would wish this on anyone.

Here’s a great example of Rex’s brilliance.

I know the party is over but man, if I don’t record this for my mother and posterity I will hate myself forever.  So here is our Christmas photo recap because sometimes words just don’t cut it. I’m going to break it down for you. My favorite Christmas memories in whatever order they appear.

1. My sister Laura – Laura is number 9 and I’m number 11 in our family. She’s one of my best friends and has had a very big year. The girl needed a getaway so we coaxed her out to Germany for Christmas. She came for just over 2 weeks and we had such a wonderful time together. Strasbourg, Heidelberg, Rothenburg plus various castles and Christmas markets in between. It was awesome to have all that time together and awesome to share our Christmas traditions with her.

2. Bedouin Dinner – On Monday the 23rd we got together with some of our good friends and had a full blown Bedouin dinner Family Home Evening. My friends came over that afternoon and we tented my upstairs and hung lanterns and put candles everywhere, then we made traditional Bedouin dishes like Chicken Tagine and rice and all the other yummy middle eastern foods you eat with your hands when living in a tent. We lit the candles, played some soft Turkish music and ate on the floor in costume. It was A-MAZE-ING. Completely worth the 341 staples I had to pull out of my walls to take it all down. Sorry, no pictures of the event all lit up with costumes because cameras weren’t invented yet. Also I was too busy to take any pictures.

Before

After

3. Our 12 days of holy-cow-I-forgot-to-finish-the-Shepherd knock and run Nativity for the neighbors. Here’s a picture she sent me of the finished product, it was so much fun even if I was usually burning my fingers with hot glue every night at 9 pm. On Christmas Eve we took Baby Jesus over and did our traditional Mexican Caroling.

4. Mexican Caroling – Last year, in an attempt to convince my kids to go caroling, I came up with Mexican Caroling to make it sound better. We take maracas and instruments and sing Felize Navidad to our neighbors. This year we took my sister and our good friends the Pethels and the missionaries with us and went around my neighborhood. It was so cool, my German neighbors all got teary, who knew that song was so spiritual? We will do this every year until I die.

5. Our Homemade Christmas Angel gifts – There almost aren’t words for me to describe what a great experience this was. I must tell you, my kids wanted to do WAY more with it than I had scheduled for myself. I thought Rex would just spray a basket and throw a pillow in it but no, he had to MAKE a pillow with cotton balls. And then he had to make a blanket. And then he had to decorate the blanket with 10 hearts. Not one, not two, but ten. This kid did all the work himself, I didn’t tell him what to do (except to beg him to stop adding to his gift so I could finish the wise man due that night). He ran the pedal for all the sewing and wrapped it himself.

Harrison’s finished bear and June helping Georgia make my gift (thank you Daddy for taking a picture).

Just shy of 15 years ago I made Jason a quilt. We were dating and I found out he was still sleeping with the ratty old blanket his ex-girlfriend had made him before his mission. This threw me into a quilting frenzy. In my attempt to outdo her tackily tied POC (I hate ex-girlfriends) I kind of overshot. The batting was so thick by the time I was done hand quilting it that we have never been able to use it.

I cut it apart last spring to requilt it and surprise him for his birthday in May. Then I was going to have it ready for Father’s Day in June. Then our anniversary…you see where this is going.

I drew Jason’s name for Christmas and decided to get my act together and hand quilt the darn thing in December if it killed me.

It didn’t kill me. He was pretty impressed with the finished result.

But the best homemade gift came from Jason. Believe me, with two weeks to spare and kids who were working like mad on their gifts he started to have some serious anxiety.

“I’ve got no skills,” he said halfway through December. “I can’t make anything.”

“Wrong,” I said. “You took that framing class on base a few months ago. Print off some pictures of you and June and frame them. Go.” I had no time for whining from big people, he was on his own.

We gathered together in the living room on Christmas Eve with our angel gifts. My kids were so excited. We went youngest to oldest so Georgia gave me my new necklace first. Precious.

Next went June who gave Harrison his old chess set repainted and refurbished. He loved it.

Then Rex gave Georgia her gift. It was a huge hit.

After that Harrison gave Rex his gift. I don’t know if you happen to have boys and whether or not they get along, but mine aren’t always so patient with each other. As a mommy I like to imagine that they are best buds who do everything together even though the reality is usually morning shouting matches in the bathroom over who’s using the better sink. I think this gift was really special for them. 

I can’t begin to describe in words how much this brought Jason and June together. Jason is hard on June as a rule. She’s a big personality and has really challenged us. But when she was a baby she was his sweetheart and they adored each other. Working with all those old baby pictures definitely reminded him that she was just his little girl, and receiving them touched her six year old heart in an old soul way. See for yourself, the pictures tell it all. We were all ugly crying by the time the night was over.

It was a wonderful Christmas and I’m trying really hard not to think about this being our last over here in this non-commercialized, Savior centered country where there is no Target to distract me from what really matters. I only hope next year I can take what we’ve learned and build on it.

So here’s to our upcoming goals and changes and plans and dreams. My word this year was going to be skinny but even I can’t bring myself to be that shallow (unless shallow means thin then perhaps it’s a contender as well). Instead I’m going with plucky. This year I want to be brave and happy and open and resiliant and I’ve decided that “plucky” is just the word for me.

Happy New Year, it’s going to be a big one.

Here’s the link to our family singing Feliz Navidad.

My sister has finally launched her first book. This will be closely followed by a second, third, fourth fifth and hundredth. I’m a huge Anne McCafrey fan and I love it when an author creates a sci-fi world and then sticks with it for a series–that’s what Jenny has done here. 

Jenny’s book is usually only $3.99 but it’s on promo right now and you can get it FOR FREE until the 28th. That’s 48 hours for you to jump on the Baxter train and get a good book to read while you procrastinate taking down your Christmas decoration. 

I love her books and she has let me be part of the editing process. I might or might not have used that opportunity to get back at her for all the rotten things she did as a kid. Or I might just be a really good editor. I’ll never tell…

So here’s the inside scoop, an interview with my almost-almost-a-vampire sister. The book does not have vampires in it, by the way. Unfortunately.

1. We know your book has misfits in it and we know they take a journey. Since it’s the Christmas season, how would you compare your misfits to Santa’s? Is their journey going to be as successful? 

I’ve been waiting for someone to ask me this question. The answer is, that my misfits are exactly like Santa’s – except that they’re completely different. For example, they really want to get out of the Federation (i.e. ‘off their island’), but at the same time none of them are polka dotted, and they don’t have square wheels. It’s really a fascinating comparison and I could go on, and on, and on – but I won’t. As for whether or not their journey will be successful… Well, let’s just say that none of them get thrown down any chimneys. But then again, (considering the comparison) is that a good thing, or a bad thing?

2. Let’s talk about your caste system. Will you briefly describe the three classes in the Federation? Which class do you think I would belong in? 

In the Select Class (so called because of their highly coveted ‘selected’ genetics) you have fair-haired, blue- or green-eyed, pleasantly not-so-skinny people who get to tell everyone else what to do. The Middlers are not-so-fair-haired, hazel-eyed, more fit people who basically hold management positions. The Popular Class is made up of the general populous, and reflects the indigenous genetics of the North American Continent at the time of my story: blackish-brown hair, dark brown eyes, and bronze colored skin. They’re modified further to be tall, muscular, and lean.

And where would you fit in? Well you’re bossy, blonde, and blue-eyed – but unfortunately you’re WAY too skinny to be a Select. (Although, it is the Christmas season, so maybe by New Year’s?) Plus, there’s always the fact that your blonde highlights aren’t quite 100% your own (I’m sure it’s really close…), so with all things considered (including the fact that you do love to ‘manage’) I think I’d have to call you a Middler.

3. Sometimes I want to throw Laryn out the window because she’s so stubborn. Who was your muse and where did you channel her personality from? 

If only it had been that simple. I must confess that in the beginning I did have someone I was fashioning Laryn after – but she kind of had a mind of her own, and she simply refused to be put into that box. (I actually almost threw her and the book out the window myself a few times, so I know exactly what you mean.) She simply refused to be the character I thought I wanted to write. Very frustrating. We battled it out for about six months – i.e. I let the book sit and refused to touch it at all (take THAT Laryn!) – but in the end she proved to be even more stubborn than I am. She finally emerged as an individual different from anyone I know, and as someone I’d really love to meet. I would seriously love to have her on my team.

4. What is Laryn’s love language? What is Kieff’s? 

I totally had to google that. Hmmm. Laryn’s is definitely not gifts – receiving gifts all the time would probably make her feel uncomfortable. And it’s not acts of service either, although both things do mean a lot to her. I would say…quality time. Time itself is rather valuable to a misfit from the Federation, and I think that just knowing someone would choose to spend theirs with her would be a pretty powerful thing. I’m thinking that Kieff’s, on the other hand, is acts of service. It might not appear to be so on the surface, but underneath I think that explains a lot about the development of their relationship.

5. How many Nequam books do you have tucked away in your mind ready to write? 

As in, the one’s I already have plotted out? Or the infinite number of possible places I could go with this? Currently, I have five books lined up: Laryn Rising, Book Two (which is the second half of Laryn’s story), Book Three (a prequel set on Nequam, which is the planet they’re headed for), Book Four (the story of girl from the Federation who arrives in Nequam the same time as Laryn), and Book Five (set in Nequam 200 years after Laryn and the other Fed girls arrive). Book Two is already finished and in the final stages of editing/publishing, and Book Three is in the works.

6. A large portion of your story takes place in space. The book Enders Game also takes place in space. How would you compare the two space stories, since obviously space stories are all alike, right? 

Totally. I probably should have named it Laryn’s Game. I mean, there are stars, and space stuff, and (a few minor characters) wearing spaceship uniforms, and I’m pretty sure Laryn has one or two dreams. There aren’t any freaky giants or snakes in them, but other than that you can see that the two books are virtually identical. Oooo! And Laryn and Ender both have two siblings! Niether of Laryn’s are psycho or named after a holiday, but who’s splitting hairs?

Then again, Ender doesn’t kiss anyone, does he? There might be a slight departure there… And she isn’t exactly trying to save the world – she’s just leaving it. Ender doesn’t get to ride horses, grow vegetables, or learn to cook at his space school, but he probably would have had WAY more fun if those had been options, don’t you think? So basically, I’d say we’re back to Santa’s misfits – all space books are pretty much exactly the same, except that they’re so completely different. Wouldn’t you say?

And there you have it folks! Now go get her book and support your local author.