Is it over? Have I finished the game?

I’ve decided that in the CK my Heaven will be filled with Children’s Museums, Surf-N-Swim’s, and Cafe Rio. I’d also really like it to include one hot, bruised man (Spy Camp is tough work). The weekend was fantastic.

I kept hoping we’d argue about something so sending him back would be easier on my heart, but no doing. He insisted on changing every diaper (and Junie really put him through his paces–she pooped almost hourly I’m dead serious), he tried to do all the cleaning yesterday (I couldn’t bear to be in a different room from him so we worked together), and smothered our entire little family with love, affection and Starbursts. Seriously, Heaven. 

Back to all the bruises, isn’t it ridiculous that I find his current buff and bruised status totally hot? Am I allowed to write this? It’s not even the bruises exactly, it’s the idea that my man is so manly he can take down and kick any bad guy’s trash if necessary. I actually sit around and think about how cool it would be if someone broke into my house and Jason cleaned their clock in his attempt to protect his fragile little wife and three delicate children. Don’t be surprised to find that someone has “accidentally” left the garage door open next time he’s home. 

And so, it was with  much sadness that we dropped him off at the airport this morning. He was six minutes shy of missing his flight, thanks to my lead-based feet. But don’t worry, I am surrounding myself with good friends and a case of the bussies. Eight more weeks? No sweat (Okay, there will probably be sweat and blood and tears and more diapers than I want to count, but I can do this). No problem (Well, there will certainly be problems and trials and fits and puke, but I can do this).

But hey, we’ll always have Paris. And the Surf-N-Swim.

Jason flew in last night for a weekend of time with the kids and some much needed QNT. I left the babies snug in their beds, my girlfriend with the remote, and went to fetch him from the airport. 

In case you’re wondering, yes I spent a multitude of brain power this week once again obsessing over the perfect outfit. I went with the crowd favorite, tight jeans, tight T-shirt and heels. Unfortunately, fate has it in for me. It was freezing last night so I had to hamper my clothing with a coat. Totally unsexy.

The last time he breezed into town our Alone Time was callously interrupted by sick unsleeping children. Last time I ended up taking the baby with me to the airport and waited in the park and watch for his delayed plane. I turned my phone to vibrate so that his call wouldn’t wake the baby, then promptly fell asleep. That’s right, dressed to impress or not, the middle of the night is still the middle of the night. He called my phone for 20 minutes before I figured out the buzzing wasn’t part of my dream. What a reunion. 

This time I got to the airport early, phone turned to LOUD, and decided to go inside and wait. But I couldn’t remember which terminal he was arriving in. I parked in the middle and took my chances with Terminal Uno. 

Let me tell you, if you haven’t taken the time to sit at the passenger funnel of the airport and watch reunions, you haven’t lived. People are so transparent. I saw two other women dressed to the nine’s in heels, waiting for their lovers. I know this is true of one of them because of the atomic cloud of mylar balloons she was carrying that said things like, “Kissy kissy!” and “I Love You Forever”. Just for the record, He would KILL me if I ever showed up in public with that kind of thing. 

Then there were the men with flowers. All you had to do was follow the cologne trails around to see who was lonesome and who wasn’t. And I realized the airport is no place for propriety or discretion. I think I’m comfortable with PDA in general, but straddling your man in public for a seven-minute make-out? Even I wouldn’t attempt the whole leg wrapping, heiny grabbing personal affection that I saw going on. And these people were old. I was planning a more appropriate kiss with the whole heel lift kind of reunion, you know?

And so I waited. And waited and waited and waited. My heels were killers to walk in but I finally gave up and scooted over to the monitor for a status check. Late. 

When I knew his plane had arrived and I had exhausted every passenger Airport Terminal 1 had to offer, my phone finally rang. Of all the luck, he was outside at the curb, on the other end of the airport with his bag. Fun. Trudging to the other end of the airport in the middle of the night in my cutest albiet most uncomfortable heels was not my vision of a perfect reunion. 

But I have to tell you, when I spotted him walking toward me clear at the other end, my heart about broke into a thousand love songs and I sprinted, sprinted I say, into those super hot arms. 

He’s here, he’s home, it’s fleeting, and I never want to send him back. Mondays are my new most hated day of the week, but I’m not thinking about that. I’ve got him and now I’m going upstairs (where he’s snuggling with our children watching Curious George) to kiss his face.

Last night I tried to feed my three-year-old broccoli. Our conversation went something like this.

I be Mom. Mom I be. Do you like green broccoli?

I do not like it, Mom I Be, I do not like green broccoli.

Would you like it on the table? Would you eat it for Aunt Mable?

Not on the table, not with Aunt Mable! I do not like green broccoli, I do not like it, Mom I Be.

Would you, could you from the floor? Eat them! Eat them! I implore!

I would not could not from the floor.

You may like them, ornery brat. Eat them or I’ll get the bat. 

I could not, would not, Mom I Be. I want ice cream! Let me be!

A fork a fork a fork a fork! Would you eat them from a fork?

I would not could not from a fork. 

Would you eat them with some pork?

Not with a fork, not with some pork! I do not like green broccoli. I will not eat it, Mom I be.

Say! In the dark, here in the dark! Would you, could you in the dark?

(banging on closet door) I would not could not in the dark!

Would you, could you in the rain?

(banging on the door to come back inside) I would not could not in the rain! Not in the dark, Mom you’re insane!

Could you, would you with your brother?

I could not, would not with my brother.

Would you, could you for your mother?

I would not, could not for my mother. I will not, will not with my brother. I do not like them here or there, I do not like them ANYWHERE. I do not like green broccoli, I do not like them, Mom I Be.

You do not like them, this I hear. Fine. We’ll try again next year.

(And NO ice cream.)

I took the kids to Costco yesterday with my girlfriend. Costco is a large and spacious building and seems to bring out the worst in my children and my grocery budget. 

By the time we made it from the parking lot to the main entrance I was almost finished. I got hot dogs for the kids (because I’m healthy like that) so they would be quiet and ride while I shopped. But would Harrison ride? No. He wanted to walk with his hot dog and drink. We bantered back and forth, I made him swear on his new sleeping bag to walk along the side of the cart (not in front where I continually run over him) and not spill. We started off. 

Of course we all know within seconds he wanted to walk in front of the cart, push the cart, ride on the bottom rack of the cart, all while eating his hot dog and sipping his pop. 

My girlfriend had to take her daughter to the bathroom. I looked at Harrison and asked, “Do you need to go peep?” He looked me point blank in the eye and said, “Nope.”

Three minutes later when she rejoined our group, what do you think I heard? “Mom! I’ve go to go peep AND poop!” How badly I wanted to use Love and Logic and say, “Oh, sorry buddy, you’ll just have to hold it for the next 45 minutes. You missed your chance.” But alas, off we went. Ten minutes, the kid took ten minutes. When will he learn to go to The Big House without taking off all his clothing?

As we finally headed back to my stranded friend and other children, I felt a serious Freak Out coming on. “Harrison,” I said, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth in an attempt to sound casual and docile, “I really need you to stay with me and be obedient. It REALLY frustrates Mommy–”

“Mom,” he calmly interrupted me, “Remember the Book of Mormon?” This totally caught me off guard. I nodded yes. “Well, it says we’re not supposed to get frustrated.” 

What do you do when your five-year-old righteously puts you in your place? You laugh. It was the perfect tension breaker. And I used the Book of Mormon excuse on him for the rest of the chaotic afternoon. “The Book of Mormon says…” And he actually listened, go figure.

I have finally found it. The perfect recipe for an award-winning, Oprah’s Book Club (although I don’t like her and will never appear on her show when I’m famous in elementary schools throughout the world) chick lit smash hit. Why didn’t I realize that all these cool, edgy, made-for-mom’s books have a running theme (and no, it’s not Fabio)?

The story is simple. Middle-aged yet youthful heroine encounters divorce/death/drama. Her life is turned upside down/inside out/backwards. She relocates, opens a bakery/candy shop/catering business and meets a vagabond/actor/neighbor who steals her heart. She quickly discovers the meaning of life, finds her Authentic-self  in the kitchen (while simultaneously retaining/regaining her girlish figure), and enjoys instant patisserie success, thanks to a simple small business loan and a small town full of wealthy sweet teeth. She and her sensitive partner then ride off into the sunset eating pastries/chocolates/meatballs and live happily ever after. 

What have I been doing? I can write this story. In fact, if it wasn’t for the fact that I open my blog every time I sit down at the computer to work on my manuscripts or write a query, I would be living this dream myself (of course, my eatery would specialize in salami).

I love this blog. I hate this blog. I get nothing done with this blog. Blog. What a perfect word.

I have a thing or two to say about girliness in general.

In early July I took one of the 12 year olds from the neighborhood on a shopping spree. She was wearing all her older brother’s hand-me-down’s and seemed convinced that she was actually a boy. Shopping with her mother brought nothing but fighting, and so I happily and hopefully offered my shopping services. To my total surprise, this darling girl said yes. Off we went. 

The first time she put on a fitted girl t-shirt she broke down sobbing. It was traumatic for her. She’d been wearing huge, baggy boy clothing for the last year of puberty and was terrified of all things feminine. I stood her in front of the mirror, made her look at that gorgeous girl staring back, and gave her permission to love the color pink. We laughed and she cried, and $200.00 later she floated through the door of her house equipped with an entirely new outlook on life. 

BUT.

Last week at Young Women’s they decided to doll the girls up in hair and makeup. Now, this girl has been sporting her new “I’m now a girl” look for three months, but hair and make-up we have not yet covered. Why? Because there’s no big hurry here. Her mom and I both think she’ll work her way into those things (or we’ll push her into them) in time. 

And so up went her hair in a pile of soft brown curls. A little eye makeup and some lip gloss and holy crap, she looked amazing. She LOVED it. In fact, she danced and pranced around with the other twittering little Beehives like a happy little fairy. 

Then she went home and cried from embarrassment. 

She was horrified at how she’d acted and blamed the makeup. She told her mom she wanted nothing to do with makeup or hair ever again, and in a matter of hours morphed back into that boyish, clunky girl who only wanted to wear huge baggy clothing and play with the boys. 

This made me sad. So a few days later, when she came over to babysit, I decided to talk to her. I wouldn’t have said anything, but you can’t fight inspiration. 

“I was so sad about the other night,” I said. “Your mom told me you were pretty upset about the hair and makeup.”

“All makeup does is make girls think they aren’t good enough. I don’t need that stuff to be beautiful.”

Have I mentioned that I love this girl? She’s ridiculously book smart and street smart, and she knows who she is. I LOVE this girl. 

“I totally agree,” I said. “But I don’t want you to turn into one of those people who looks down on girls who wear makeup. There’s nothing wrong with looking your best and making the effort to feel good about yourself.” She bristled at this and was about to cut me off with another pre-feminist comment when I continued.

“Tell me,” I asked casually, ignoring the I’m-never-wearing-girl-clothes-again look on her face. “What does the temple look like inside?”

This caught her by surprise. “Uh, white?”

“Right, but when they build them, do they throw down cheap brown carpet and slap up some paint?”

“No…”

“What kind of material do they use when they build a new temple?”

“The best,” she said. She’s no dummy. She saw exactly where I was going.

“That’s right. Beautiful, crystal chandeliers and only the loveliest moldings. They spare no expense to make it an inviting place where people want to be.”

“I guess…”

“And you know what? When we take the time to look our best and put our best foot forward, it pleases Heavenly Father. Do you think I feel any less confident when I have sweats on and no makeup?” She shook her head no. My point was made. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about this. This weekend I had a fantastic reunion with some old girlfriends who came and stayed with me for our 10th Anniversary Jerusalem Get-Together. I took Melissa, my best friend from college and old roommate, shopping to bring her out of the Mommy Mire and give her a new lease on hotness. By the time she left, she had to buy a new suitcase to take home the new wardrobe we’d picked out for her.

And you know what? She felt good about herself. Not just good, great.

Now and then there’s nothing wrong with taking the time to throw on some lipgloss and that “fancy” pair of jeans when you go to the grocery store. We don’t always have to run around in sweats just because we deal with sticky fingers and snotty noses. We don’t have to sacrifice heels for sneakers because they’re more practical. We are still girls, not slaves or wives or mommy’s or taxi drivers or bread winners. Just girls. I don’t care how old or how worn down or how sapped we sometimes feel, under all those left-overs and laundry we are still just a bunch of girls who like to feel pretty.

So do yourself a favor. Go feel pretty today, you deserve it. And if you need someone to help you revamp your girliness, just let me know.

Today I am thirty. Here are a few things I’ve learned thus far on this wild ride of life.

I’ve learned that some relationships take time. If you would have told seven-year-old Annie that she’d grow up and be best friends with her horrible big sister Jenny, she never would have believed you. But thirty years into this relationship, it rocks. Time is magical, it can prove anything.

I’ve learned that some things never change. I still love to dance, wear makeup and get ready for church on Sundays. I still like old movies, Hostess chocolate pies, red cream sodas and gas station burritos. I can still blow $50 dollars on fair food without feeling guilty, and I still sing at the top of my lungs on the ferris wheel. At 30, Sleeping Beauty is still my favorite Disney princess and I really want her hair. 

I’ve learned the power that comes from saying “I’m sorry,” and the equally powerful words, “I forgive you.” I know how important “I love you’s” are, and cherish every moment with my parents. I see the value in small town living, and treasure every second we spend in Elma. 

I know the power of prayer and pray about everything. I’m convinced there’s an army of fantastic shopping angels assigned to me personally, and know that despite the multitude of humans that have been, are and will be here on Earth, I count. I believe in Christ. The atonement is real. I might not be the most scholarly, well-read christian, but I know this life is just a training ground for an eternity of great things to come. 

And so, on the threshold of my best decade to date, I declare that the next ten years of my life are going to rock. I’m up to big things and am not afraid of rejection. Somewhere, the right person is going to say yes. 

This is my blog birthday party. Today you’re cordially invited to leave me a comment. I’m alone here, my man is gone, and really, you’re all I’ve got. So come out of Lurkville and drop me a line. I’d love to know what you think about turning 30, whichever side of it you’re on. 

Here’s wishing me a good one.

Oh gosh, kill me know. I did not say that. Tell me I didn’t say that. Tell me I don’t have to find a new pediatrician because I just made the biggest Freudian Slip the universe has ever heard. 

So I had to take Junie to the doctor today (you need to know that writing this is killing me right now, KILL-ING ME). My pediatrician has a student doc shadowing him this week so the office was full of nice, soft-spoken, clean-minded men.

Then I walked in. 

As the doctor looked in June’s ears and eyes and throat, I rattled on about Jason’s extended inconvenient absence. Now, I don’t know if you’re like me, but my mind tends to shift topics rather abruptly. The shifts from one topic to the other don’t always go over so smoothly. This was one of those bumpy, rocky, boulder crushing down on my head shifts. 

As I talked on about Jason, I suddenly remembered that I wanted to ask the doctor about weaning the baby to whole milk. This should have been a simple, straightforward conversation shift. It was straightforward, all right, but I think they both missed the shift. 

Prattling on about how lonely I am I suddenly blurted out, “I really want to wean her,” only it SOUNDED like, “I really wanna weiner”. Dead. Silence. The doctor actually paused mid ear stride as the magnitude of what I’d just said crashed down around my stupid blonde head. Trap door, anyone? Earthquake? Where is a stupid hurricane when you need one?

The silence was unbearable as I fumbled around with follow-up phrases like, “My boobs just can’t take this anymore,” and “I’m just not getting any sleep at night”. 

As I left the office I kept periodically putting my sweatshirt over my head so people wouldn’t look at me and know what I’d just said. I’m trying to use the whole, “Jesus Loves Me Even When I Say Really Stupid Things” trick but so far it hasn’t kicked in. 

I can never go back there. Never. Ever.

I am a thrift store junkie. 

The other night I had the opportunity to ditch all three of my babies (thank you Tiffany) and hit the town in style. Thrift store style, that is. 

As I headed out the door I did a quick wardrobe assessment. Casual attire, check. Clip in hair, check. High-heels, che–wait a second. No one successfully wears high heels to the thrift store without looking trampy. Quickly ditched the heels. 

As I cruised through the smells-like-used-clothing isles, I realized something wonderful. If a person wants to sing loudly with the thrift store background music, they can go right on ahead. Half the people there will just chalk you up as a crazy loon on a tight budget, so why not take advantage? How often does a gal hear Debbie Gibson anymore, anyway?

And I love that I’m the only person alive who still uses a VCR every single day. The thrift store has an absolute treasure trove of VHS movies. I picked up The Little Mermaid, Snow White, The Land Before Time (the original, not one of the 47 knock off’s)–every one of them was under three dollars (and it was “fifth item free” day, yay!). Where else can you find mint videocassettes that no one wants? Show me a juvenile DVD collection that isn’t pock riddled and covered with yogurt. Four-year-olds don’t care about quality.

When I was a kid, one of us would precariously balance and twist the antenna (yes, I said antenna) so the other could watch fuzzy, purplish Smurfs on Saturday morning. It worked fine if it wasn’t raining. You bet, that one episode I saw was great. 

And I have no qualms about wearing thrift store clothing. All it takes to pull off thrifty attire is good old-fashioned pride. I stepped out today in my new, albeit slightly used, heels from my recent escapade and no one was the wiser (until I loudly told them).

One of my girlfriends buys most of her shoes at Norstrom and wanted to know where I got them. You should have seen her face when I told her. She had that sick “I’ve been had like an investor at a Time Share presentation” look. I clicked off to the car, happy as a poor church mouse that got into the give-away bin.  

Nine years ago today I sealed the deal with the man of my dreams. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. 

Nine years of best-dates-ever. I remember coming home from my first date with Jason and telling my sister Jenny that it was, hands down, the best date I’d ever been on. Nine years of Friday night dating make that first date look dull. He’s such a babe.

Nine years of forgiveness. There are a lot of ways to be married and a lot of ways to communicate. Sometimes I communicate with fits, yelling, brattiness and hanging-up-the-phone. For some reason, this man just keeps loving me to pieces and forgives my sorry self over and over and over.

Nine years of decision making. Jason and I rarely if ever disagree on how or when to do something. Whether it’s buying a house or naming a kid, our taste is practically identical. We have never argued over paint chips (including my burnt orange hallway and dark blue bedroom in MD), furniture, or vehicles (motorcycles excluded). How lucky is that?

Nine years of conversation. If you know me at all, you know that I have big plans. Plans for everything. For nine years now my man has encouraged, listened, suggested and supported all my scheming and dreaming and planning. He never puts me down or tells me I can’t, even when he thinks/knows I’m going to bomb. 

Nine years of flirting. What would marriage be if all the excitement was gone? Nine years later, we still flirt with each other every single day.

I’m mad about him, can’t keep my eyes, hands and heart away from him. He has me at every single hello, and part of me cries with every single farewell. This kind of loving is what life is all about. 

This morning I went to the temple by myself. I can’t decide which would be worse: to die and get to Heaven without him, or be the one left behind here on Earth. I do know one thing, never has my eternal marriage meant more to me than it did today. He’s mine forever. You can’t mess with forever. 

I love you Jason. As much as anyone has ever loved anything, I love you plus one. Happy anniversary.