Annie Valentine

Jason is out of town for work enjoying the sunshine and laughter of California. That’s great, I’m happy for him. I love sitting around in the lovely German drizzle making chicken noodle soup and cursing my frizzy hair.

Still, the kids are older and having him gone isn’t as hard as it was three years ago. He was away all the time for work and the poor children were left with a pregnant or breastfeeding crazy woman who routinely thought she should take up bear hunting to release energy.

Jason left the same day as my parents, who arrived moments after his parents departed, and as soon as they were all finally out of the house my body…gave up. I got sick. Super sick. And of course when my girlfriend offered to come and get the kids on Sunday I gave her the ‘ole “No! I’m fine! We’re fine! Everyone’s fine! I’ve totally got this!” And then I tried not to die for 24 hours while my kids acted out chapters 1-4 of Lord of the Flies.

Monday was better but my house was in shambles. A weekend flat on my back? It had a decidedly post-frat party look about it and I spent all day long juggling laundry and voice students and play dates while trying to coral the flotsam and jetsam that appears in a house with children. Do you know how many broken crayon pieces my kids can manufacture from one little box of 24? It is astounding.

All day long I waited for my evening retreat. I’d washed four large loads of laundry and was carefully stacking the baskets upstairs behind the couch, ready for my post-bedtime television laundry attack. I thought all day about what shows I would watch. We’ve recently gotten Apple TV and I’m trying to get back into the habit of watching television at night because it’s so healthy for you. Enough with the sewing already, give me some Battlestar Galactica and we’re in business (at the top of my list after Sherlock Holmes).

By the time we got home from baseball and the kids had all practiced their music and not done their homework, I was fried. And of course, that was the time they all decided to miss Daddy and wanted me to hug them. I’m a horrible person, I know, but it’s so hard to hug a shrieking child who spent the 25 minute car ride home kicking the back of your seat. I wanted to poke her with a pin.

And so I refused to snuggle. I put the wailing girls to bed and ignored their screaming while both boys showered. I did the dishes and straightened the family room and still they screamed. I brushed my teeth and thought about reading my scriptures but knew I couldn’t concentrate because THEY WERE STILL SCREAMING.

Finally, I went to get the Apple remote from it’s sacred location (designed so it can never get lost) and it was…gone. And in that moment I knew, my wrath had been kindled and heads. Would. Roll.

You see, Harrison had spent his “homework” time watching cartoons while I taught singing lessons all afternoon. He had lost the remote and I wanted to kick his sorry little butt out of the family. I stomped and yelled at him (please don’t tell anyone, I really am a nice mother mostly) and he suggested we pray about it, so I told him to go right on ahead and pray, he was going to need it.

He did.

I was so angry and sick of listening to the girls scream and exhausted from a big day and just…you know? You know what I’m talking about, right?

“Harry,” I said after calming down considerably during our remote hunt, “Can you go up and snuggle your sisters for me? I can’t do it.” He went up and within five seconds it was silent. Twenty seconds later he came down with a smile.

“They’re fine, don’t worry about it Mom.”

We sat down on the edge of his bed and I gave him a humble apology with no excuses.

“Why don’t you say a prayer when you’re so upset?” he asked. It was like talking to my mother, so irritating.

“I don’t have the heart right now, will you pray for me?” And so he did. The sweetest little prayer ever, asking Heavenly Father to bless his tired mother who does all the work and “just wants to watch a little television.” He then reminded God that this was the second time he had asked to find the remote, so could we please speed up the process?

We found the remote in about thirty seconds. Best Mother’s Day gift ever.

There is nothing more frustrating than trying to discipline our children while traveling in Europe. Every country has its own ideas and customs and acceptable ways of handling naughty little ones. You might think that our parenting methods shouldn’t vary, but you’ve also never dealt with a sassy five-year-old in front of a benchful of old Italian grandmothers.

My daughter, June, is brilliant and delightful. As long as she stays busy our house is a relatively happy place. When she gets bossy, I give her a stack of glueable objects and a bottle of Elmer’s. When she irritates her brothers, I let her to peel a bag of potatoes. When she sasses me, she gets a needle and thread and I try not cackle when she pokes herself.

But on long road trips there is very little we can do with her; activity books will only take us so far. Give us four or five hours in the car with her and we start looking for orphanages and vacant parking lots.

On our last vacation June started out with a loose tooth, one of the middle bottom teeth. I hate loose teeth and am officially the world’s worst Tooth Fairy. Our kids usually make big bucks for missing teeth because by the time I remember to check their pillow it’s usually been waiting for a solid week accruing Tooth interest.

At the beginning of the vacation June’s tooth was mostly ready to come out. By day twelve of our vacation her tooth was hanging from her mouth in a disturbingly loose fashion. You know it’s bad when she can shake her head and her tooth wobbles. Harrison was making big plans that included dental floss and door knobs, ever the thoughtful older brother.

We stopped the car for a break in northern Italy and let the prisoners out to breath some fresh mountain air before restraining them for the additional six-hour trip home. There was a small shopping center with a grocery store and I decided it would be the best way to get everyone a french-fry-free lunch and snag a moment of peace to myself.

June disagreed.

“June,” I said as we stood at the store entrance and argued, “Please, just stay out here by Dad so I can go in and get groceries, it will only take a moment–”

“No!” she said, “I don’t want to stay by Dad! I hate staying by Dad! I want to come with you!”

I looked over her shoulder and realized that we were standing ten feet away from a bench stacked with old Italian grandmothers. They might not have understood English but they certainly all spoke Mother. My daughter had sassed me and they were all giving me the You Gonna Let Her Talk To You That Way? stare, waiting for my response.

“June! Do not speak to me that way! You can apologize right now for being rude or go sit over there on the Repentance Bench–” right next to the scary old ladies.

“No!” she yelled back, “I won’t! YOU go sit on the Repentance Bench!”

And that was it. She had pushed me too long and too far. For twelve days I had been in close quarters with her, carefully picking my very public battles while holding tight to my curtain of patience, but she had played her last hand.

I did exactly what my mother had so graciously done when I back-talked as a child: I lightly, barely, gently popped her in the mouth.

And then the blood started to run down her face and all over her white shirt.

Yes, I had knocked her tooth out.

Somehow I managed to salvage it and convince her that we should clap and celebrate her loss, thinking her joy might blot out the method. But she has spent the last week getting me back. She shows every single person we meet her missing tooth, then sweetly says, “See? My mommy hit me in the face knocked my tooth out!”

Book a cheap European cruise.

Oh my Heavens, we’ve been home from our massive vacation forever and I can’t seem to get this finished. Posterity can be so demanding, like any of them will really ever care about our European vacations.

The morning after the split skull debacle in Garmisch we woke early and made the lovely drive to Switzerland where we stayed at the temple and visited the Swiss Alps. The temple hostel was awesome in a dorm/prison kind of style, but it had a big user-friendly kitchen and play room in the basement and the kids thought our bunk room was the coolest thing ever. I would have liked a chair to sit on but who’s counting? Jason and I woke early and did a session before heading off to the Alps. We tried to take a family picture and included everyone who was cooperating. Kind of makes you wonder which one of us might not make it on the other side…I’m kidding. Really. Just kidding.

This was a mostly awesome day, unfortunately June came with us. We took the kids on a tram that goes right up to the village of Gimwald. It’s the only way to access the teensy community perched in the tops of the mountains. Years ago they got smart and declared themselves and “avalanche zone” to ensure that developers wouldn’t hone in on their family centered community. It’s a little farming settlement and the road zig zags it’s way past the three or four dozen houses with a view of the mountains that is enough to make you giddy. It could have been the altitude but I think it was the majesty that really got me.

Apparently it also got June. She had three time-outs almost back to back on the steps of a boarded up gasthaus. I managed to avoid yelling (echos and avalanches, you know) and we made it off the mountain with all four children in tow.

We headed south to Genoa (a cool city, hardly saw it) to catch our cruise ship and spent the afternoon at the buffet. The ship was on the smaller end of cruise ships but the kids were thrilled to see “Crewey” and settled in without the usual “first day on the boat” drama.

Our first stop was Marseilles (pronounced Mar-say). It might have been my favorite stop of the whole trip. The weather was phenomenal and we were having a lovely morning, getting ready for the boat ride out to the Chateau d’If (Count of Monte Cristo, anyone? Notice the boat name?) when Harrison ran smack into a pole while reading his map and just about broke his nose. Of course, this is also the day I forgot to bring wipes off the boat with me.

He survived the hemorrhaging and we  finally boarded the boat. Things were pretty good from there on out. The island was so cool, desolate and and rugged and creepy and beautiful, and the prison was perfectly old and terrifying. Georgia was freaked out the entire time. I managed to get enough great pictures of my kids to cancel out the need for a professional photo shoot this year. Our Chateau d’If photos turned out fantastic, I’ll edit them more before printing but here’s the raw stuff. I’m standing with the kids in front of the “Graffiti Wall” with stones from prisoners who had stayed there in the 1800’s. After If, we took a little trolly train up to a church for a view of the city. Breathtaking.

Our next stop was Barcelona, we visited Goudy’s most famous church and it absolutely boggled my mind. It was…stunning. Sometimes words are stupid, there aren’t really any to describe this place. It was refreshing and thoughtful and mathematical and I swear it’s destined to turn up in a Dan Brown novel any day now. The massive inside pillars were tree stems with flowers holding the ceiling in place, and everything was designed to reflect the wind and the plants and Mother Earth. It was cool, very light and very sacred.

After visiting the church we hit the main thoroughfare where all the tourists and pick pockets congregate. They sell the typical tourist garb, but they also sell little pets. Our kids all begged for bird or a hamster or a turtle, anything that breathed. It’s hard to say no to Georgia.We found a sprawling, bustling food market. For those of you who have been to Seattle’s famous Pike Place, don’t ever go to the one in Barcelona. It will ruin Seattle for you. 

In the night we went by Gibralter and Jason got a photo. I finally got up the nerve to look at his head. Totally freaked me out, but it was very effective. Taxi drivers gave him a major discount and people literally scrambled out of his way.

He took every available opportunity to blame his Frankenstein on me, BTW. 

After a refreshing day at sea we pulled into Morocco for a wild adventure in Casablanca. Taxi drivers there are psycho. They practically come to blows over potential customers yelling and shoving each other, it was like Jerry Springer Live, in Arabic.

We visited the third largest mosque in the world and took an amazing tour. Cool stuff. Then we hit the old shopping market and made out like banshees with totes and pottery and clothes and shoes, and Jason found a lovely Turkish lamp that got broken on the ride home. I don’t really want to talk about that, or about the stuff I didn’t buy and keep kicking myself over. Why? Why didn’t I spend more money there??

After Casablanca we went to a little Spanish almost-island called Cadiz. It was a perfect day, we walked from the one side to the other, played at the beach with our friends for a few hours, then made the thirty minute walk back across the almost-island to the boat. Not much else to report.

Lisbon was our last day. It was cool because my Father-in-law dusted off his Portuguese from a few decades in storage and managed to get us on the right trolly cars at the right time. It is definitely a city that deserved a good three-day weekend, we rode the old Trolly 28 up to the castle and browsed some amazing shops. We went in one super chic little boutique where the owner weaves all the fabric and her assistant sews all the clothes and jewelry from it. They literally hand make everything, start to finish, and every piece is a one-of-a-kind. I should have taken a photo or bought something, but Jason had the camera and the money and was two blocks away. Regretful? Yes.

If I were better at blogging these photos wouldn’t be so jumbled. At this point, however, I’m just glad to have them posted.  

Tell me I’m not the only one who is experiencing mathematical PMS, I swear it multiplies every month.

I find PMS in general extremely unfair, and not to me. I don’t have to live with myself, I have an out of body experience every month right about That Time and some raging lunatic woman moves in to take over. I have very little memory of her behavior or motivations, but I know she tends to snap her teeth. She also consumes mass quantities of really inappropriate carbohydrates. I kind of hate her, she’s killing my figure.

See, all those years I was having and nursing and trying to get pregnant with babies I didn’t have to deal with this stuff. In fact, in the course of twelve years I only had eight cycles, and four of them were pregnancies.

And then I got my tubes tied and Heaven no longer felt obligated to regulate my baby making abilities and voila! I’m all normal and hormonal. It’s so stupid.

This PMSishness runs in my family, my mom says she can remember waking up in the morning a week or two before her you-know-what and rolling over to glare at my father because he was…there. Have you met my dad? He’s an angel. This is how I feel. My poor littles, they do the smallest things and I fly off the handle, then have to repent and apologize and go sit in Downward Dog for a few minutes to try and gather my wits about me.

You know it’s bad when your husband says, “Honey. I think you have PMS, you’re being really horrible,” and you feel nothing but relief.

“YES! That’s what this is!! I have insane PMS, please help me! I am a crazy lady, do not hold anything I say or do in the next 144 hours against me because I am a full blown LUNATIC!!!”

I think I need to have my uterus microwaved.

We are currently sitting on a cruise ship just outside of Barcelona, six days into our epic spring adventure, and I’m wondering why we ever left home.

I should have known things weren’t looking good on our first night. One of the big problems with car trips is my unquenchable urge to pack junk food. I hate it, I shouldn’t do it, none of us need it. But all that food I try so hard to keep out of the kitchen during real life finds its way into the backseat and we spend the entire ride passing around peanut butter cups and potato chips and Coke Light and Capri Suns.

We took Jason’s parents and headed south to Bavaria to enjoy a little time at the Cinderella castle and Garmisch. It was almost lovely. If only we could have stayed in the car out of the cold all day it would have been perfect. Still, things went smoothly.

That night we checked into our hotel and made our way down to the large family swimming pool and outdoor jacuzzi. There’s nothing better than cold weather and a hot pool. My husband loved it so much he soaked for nearly an hour before grudgingly removing himself to come up for bed.

I met Jason and the kids at the elevator outside the pool area and we split into two groups. Jason took our seven-year-old, Rex, and got in line for one elevator while the rest of the girls and I waited for Grandpa and Harrison (9). I watched my two boys step into the elevator and smiled to see Rex tugging on Jason’s hand. He insisted they hold hands, something Rex rarely does with Jason now that he’s “big”.

Four minutes later we stepped off the other elevator and headed down the hall toward our room. There was a large group of people clustered in the hallway twenty feet ahead and I looked for a path through the mix.

Then I heard a frantic voice yell, “Mommy! It’s Daddy, he fell down and died!”

I have to pause here. My husband is a rock. He’s the human version of a draft horse; he’s strong and powerful and could probably carry all four of our children up a mountain at the same time without stopping. I’m the silly weak one. I’m the one who breaks her back and sprains her ankles and adds drama and Tabasco sauce to our life. It’s not Jason. Ever.

The group parted and there he was, my man, my strength, my sweetheart, face down on the ground and unresponsive. The entire episode confused me. What in the world was he doing down there? I kept patting his back saying, “Sweetheart, come on now, let’s get up.” I  almost offered him an ice cream cone or a pastry if he’d just raise his head and look at me.

It took me about thirty seconds to realize he wasn’t moving and my children were sobbing and my poor mother-in-law was standing there in shock and if I didn’t take control of the situation we would be adding PTSD therapy to our Emergency Room bill.

I turned and gave the kids a Disneyland smile. “It’s okay kids, Dad just bumped his head and he needs a moment. Go with Grandma and get your jammies on and I’ll come check on you  in a few minutes.” Good thing I sent them away. When my father-in-law and I turned Jason over he had a deep 3 cm gash on his beautiful bald forehead and another small cut over his eye.

It took a trip to the ER and a dozen stitches for us to learn that a day in the car with candy and no water, plus an hour in a hot pool, is a recipe for fainting. And it was only the beginning. In the five days since we’ve had three cases of the stomach flu, two sore throats, and a nearly busted nose (Harrison ran smack into a pole while reading a map in Marseille yesterday week).

Believe me, if you’re traveling in Europe with kids there are worse things than pickpockets.

Today I cleaned out Harrison’s (9) backpack. It’s day uno of Spring Break and Jason’s folks get here tomorrow, we’re heading out on an epic adventure and I’m dying to get out of Dodge. Excluding Disneyland, this is the first bit of traveling we’ve done since last September and it’s going to be a goody–driving down through Switzerland to stay at the temple housing and do a session, then on to Genoa for a nine-day cruise along the French Riviera, Spain, Portugal, Morocco…you’d think I would know by now that this trip will come with a hefty dose of travel trouble but I really don’t care.

Back to the backpack. I am pleased to report that there were no moldy lunches in his backpack this year, only four months of papers to go through. I was tempted to dump the pile halfway through but I know I’m supposed to care so I stuck with it.

I’m so glad I did.

I found two letters he’s written this month for school assignments. The first is a letter written to A Person of Interest. The letter reads:

Dear Indiana Jones, 

I am writing to say that I would love to come and discover the lost temple and the lost ark with you and your team. But I have a few questions to ask: How long will it take, will we have enough food, will we be able to contact our families, will we journey through the night, will we have sleeping bags just in case, will we have weapons in case something happens? Thank you for answering my questions. Oh! By the way how man days will we be gone, how many people are on your team, and when will we be leaving? Thank you for answering those questions, and thanks again for letting me come with you on your adventure. 

Yours sincerely, 

Harrison J

I love that one of his first concerns is the amount of food and whether or not he can call home. This second letter is particularly precious to me, especially the last paragraph. I think he was supposed to write a formal letter requesting some sort of action.

Dear Ms. Remoy,

Every Friday is so long and never short unless there is no school on Friday or if some students are on vacation. Plus we only get at least 20-40 minutes of fun Friday. But I think it would be better if all the students have a half-day Friday because each and every 5 days of the week all the students work very hard on their work and projects.

And our families miss us all day and want to see us. And we want to see them too. We are always happy when we get to see them, play with them, laugh with them and watch TV with them and other fun stuff.

Please do that, 

Harrison J

He’s a great kid, these are going in his file for sure. Finding these little gems made me really happy to be his mom.

I was talking to my girlfriend about sewing a few weeks ago and mentioning how I had downloaded a few patterns from Etsy.

“Really?” she said, “I never use patterns. I just…figure it out.”

Huh. I used to do that way more but ever since I took a sewing class I’ve gone back to basic rules and margins. But man, the moment she said it my mind started to work.

Then we saw the new Oz movie and on the way home I started thinking about the costumes in the old Oz movie, which made me think about Babes in Toyland because don’t we all just love the dresses from that movie?  By the time I got home there wasn’t even time to pee, I had to run straight to my sewing room and start cutting pattern pieces. Two weeks later, this is what I ended up with for Easter. To be honest, I didn’t intend to use the green polkadot as anything but practice fabric for June’s peplum top, but it was so cute with the old yellow from my scrap bin that I had to use it for Georgia’s dress too. The girls’ dresses and under slips cost me $20 for the pink fabric, everything else was recycled.

This next dress is from a great tutorial I bought on Etsy, I used the bodice for Georgia’s Easter dress above as well. It is also made from my scrap bin (minus the pink ruffles) and was incredibly simple to do. June helped, we made this for her darling cousin, Meara, and sent it for Easter. I’m hoping to get a picture of her in it if it ever gets there. We gave the USPS nearly two weeks priority and it still didn’t make it in time for Easter. Bummer.

Yesterday I was going through a bunch of my cast away clothing from my closet and found an old yellow girls’ camp T-shirt, plus some other knit dresses and jammies. I made each girl a new pair of leggings and a cute t-shirt, and this morning I made Georgia this adorable little dress from the camp shirt and a swim coverup I never wore (because swimsuits are stupid). Notice the pattern? I’ve used it enough times that I barely have to look at the pieces anymore. The back of this and her Easter dress are ribbed with rows of  elastic thread, sort of a lazy mom’s smocking. Makes them fitted and super comfy.

I’ll post pictures of the birdie mobiles I’ve been making later, but these are now on record for posterity’s sake. My mother always says she wished she had taken more pictures of what she made.

Disneyland and I have a love-hate relationship. Going to Disneyland is like having a baby: labor and delivery and recovery are miserable but three years later all anyone can remember is the “magic” of childbirth. Why? Why do I always think it’s going to be magical and rewarding and memory-building?

Disneyland Paris is not the same as the stateside parks. For starters, in the winter it’s cold. In the fall it’s cold. In the spring it’s cold. We went at the end of March and had low 40 degree weather the entire time. We were blessed with waterless skies but come on, you can only stand in line for Autotopia for so long in the freezing cold before you want to gouge your eyeballs out with a cheese stick.

This was our first trip without a baby in ten years and I have to say that was the one thing we did right: we left Georgia behind. But even without diapers our backpack was more like a 72-hour survival pack. Water, hand sanitizer (that we never opened), granola bars, a flashlight and a whistle, a tooth brush and a travel size tube of toothpaste because I’m currently on a clean teeth kick–we really didn’t even need to go back to the hotel for anything.

(FYI –  I spent the last night there cleaning up puke from two of the kids. The hand sanitizer would have been a good idea.)

We stayed at the Davy Crocket Resort about five minutes away from the park. It’s incredibly affordable, we paid for a three-day trip and got an extra night and two free days in the park because Disneyland in March is miserable and they know it. But the resort is great, something I wish was replicated at the stateside parks. It’s a glorified trailer park and refreshingly affordable. All the “bungalows” are oldish trailers with two bedrooms, a bathroom and a kitchen/dining/living space. It’s got it’s own village with a working farm, archery (closed), a zip line (closed), a few scattered tee-pees for show and the best pool in Europe. It comes with a criosant/juice breakfast (available for pick-up at The Breakfast Hut between 7-11) and an Easy Pass for park parking, fast pass tickets, and the get-into-the-park-two-hours-early “Magic” misery.

For the record, the only ride open at 8 am is Dumbo. I am dead serious. Do not go early, if you want to stand in line for the princesses feel free to tack on an additional two-hours to the usual 140 minute wait. Not my best idea.

The pool at Davy Crockett was open and great and the kids made us go swimming Every. Single. Night. When I say the pool was great I mean it was great for the kids. It was mostly cold and the hot tub was tepid. But hey, my kids loved it and I sat in the “watch” area and read a book.

Feel free to gawk at Jason’s face throughout this post. You are looking at a raging case of March Madness. Three. More. Days.

Things I really really missed at this park: Toad’s Wild Ride, Rapunzel in general, Toon Town, the Beauty and The Beast stage show, Indiana Jones, The Jungle Ride (loses it’s punch line in translation), and Splash Mountain (a tragedy) to name a few. But the park is well laid out and still has plenty of fun for everyone. Space Mountain 2 almost made me wet my pants it was so fun.

Directly across the street from Disneyland is Disney Studios, a spin-off of California Adventure meets MGM minus the Bug’s Life Tree (sob). It does have the Crush Coaster which is literally like riding the EAC, best coaster ever. But the most important ride in all the parks is there: The Tower of Terror.

Harrison went in The Tower of Terror a few years ago but it wasn’t too hard to fool him into thinking he was remembering another ride from another park. We were also careful to avoid using words like “terror” in the preliminary stages.

When we finally got into the ride’s hotel lobby June quickly commented on the cobwebs and wanted to know why the walls were broken. Rex was happily reviewing all the countries from “It’s A Small World” and Harrison was having PTSD flashbacks from two years ago. He started muttering things like, “I think I have to go to the bathroom,” and “Do we really have to go on this ride?” and “Isn’t this that ride that freaked me out?”

Thank goodness the Twilight Zone video was in French. The last part of the wait is in a rather dismal looking service area of the “hotel” and thunder and lightening effects rain supreme. By the time we stepped up to the elevator doors Rex was sobbing quietly and I was making false promises to the kids that the ride would be fun and we’d get to “see the whole park” from the top of the elevator.

That’s true, you do see the whole park. Then the bottom falls out and the elevator drops.

When that elevator went up and started the drop sequence the entire park could hear my kids screaming their heads off in absolute and total terror. It sounded like we were being attacked by an axe murderer.

I couldn’t stop laughing. I just…could not stop laughing. Worst parent ever? Possibly. Favorite memory of the week? Absolutely.

I’m pleased to report that for the rest of the trip we had extremely well-behaved children. We probably threatened them on three dozen different occasions that if they didn’t behave and get along we’d go back to the Tower of Terror. It was like…magic. Disney magic? You know it.

Tomorrow we take our spoiled little darlings to Disneyland, Paris for a few days of wet, slushy outdoor fun. I suppose that’s what you get when you book amusement park tickets for the cheapest week of the year–precipitation.

I don’t know what it is about large, rewarding events like a trip to the Mouse House that make all my children act so horrible. We like to think that they are frequently obedient and mostly respectful little creatures who know that their parentals follow through on threats and blessings alike. So how is it that the one week out of the year we’re slated to take a vacation tailored especially for them they turn into whiny, sassy little monsters who foam at the mouth and snap their teeth at us?

It got so bad during errands last week that I actually took June (5) to her father’s office and dropped her off with him so I could have a time-out.

It was the best five minutes of my afternoon. I don’t know what went on in Daddy’s time-out chair but he returned a much more humble, penitent little daughter to the van’s backseat. She might have mentioned something about Fire People with red eyes who live in the scary broken buildings, but I was too busy enjoying the lack of screeching to worry about it.

Due to the success of this event, I have decided that it would be particularly helpful to mother’s and father’s in general if police stations would consider opening a Naughty Room filled with dusty corners for noses and lengthy apology-provoking benches. Parents could check their kids in for 2-10 minute sessions and enjoy some refreshing elevator music and complimentary Diet Coke and Oreos.

The children, of course, would not receive cookies.

I had all four kids in the car yesterday and was amazed at the amount of pouting and punching going on in the back seat. “Everybody!” I finally hollered, “This has to stop right now! I am sick and tired of your fighting! You have been so disobedient this week, don’t you understand that if you’re not obedient to me and Heavenly Father you won’t get to Heaven?”

“Yeah, right,” I heard my nine-year-old mutter from the back seat. “You always say stuff like that.”

“Oh yeah? Well here’s one for you, how about I take away Disneyland?”  Immediately the entire car was tomblike. “Yeah,” I said, “That’s what I thought. If you want to get to Heaven you need to obey God. If you want to get to Disneyland you  need to obey me, got it?” Their cooperative silence and fear at my new threat was so complete that I managed to unload an entire five-minute sermon on the pitfalls of disobeying your parents, those on Earth and above. I also explained that Heaven is just like Disneyland except it’s always sunny and all the frozen bananas are free.

“And so,” I concluded, “If you want to get to Disneyland/Heaven you had better learn those two, extremely critical, all encompassing words that will get you through the rest of your week/life. What are they?”

“Uh…” June said.

“I love Jesus!” Rex said.

“I’m sorry?” Harrison said.

I sighed. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell them, they never remember. “The two magic words for the week,” I held up two fingers, “are the same magic words that you’ve been saying your entire life… ‘Yes Mother!'” I was met with a resounding echo from the backseat and 24 blissful hours with my momentarily reformed, sort-of obedient children.

Tonight for family night I took a chapter from my girlfriend’s book and implemented the Repentance Bench to reinforce our new crack-down on familial obedience. I have the feeling it’s going to see a lot of action in the next few years.

“Honey,” Jason called from work last week, “You will never guess who is going to be here, tonight, at the BX on a USO tour…Austin Collie!” This name might not mean anything to most football fans but in my husband’s not so humble opinion, Austin Collie is potentially “one of the greatest wide receivers in BYU football history.”

Jason is just about as committed to our college Alma Mater and their athletic institution as he is to me. It goes without saying that after thirteen years of marriage I have come to accept that I will simply have to make do with half his heart.

“He’s going to be here with a group of athletes, you know, some Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders and someone from the Red Sox, Paton Manning, an ex-American idol contestant, just a group of celebrities.”

I might not be a huge football buff but even I know that Paton Manning is pretty much the Elvis of this generation’s football world. But in my husband’s eyes the equation was simple: Paton Manning is great but he’s not a Cougar.

“Do you think I could get Austin to sign my Steve Young autographed football?” he said.

We arrived two hours early dressed to the nines in all things BYU. My girls were in full cheer costumes (complete with pom poms), the boys in their football jerseys, and my husband with blue and white stars in his eyes.

There were three or four families–about twenty people including kids–decked out in BYU gear to welcome Austin Collie. Amid a couple hundred Bronco and Red Sox fans it goes without saying that Austin was pretty much the least well known of the bunch; rumor has it he’s good friends with Mr. Manning and was probably invited at the request of The King.

After the show and two exhausting hours in line we finally started to move. That’s when the bad news came, “No autographs! No pictures! No speaking to the celebrities!” The look on my husband’s face was pure devastation.

“What?” he said, “We’ve waited all this time and I’m not even going to get an autograph?”

Now, I like my man to be happy. He constantly goes out of his way to spoil me, the least I could do was wrangle an autograph for him.

As we finally made our way to the top of the stairs we could see the ten celebrities sitting in a row in front of a back drop with Manning smack dab in the middle and Austin sitting just to his right. The fans were herded behind them in groups of 10-15 for a quick snapshot then immediately moved off for the next set. Super impersonal.

“Here,” I said to Jason as our turn grew near, “Get your marker and your football out and just…trust me.” In the shadow of the Paton Manning fans it was easy to see that we were probably the only ones who cared about Austin Collie. Chances were he’d appreciate our efforts.

Finally the moment arrived and we made our way along the back of the celebrity line. I leaned in past Mr. Manning and put a hand on Collie’s shoulder. “Austin! We are so excited to see you! You’ve got BYU fans here!”

His smile was huge. “Awesome! Thanks so much you guys!”

Despite the aggressive barks from the USO chaperones I moved in for the kill. “Excuse me,” I said leaning in past Paton Manning again, “Austin, would you please sign our Steve Young football? Just really fast? My husband is a huge fan!” Jason was standing behind me with watery eyes and a slack jaw. In hindsight I probably could have pulled the “emotionally delayed” card.

“Sure!” Mr. Collie said. I took the football from my shaking husband and passed it through. Then I noticed Paton Manning giving me the stink eye.

“Oh!” I said to Mr. Manning when I realized how odd our request must have looked, “Hi! Um…you’re here too!”

I guess my blood runs blue after all.