Annie Valentine

Anyone else feel like they missed July?

It’s been a crazy summer, so crazy that I almost forgot how to turn on my computer this morning. It feels like it’s been forever (two weeks) since I’ve written anything. I’m still waiting for things to slow down so I can do summer school with the kids and teach them all those important things I’ve been neglecting over the past nine years.

We took a trip a few weeks ago (last week was Girls’ Camp) down to Salzburg and Berchtesgaden in southern Germany with a bunch of our friends. There’s a lodge down there that you can do retreats at, some of our friends put together an application and got a week free of charge for 60. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t the Hilton. The mice were happy to inflict a rodent tax at just about every turn, but by the end of the week they were like part of the family. My kids wanted to take one home to keep as a pet. The lodge was awesome, we were lucky to be be part of such a fun loving group of friends.

Our first day we got lucky and were able to visit Eagle’s Nest. This was Hitler’s super special top secret retreat, built at the top of the mountains in the birthplace of all his great ideas. He came here after prison and finished his book before launching into his unfortunately successful and evil career as a motivational speaker/death monger.

After the war the place was razed to the ground, the only things left were the big brass elevator that takes you up the mountain and the marble fire place. Everything else has been reconstructed. I found it amazing and horrifying that so much beauty could inspire something so ugly and horrible. This place was breathtaking and heartbreaking.

If you look closely you can see all the missing chunks from the fireplace taken by WWII soldiers after the war.

We finished up the museum the next morning and toured what’s left of the bunkers. Hitler’s compound consisted of something like 80 buildings that have all been destroyed. There is an excellent museum  in place, however, and German’s make a point of remembering who Hitler was and what he did to the world.

Day two was overcast with a little cloud spitting, perfect weather for the salt mine tour. I’ve seen a few mines in my time so I had no expectations whatsoever. Wowsa, it was like underground Disneyland. Yes it was dank and cold, and sure the lighting was dim (no cameras allowed), but it was kind of awesome.

The ride through the mine included two huge slides that were slightly suicidal (Germans aren’t big on safety precautions). You had to balance your behind on two skinny wooden rails, lean back, pick up your feet, then shoot straight down into the inky blackness and pray for mercy in case you met your doom. I honestly thought I was going to die. There was also an underground boat ride and a rather creepy train ride. It felt like we were in a scene from Harry Potter. We totally loved it.

Day three found us in Salzburg on a bus, reliving the Sound of Music one site at a time. This day was fun and entertaining and made me crazy lonesome for my family–worth it’s own post. Here are some of the highlights of Salzburg, a city I absolutely adore.

Not only did we hit the sites you see here, we saw the house they filmed at and took pictures on the road leading to the house where the kids hang from the trees. We saw the lake and church they filmed the opening in. This last photo is the actual cemetery, not the one Hollywood modeled it after. I loved this day, Salzburg is a delightful city.

On Friday we hit the Konigsee Lake, a lovely body of water nestled way down at the base of a bunch of gorgeous green mountains. We took the reverent boat ride to St. Bartholemeu’s, stopping halfway so the driver could pull out his horn and show us the Bavarian echo that rings through the hills.

I’d like to tell you this was a peaceful boat ride, but alas it was not. It was a bunch of old Germans plus me and my four kids. We were barely hanging on when the baby found the suckers in my backpack. Either she screamed her head off (proof that sometimes an echo pass isn’t so wonderful) or I let her slobber all over me with her tootsie pop. By the time we stopped my hair was a matted mess of grape sucker residue (her sucker fell on the floor twice) and my kids were heading into verse three of “Are We There Yet.”

Most of the families we traveled with on this trip had kids that were just a bit older than ours. They opted for the awesome hikes, but my girlfriend Rebecca and I picked the lake. The water is so clean you can stick your face in it and have a big drink. We threw down some beach towels and a few toys and spent nearly five hours playing and sunning and swimming in the crystal clear water. It was our kids favorite day, hands down.

I didn’t have a suit for Georgia so she went German style. Let’s just say there are probably dozens of pictures of naked Georgia on the Chinese facebook pages from that week. The Asian tourists thought she was the cutest thing ever. Since there were half a dozen other kids (all older) swimming in the buff, we weren’t too concerned. That’s lip gloss in her hand. She thought I didn’t know she had it and spent the entire bottle  over the course of the day applying it then washing it off, then applying it again–super stealthy like.

There were these tiny minows and Jason told the kids he’d give them 5 euro if they caught one. Harrison managed it but Rex needed a little help with his technique. He was so quiet we didn’t realize what he was doing out there.

We spent our last day wandering through the Berchtesgaden down town village, shopping for antiques and Bavarian clothing. Jason spoiled me with some German garb (just a blouse and vests for me, I look ridiculous in the traditional skirts. I opted to wear my Bavarian peasant top with a pencil skirt and stilettos on Sunday, just to shake things up a bit) and Harrison got a hat and vest as well at an antique shop. As you can see, he loves living in Germany. We also hit up the Trick Fountains in Salzburg, a clever palace built around natural water sources and designed to delight and terrify its guests.

All in all and aside from the mice this was one of my favorite vacations to date. The weather was fantastic, the sites were delightful and we traveled with some of the most wonderful people I know. We’re so thankful for friends who take the initiative to put these trips together, what would clueless Joe’s like us do without their insight and experience?

I am very comfortable with bribery. Our parenting theory boils down to the fine balance of threats and bribes and knowing how and when to use which.

Vacations are tricky. We like our children to come away from long car trips and boring museums with snorts and giggles, not snot and tears. In order to make that happen we have adopted a number of mostly proven methods that involve large quantities of rewards from China.

The most sought after vacation prize among our children comes in the form of the Picking Bag. My own brilliant mother invented this method a few years ago (where was she when we were small children?) during one of our annual girls’ weekends. It’s a small suitcase loaded to the hilt with really cheap stuff.

If you are caught being particularly nice or especially funny, or if you get the door for her or offer to carry her bags, you get to pluck a treasure from the picking bag. I’m 30 something years old and am still hypnotized by the smell of all that plastic potential wafting from the Picking Bag.

Last week I loaded up my own Picking Bag for our four kids, carefully catered with toys for each of my children. I brought it home and stashed it in the garage where no one would find it.

The following morning as we headed out and prepared for our first round of picks I took a quick tour through the bag to double check and make sure I hadn’t left anything out.

Two rather substantial toys were missing; both of them were in the Harrison Would Really Like This Toy category.

“Harrison,” I called to my nine-year-old, “Did you get into the Picking Bag and take out the motorbike rider and the legos?”

“Uh…Nope.”

Jason and I looked at each other, my husband watching Harry’s face in his rear view mirror. Jason leaned over a little and winked at me. “Ask him again,” he said. “He’s a terrible liar.” Our kids are too young to realize that their father detects lies for a living. Harrison’s lies are so obvious he might as well tattoo “Guilty” on his forehead and grow a wooden nose.

“Honey,” I said, “If you tell the truth right now it’s not going to be nearly as bad as it will when we catch you.”

“Mom!” he said indignantly, “I didn’t do it! I’m serious! Gosh!”

Jason and I looked at each other and stifled a laugh. “Well son,” my husband said, “If you didn’t do it and you’re really sure that’s your final answer then we trust you.”

“Us and Jesus,” I said, “Don’t forget that He’s watching.” Harrison instantly went a little green in the gills. The trap was set.

I gave him two more opportunities during the week to fess up to the stolen toys but each time his refusal was more adamant and he was more offended that I would suggest such a thing.

We’re finally home and today I began the process of unpacking. I pulled open his desk drawer and what do you think I found?

Busted.

Our family was heading out to pick up the dog and Harrison’s punishment for his tripple lie was a hefty chore list. The neighbors said they’d keep an eye out for him if he had any problems so we lectured him, warned him with certain doom if he failed, and left for two hours.

Thirty minutes later we called him from the blue tooth to see how he was doing.

“Barney and Friends” was blasting so loud in the background we could barely hear him.

“Hello?” he yelled into the receiver.

“Uh, hi son,” Jason said. “What are you doing?”

The TV children sang at the top of their voices, “If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops…” and Harrison paused, thinking. “Um…” he finally said, “Cleaning.”

We’ve got to come up with better punishments.

I thought I had this parenting gig all figured out with my first two boys, and then my little June came along. She has single-handedly rewritten my parenting bible, putting me through paces that I’m pretty sure she invented. But her fourth birthday (last December) was kind of like a rebirth–overnight she morphed into a mostly delightful little person that I kind of want to keep with me all the time, if for no other reason than to see what she’s going to say next.

For instance, earlier this month we took the kids to a little carnival. Being the appropriately cheap parents that we are (and trust me, in Europe rides can get spendy) we told the kids they could each chose two of the five rides offered. “Bumper cars!” the boys shouted, June hot on their heels. “Yeah!” she said, “Bumper cars!”

Since she’s too small to take the wheel she was paired up with Daddy. I watched her jump into the car full of hopeful anticipation that this would be the most awesome ride ever invented.

The horn blasted, the music soared and they were off. Then she started to scream.

30 seconds into the ride the ring master had to fish their car out of the melee and let a hysterically sobbing June exit the arena.

“Mommy!” she yelled, sobbing her way into my arms as I wrapped her in a hug, “We were in…a accident!”

Girls. They are nothing like boys.

We take turns saying family prayers in the morning and there’s no doubt that as good as my boys are at praying for things that matter (Rex routinely prays for the animals in Animal Africa and will Mommy please buy him the plastic lizards?), June takes the cake. She ticks off each family member with her eloquent rhetoric. When she got to Georgia this morning (the baby will be two in August) she prayed, “And…I feel in my heart that Georgia…is going to be two years old. I really feel it in my heart, so yes, Georgia will be two.” Faith in action.

The kicker came the other day. “Mommy,” she said, “How do people get to be babies?”

Now I’ve got two boys who are seven and nine and neither of them have ever asked me this question. Slightly unprepared here.

“Oh…um…they come from Heaven, sweetheart.”

“Yeah,” she said, “But how do they get here?”

I know there are dozens of parents and modern thinkers who insist that we be totally honest with our children about s-e-x from a very early age. Unfortunately I am not one of them. I still agree with the mother who’s answer to her little child was, “Sorry, God doesn’t want you to know that yet.”

“Well,” I said, “when two people really love each other a lot they get a baby. Like I love Daddy.”

“But how do they get a baby?”

“From a mommy’s tummy.”

“How does the baby get in your tummy? Who puts it there?” she persisted while I broke out in a rather uncomfortable sweat.

“Oh,” I said, “It has something to do with Daddy’s and science, I really don’t know that much about it–” this is called lying, by the way. Only two months ago I told my eight-year-old that I know absolutely everything about sex it if he ever wants to talk.

“But–”

“When you go to school your science teacher will explain it to you, it’s super complicated. Who wants cake?”

I might have side-stepped this topic for the moment, but next time I’m going to have to be more prepared.

My seven-year-old, Rex, just had his first official run-in with soccer.

Due to a little anxiety, coupled with a preference for playing in his room with toys, Rex has never played soccer. When he was four we tried a peewee team but he spent all six games hiding under a tree at the end of the soccer field.

But this year he really wants to be like his “big brudder Harrison” and finally asked if he could play on a team. My friend Geneva was planning to run a few summer soccer camps so we signed him up.

Living here in Germany has been tough on us where Rex is concerned. From the moment we arrived most of the adults and teachers and acquaintances we’ve met (German especially) have acted like there is something seriously wrong with our little boy. Thanks to some extensive testing last year and a great child psychologist, he’s been diagnosed as moderately anxious and mostly quirky.

I’m amazed at how quick people are to pin a kid down and label him for being socially awkward.

My friend Geneva knows Rex and knows what my year has been like. I felt confident leaving him in her hands knowing that he wouldn’t be inappropriately judged or deemed incapable simply because he’s routinely nervous.

Getting Rex out of bed Monday morning was like trying to talk the Abominable Snowman into taking a trip to Cancun. He was so anxious and so worried that not only did we get out of the house without any breakfast, but I had to remove him from under his covers like a moldy potato sack. Fear can be so debilitating.

By the time we got to the soccer field he was willing to exit without help from mother. Stuffing down my own sympathetic anxiety I kissed him farewell and left him in the extraordinarily capable hands of my friend.

Two hours later I returned to retrieve a mostly happy child who was really only upset that he hadn’t kicked a goal. I tucked him into the car so I could debrief the coach.

“Well?” I asked the world’s most loaded question, “How did he do?”

She crossed her arms and thought for a moment, kicking a rock. Then she pinned me right in the eye with that look. I know that look. It’s the lecture about how there’s something wrong with my kid, how I need to have him tested, how he’s not ready for this, how–

“You don’t expect enough of Rex,” she said.

Well that was the absolutely last thing I expected to hear.

“Rex is smart and capable, and if he wants to be he’ll be an excellent athlete. But what he needs right now is more structure, you’ve got to expect more from him, give him more responsibility…”

It was possibly the best wake up call I’ve ever had in my life about anything.

The week flew by and Rex continued to improve. He would routinely tire out and want to sit down in the middle of the field for a little “rest”. On the last day of soccer we jumped in the car and I launched into my New and Improved Mothering Lecture. We made our way to the field and I poured on the high expectations.

“Now Rex,” I said as we pulled in, “When Coach Geneva tells you to run, you have to–”

“Mom,” he interrupted me, “Just tell me I’m going to do great.”

“Uh, you’re going to do great–”

“And Mom, tell me ‘Don’t give up!'”

“Okay, don’t give up, Rex.”

“Got it Mom!” he said and jumped out of the car.

I ran my morning errands and pulled in to watch the last fifteen minutes of practice. I walked up to the edge of the field just in time to hear my little Rex yelling out to himself, “Don’t give up!” I headed over to the coach.

“Yeah,” she said as I walked up, “He’s been telling himself that for the past two hours. As soon as he starts to get tired and wants to sit down, he calls out, ‘Don’t give up!’ It’s kind of adorable and actually seems to be working.”

He looked over at me and flashed me a huge grin. “Don’t give up, Mom!” he said. For the rest of practice he would catch my eye just as his feet started to drag only to yell out, “Say ‘Don’t give up!’ Mom!”

“Don’t give up, Rex!”

Sometimes I wish all my kids were so good at telling me how to parent them.

There are a lot of things I enjoy about living in Germany. The weather, the tangle of scenic priority roads, the bakeries–but there’s one thing that I will never get enough of. The antiquing and flea markets.

I happen to live 15 minutes from the world’s most amazing flea market ever. Imagine the most impossible thing to find on the planet and you will find it there. It’s a sprawling revamped treasure chest waiting to be haggled over.

Last Saturday I left my husband and children and headed out early in the morning to meet two of my girlfriends at the market. Unfortunately we parked at opposite ends and I had to hike half a mile to find them. I carefully avoided looking over any of the booths as I quickly hurried to meet my girls.

“Hey!” Rebecca said as I came up. We visited for a moment before beginning the hunt. Watching Rebecca haggle over vintage kitchen scales and antique milk bottles was an education in and of itself. Her ability to pay half of their lowest price was astounding. The girl is a master of silent, super cheap intimidation. They almost couldn’t deny her. Geneva and I learned quickly that when Rebecca starts haggling, you never interrupt. “It’s all about what you wear,” she said. “You never want to dress nice at the flea market.” I’ve really got to get myself some flats.

We loaded up on shoes for our children, vintage paraphernalia and some random furniture. We wound through the maze of tightly cramped tables and temporary booths selling everything from lanterns to old underwear. There were toys and really ugly light fixtures, glass keepsakes and exercise equipment. Pictures, electronics, chairs, books, shoes, beer steins–it was the best kind of sensory overload.

“I want to head toward the food,” Rebecca said, “But I saw something on my way in that we have to go check out. It’s a trunk, Geneva’s going to love it…”

A trunk? Unbeknownst to my girlfriends I’ve been going to the Homburg Flea Market since last September attempting to find myself an old turquoise trunk. I’ve found two, both of which I was stupid enough to pass up due to a case of cheapitis.

Finally we approached the booth in question tucked away on the grass under a large tree. There, sitting toward the back, was a turquoise green trunk.

“Hallo!” we said, approaching the booth. Rebecca pointed to the chair. “Was kostet das?” The old German lady hobbled over, cigarette hanging out of her mouth.

“35 euro.”

“Seriously?” I said to my friends. “I’ve never seen one that cheap, the ones I’ve looked at are always at least 20 euro more.”

Rebecca looked at Geneva. “Do you want it? It’s a great price, I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”

“Well,” Geneva said, “I love it, but I don’t really have a place to put it…”

“Me too,” Rebecca said, “It’s a little too short for what I need.”

“I want it!” I finally blurted out. “I will totally take that trunk, but only if neither of you want it, I know I got here last…” stupid parking space.

“What about you, Geneva?” Rebecca looked at her skeptically as we danced the careful dance of Let’s Not Ruin Our Friendship Over A Trunk That We All Kind Of Love.

“Well–”

“Fine!” the old German lady said, interrupting us. She had been watching our conversation with impatience. “30 euro!”

We stood there and stared at her, not really comprehending her reasoning until we realized that she didn’t speak English.

“Uh,” I said. “Ok, es ist gut.”

And that is how we accidentally haggled our way into the best deal of the morning.

I’ve decided that a vacation isn’t really a vacation until you have a good fight. Maybe it’s the stress from being pent up in a ship closet (they say cabin but let’s be realistic) for five days with small children and no view (large orange life boats do not count), but by the time Tallin, Estonia rolled around we needed to regroup.

This was not so cleverly handled by Yours Truly during a rather public breakfast discussion.

“Well kids,” Jason said, “Today is going to be a lot of walking.” This is never a good way to start a conversation with a woman who routinely wears platform stilettos in public.

“Oh,” I said, “I wanted to do something different today, you know, branch out from the let’s-look-at-old-buildings routine.”

“Well,” he said, “This is a cool city so I’ve been planning to follow this guided walking tour–”

This is the part where I interrupted him, stomped my foot, said I wanted to go shopping, blah blah blah. He suggested I stay on the boat, I decided to prove a point and marched out with all four kids in tow to “Plan My Own Adventure” in Tallin, Estonia.

Once we disembarked I did the only logical thing (if you happen to have no idea where in the world you’re at): I went straight for tourist information. Thanks to a lovely little Estonian girl we headed for the old walled city (which is very cool, BTW).

As we approached this adorable city we ran across my girlfriend Geneva and her family. Piggy backing off their guided walking tour (don’t judge me), we headed over to that really tall steeple you see in the middle there. At one time this was the tallest point in some part of the world (fuzzy facts) and I went along with my friends and decided to climb to the top for the “view.”

Have I mentioned that I’m drastically against heights, or that I routinely forget about my feelings on the issue until I’m looking down? We started climbing the very small and tightly coiled stone steps leading to the tower. Thankfully my girlfriend works out on a regular basis and had the biceps to heft little Gigi clear up to almost the top.

As we entered the area directly under the viewing platform I realized that this might not be such a good idea. The last bit of the climb was a ladder and I stood back and watched my three older children climb to what could have been their demise as they stepped onto the 18 inch walkway surrounding the ridge. Let’s talk about the word “rickety,” shall we? No one should have been allowed on that platform, least of all my hard-earned offspring.

Then I had a panic attack and the kids had to hold my hand all the way back down.

After a brief recovery period we waved to our friends and headed straight for the puppet museum. Apparently puppets are a major part of Estonian culture because this museum was incredible. The best part was the 30 minute production at the end. Some of the best entertainment I’ve ever seen in my life is sitting in a museum in Tallin, Estonia.

Weather on the morning of our St. Petersburg trip felt more like March maddness than nearly July. In order to enter the country you have to get a visa, even just for a day. We joined our large party of Americans and hopped on a bus.

The thing that struck me most about Russia (aside from the freezing weather) was the sheer magnitude of its buildings. These babies were huge. I’ve never seen so many buildings built on such a massive scale in my entire life. Check out the people standing in front of that building behind Harrison, the thing is enormous.

St. Petersburg is considered the Venice of Russia and has dozens of waterways and canals running through the city. We took a boat ride to Peterhof Palace, a home of Peter the Great and later Catherine the Great. Phenomenal gardens, complete with trick fountains (step on the wrong stone and you get soaked). Driving back from Peterhof I was amazed at the ruin of mansions so carelessly left to rot. Beautiful palaces that are nothing but moldy rubble. We rode the subway as well, had a very authentic Russian lunch, then headed to our last two stops.

Our last two stops were both churches. There have been very few moments in my life where something actually took my breath away from sheer awe. One of them was seeing Neil Diamond in concert (I actually teared up when he came out on stage). Our day in St. Petersburg, walking into St. Isaac’s Cathedral was one of them. I was so amazed and so touched by the love and dedication it must have taken to create such a magnificent sanctuary, and then to restore it after the Bolsheviks came in and tried to destroy everything it represented. That it withheld the test of time and trial touched my soul.

These amazing and magnificent works of art are done in minute mosaic tiles, most of these portraits taking 20 years to create. I. Love. This. Church.

It was followed by the very famous and equally impressive Church of Spilled Blood. The mosaics in this church were completed on a simpler and quicker scale. The church has finally been restored and is open to the public (although at one time during the Bolshevik revolution it was used to store potatoes).

All said and done, it was a crazy cool vacation. My kids are stupid lucky and don’t realize it, perhaps some day when they’re sitting in a 7th grade Social Studies class they’ll realize just how awesome the world really is. (Also we almost missed our ship and had to live in Russia. I was kind of nervous.)

The last day of the ship was supremely special: it was Rex’s 7th birthday. No one loves birthdays as much as Rex. He was up at 5 am quietly singing self-proclaimed birthday songs to himself until we could wake up and join him. By the end of the night the entire boat knew it was Rex’s birthday.

Good thing we had Ivan the Terrible along to protect us from foreign invasion.

We recently returned from a week long cruise in the Baltic Sea. This trip hit up a number of interesting ports: Copenhagen, Stockholm, Estonia and St. Petersburg. It was routinely fattening, frequently confusing, and absolutely adventurous.

Notice that I didn’t use words like relaxing, peaceful or healthy?

Our first port stop was Copenhagen, Denmark. I should have packed a few more umbrellas and a few less sun dresses. The weather was cold and wet.

We traveled with about 40 of our closest friends into the old city of Copenhagen. Unfortunately I didn’t pay particularly close attention when we disembarked and rode the subway into town. I tend to warp into “sheep mode” with very little prodding; I’m an excellent follower. We visited a few sites, I did a little window drooling, and by noon my little kids were wet and cold and hungry.

“How much more do we have to see?” I asked the Travelmeister as we completed our third bathroom break.

“You’re funny,” he said with zero humor. “We’ve barely even started.”

“Do we get to take a taxi?” I asked, looking up at the ominous rain clouds then down at my sandal clad feet.

“Sweetheart,” he said in his favorite patronizing tone, “Would you like to go back to the boat now?”

And there it was. Normally I would jump at that kind of bait. All our friends were standing around with their children (and their rain ponchos) waiting for my reply. The gauntlet had been thrown, what would I choose? Suck it up? Stop complaining? Get some chocolate and suffer in silence?

I looked at my wet little kids and back at my big strong die-hard traveling man. “You know what? That’s a fabulous idea. You all go on ahead, we’re going back to the boat.”

Then I took off in the wrong direction.

“Um, Honey?” he said, “I think you want to go the other way.”

Carefully masking my silent terror at the thought of retracing our way back to the boat without an adult present, I jauntily stuck my nose in the air and waved my little hand in his direction without a second glance. Somehow I managed to find the subway.

We finally boarded the right train and the kids and I (Rex, June and Georgia) took seats in the front car. With three kids ages six and under we weren’t necessarily the most reverent little group. The doors closed, the train took off, and ten seconds later someone turned around and shot me a look. “Sh,” she said, “This is the Silent Car.”

Bad time for my luck to fail us.

I shushed Rex and Junie down with a few well placed threats about the Dutch Police, but Georgia (2 in August) was having none of it. Personally, I was impressed with the older kids’ obedience and managed to quickly pacify the baby. We only had two stops before our exit so I breathed out and sat back.

The train stopped. And that’s when the conductor opened the door right next to me.

“Dit is de rustige trein, je nodig hebt om uw kinderen stil. Begrijp je me je gek vrouw? Dit is de freaking rustige trein!”

I almost wet my pants.

In that moment I realized that Jason still had our train tickets and we were technically riding illegally; there was a very real chance that my Dutch Police threat was going to pan out. I stared up into his terrifyingly stern face and finally said, “I have no idea what you just said.”

“This is the Silent Car,” he said. We stared at each other for a few seconds.

“Do you want us to leave?” I finally asked in my weakest, most terrified English.

“Be silent.” He shut the door in my face and we were once again on our way.

I don’t think my kids or I even breathed for the next four minutes (which were eternal, by the way).

As we exited the train a sweet lady from our car came up to me. “I think your kids were wonderful,” she said. “He was a stupid conductor.”

Either way, it was definitely a relief to leave dry land.

We have discovered the secret to happy little travelers: take friends. We just returned from a seven day cruise with over half a dozen American families and I’ve got to say, boat food can do impressive things to a woman’s girth.

I have learned that I have very little interest in planning vacations. Good thing my husband is a planner by nature or we’d spend our time here in Europe picking strawberries in the backyard.

It was a fascinating week. We shipped out of northern Germany and made our first port stop in Copenhagen (I think that’s Denmark but borders get a little fuzzy for me after a week of open seas and virgin pinacoladas).

Packing might sound like the easy part of traveling but believe me, when you look out the port window prior to a day of sight seeing and watch the storm roll in, suddenly all those sun dresses and sandals don’t seem like such a brilliant move. The weather in the Baltics is maddening. The entire week was hodgepodge of blue skies and freezing rain–it couldn’t seem to decide from one ten minute increment to the next how it wanted to behave.

We took the local subway into the old town of Copenhagen to visit an absolutely beautiful church. Since it was Sunday morning the shops were closed and we were determined to keep the day as holy as possible. This was a shame because it meant I couldn’t try on these shoes.

Our first stop was a rather famous church, especially if you’re a Mormon. It’s the Church of Our Lady and contains the original sculpture of the Christus, found in many of our visitor’s centers. Our sweet little children sat on the steps and sang, “I Am a Child of God.” It was very cool.

This church was even more awesome because it had fantastic statues of the 12 apostles, each holding a different item to repressent some aspect of their life, death or ministry. Peter was holding the keys to the priesthood. President Spencer W. Kimball visited this very church during his lifetime and testified that the keys Peter held are the same keys our prophet holds today–the same priesthood Jason holds and that our boys will someday hold. It was powerful.

After the church we took a surprisingly cool castle tour (gotta love the nude murals on the bedroom ceilings) and made our way back out into the rain. The kids were cold, hungry and wet and my back was killing me. I decided to cut my losses, ditched Jason and Harry and took the babies back through the subway to the boat. I managed to avoid getting arrested by the Dutch police, but just barely. Unfortunately I also missed running across the Abercrombie and Fitch photo shoot. You can see that it actually pays to travel in the rain, stupid me. Apparently Jason was having some serious ab envy. This is my girlfriend Rebecca who’s husband is, unfortunately TDY.

Our next stop was in Stockholm, Sweden. I had no idea this would be such a fantastic city with such fantastic cookies. We loved it, the weather was a bit kinder to us, and I can’t wait to go back. We watched the changing of the guard in the main square. They were accompanied by their Navy band and wow, was that a surprise. Thanks to our good friends we had prime standing positions when they launched into a brass version of, “All By Myself” followed by a fantastic “Love Boat” medley. I’m a sucker for bands in general, this absolutely made my day.

We used the Hop On, Hop Off bus during our Stockholm day which was a huge success. We took a boat across the water to a museum built around a resurrected 17th century war ship. It was the Titanic of it’s time. They spent an unreasonable amount of time and money decking this monstrous beauty out, hand carved detail painted to impressive perfection. After it’s big debut it floated out into the harbor and…sank.

In the 50’s they found it and managed to uproot it from 300 years of silt. The process took a few decades but it now sits in it’s own museum, amazingly preserved and absolutely fascinating. As you can see my kids were in top form by this point in the day (no really, take a moment). This was about as close as Rex would get to posing for a photo.

I’m officially exhausted from reliving this trip so I’ll have to hold the rest off until tomorrow. Next, Estonia and Russia.

A few weekends ago a girlfriend of mine needed to bunk over at my house for a meeting on Sunday morning. She lives a few hours away in Heidelburg, Germany and needed a convenient place to crash. My house was up for grabs.

I like to make out as if I don’t pay that much attention to my housework. This is a lie. I live and breath by my 409, change my vacuum filter at least once a week, and routinely chase down dirty socks and undies in an attempt to keep everyone less stinky.

But the fact remains, as hard as I try this homemaking business manages to undo itself faster than I can put it all back together.

Now that I’m homeschooling Rex (6) and only putting June(4) into preschool two or three days a week, my housekeeping routine has gone haywire. Unofficial art projects and inventions wind through the house leaving trails of paper, glue, toys and cardboard in their wake. Add to that kids who think this is an all-inclusive resort and request food on the hour and what you get is disordered chaos.

Yet there are women who have more kids and more housework than I who somehow manage to pull it all off without a hitch. This girlfriend of mine is one of them. With six kids she manages to run a lovely, squeaky clean ship with what appears to be Mary Poppinsish ease.

You can guess what Saturday morning looked like at my house. In an attempt to fool the world I put my little slaves to work cleaning and scrubbing and organizing and folding. There was very little kindness and a whole lot of impatience. As the morning progressed I became more and more frustrated at the amount of work to do and the preschool pace the children and I were doing it at. Three steps forward, two art projects back.

When my girlfriend and I pulled in that night and walked through my clean-ish house (not up to standard but better than it had been) I was horribly aware of how unimportant it was. She wasn’t there to judge me or my housework. The only person who really cared how things looked was me.

One of my girlfriends was over for a visit today and we were talking about life and how we always think that the next job or relationship or house or raise is going to make everything easier. Not only that, we feel we deserve ease, fate owes us the happily ever after. I blame Disney for this. I love them and I blame them just the same.

I can remember seven or eight years ago being a new mother in Maryland. We lived in a little townhouse with a little yard in a less reputable part of town. Money was impossibly tight. At that point I knew the only thing I needed for happiness was more space and more cash. Just think how great life would be if only we had more room to put more stuff.

Today I look around me at this massive messy house and long for our little two and a half bedroom 1100 square foot home. Oh to have time to watch Dr. Phil again (is he still on?).

No one has an easy life. There are levels of hard–some are harder than others–but few people can actually call what they’ve got easy. Some people might be good at presentation, but it doesn’t mean their life is mud free. I don’t care what the world and the media and ABC might say, life is mostly piles of dirty laundry and dust bunnies. There are moments of laughter and kindness but the honest truth is that we have to work hard for them.

I know that athletics are good for kids. We were always encouraged to play sports growing up, and although I was more interested in the color and cut of my uniform than any of the actual plays, it can’t be denied that I learned a thing or two.

Harrison (9) just finished his fourth year of baseball. Past history proves that he’s usually more invested in the post-game treat than the actual playing, but since he’s blossomed this year in other athletic areas, we decided to give him one more season to show his stuff.

My husband signed up as an assistant coach this year in an attempt to make the playing more exciting. It’s Harry’s first year in a real player pitching league, no more T/coach/machine help. Truly, it’s a whole new ball game.

A few weeks ago I was doing dishes when the downstairs door slammed open and Harry came running up the stairs from his game in tears. He went straight to his room and shut the door, his stomping father not far behind him.

“Uh, what happened to you boys?” I asked.

Jason stood there, frustrating rolling off him in waves. “Our son won’t hit the ball.”

Really? That big of a deal? “Sweetie,” I said, “Give him some time. It’s a new season–”

“You don’t understand,” he said, “We’ve been playing for three weeks and every time the player pitches, Harrison jumps out of the batters box. He won’t even stand there and let the pitches pass, let alone swing. It’s making me crazy! He’s a great hitter, he’s been playing for years, why now?”

And that was the beginning of Project Get Harrison to Take a Swing, sanctioned and supported by myself, the other coaches on the team, and the ghost of The Great Bambino.

For the next month Coach Dad came home and worked with Harrison. Apparently a pitch had once come alarmingly close to Harry and he was living in constant fear of getting hit by the ball. He also became a big believer in letting the pitcher walk him. Sometimes it worked, usually it didn’t.

Jason practiced almost nightly with our boy. They worked with whiffle balls, regular balls, beach balls–anything to get the kid to start swinging. But every team practice and every game Jason would come home and gnaw on his pillow in frustration.

The last week of baseball Jason called me on his way home from work before practice. As uncharacteristic as it might sound, I had done everything in my power to stay clear of the great baseball controversy. “I don’t know what else to do,” he said. “I’ve tried everything I can think of, I’ve worked with him, I’ve begged him, I’ve threatened him…at this point it’s just embarrassing!” Lets face it, being the coach’s kid comes with certain expectations. Like you have to be willing to play the game.

“Well,” I said, “Why don’t you bribe him? Offer him something great if he gets a hit. I don’t know, take him to Chilies for ribs.” Come on, parents have been bribing their kids for thousands of years, it’s kind of a proven tactic.

“Please,” he said with an over the phone eye roll, “Like that will work.” (And yes, living in the middle of Germany with amazing ethnic cuisine on every corner, our children still pick Chilies every single time.)

That night Jason called me on the way home from practice. “So,” he said, “It looks like we’re going to be pretty late tonight.”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I took your advice. Harrison hit the ball twice and I kind of have to take him to Chilies now.” I had to smile. My kid is so predictable.

And that last game? Harry hit the ball five times, two playable and three foul balls. No thanks to Dad’s over-the-top generosity my son now intends to spend the first week of summer playing his new Wii games. Such a cute little mercenary in the making.