Annie Valentine

I haven’t been able to get out of bed this week.

Normally we’re all up around 6:30 for scriptures and breakfast and toothbrush arguments. I get the kids out the door, kiss everyone goodbye, and move into my day.

But for the past week I haven’t been able to get myself out of bed. I’d like to blame Eragon’s last book for keeping my up late (I’ve been trying to read Inheritance for four weeks), but it doesn’t seem to matter if I get to bed at 10 or 2; my body is not responding in the morning.

I was talking to a dear girlfriend of mine who is about four years ahead of my personal longitude. We live twin lives, me following in her well-paved tracks. She, like myself, went through a home schooling phase with one of her sons. I’m not a true home schooler—Rex will get somewhere between four months to a year of my undivided educational attention before we re-enroll him.

As we discussed this chapter of parenting she came clean. “To be honest,” she said, “It was a really hard time. The alarm would go off in the morning and I wouldn’t want to get out of bed.”

Huh. That sounds extremely familiar. Right then and there I knew what my problem is: things right now are super hard and I kind of don’t like facing the day.

It isn’t just trying to teach Rex, it’s having him home all day long making messes. Yes, I make him clean them up with me but even that takes serious effort. In addition, I’m only putting June in the village preschool for two or three days a week as well now because she does so much better with a little more time at home. Basically I’ve gone from having just Georgia and a grip on my housework to three kids at home and drowning in it.

It’s Saturday and I spent the morning slave driving my kids up and down Moby’s six levels of German living, cleaning and vacuuming and dusting and mopping. I jumped in the shower and while getting dressed sent everyone out to the car for Harry’s baseball game.

As I walked down five flights to join them, I couldn’t believe what I was following. It was a trail of dirt from Harrison’s cleats that tracked through almost every level of my house—the same levels I had spent the morning mopping.

Enter really lame, self-pitying prayer.

I’ve recently been called as first counselor in Stake Young Women’s at church here (our regional organization) and have to give a Sunday School lesson tomorrow morning. I locked myself in the office twenty minutes ago and attempted to prepare my lesson. I opened my scriptures to the first quotation reference on my list and saw that it had nothing to do with my topic. I skimmed through it, checked the second scripture reference, and saw once again that neither were at all related to what I’m supposed to be teaching.

I was about to move on when something from the first quote made me turn back. I flipped again to reference one, Matthew 11:28-30, and read:

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Reference two from Mosiah 24 says, “Lift up your heads and be of good comfort…And I will ease the burdens which are put upon your shoulders, that even you cannot feel them upon your backs…And this will I do that ye may stand as witnesses for me hereafter, and that ye may know of a surety that I, the Lord God, do visit my people in their afflictions.”

It was for me. I can’t do it all on my own and I don’t have to. Man, I love the scriptures.

As Americans we’re big on inventing new ways to skin a cat. There’s always a smarter, stronger, better plan out there waiting to be discovered. Change is part of our mentality. But over here in Europe? Not so much. 2+2=4. Not 1+3 or 4+0, 2+2 and only 2+2.

The day we flew into Sardinia was warm and sunny and unexpectedly calm. Any time you try to take four small children over boarders and seas it’s bound to come with an extra bag of trouble, so we spent the first six hours of travel time waiting for the other shoe to drop.

And drop it did.

We stepped off the airplane into the lovely Italian sunshine and made our way to the baggage area.

My husband had secured and paid for a rental car before we arrived so it would just be a matter of collecting keys. He stepped in line behind eight other weary travelers to wait his turn.

An hour later we were still grounded in the teensy airport watching our children slowly melt into international puddles of hunger while the line eeked its way forward.

Finally, after nearly and hour and a half, Jason made it to the front of the line with Harrison (8) right beside him.

I sat 20 feet away and had a clear view of both Jason and Harrison. Soon I noticed Jason’s hand gestures had become more aggressive and Harrison’s eyes began to shift back and forth. I motioned him over and he came, shoulder’s slumped and ready to cry.

“What’s up, Buddy?” I asked with a smile.

“They won’t give us the car, our credit card doesn’t work and we have to go back to Germany!!” He sat down and burst into tears. I quickly soothed him and went to the counter.

We hate credit cards but there’s a time and a place for everything. Traveling with VISA is safe and sometimes the best option, especially where rental cars are concerned. The week before vacation we had received our replacement VISA in the mail.

“Cool,” Jason said, showing me the super hip card. Instead of being a vertical card, it read horizontally with the number raised but in a much sleeker, smaller font. We admired the trendy design and didn’t give it a second thought.

But when Jason showed the card to the Italian lady she refused to accept it. “No,” she said, “This is not a credit card.” He went the rounds but she refused to even call VISA to validate the card’s information. It didn’t look right therefore it was not acceptable. Since the vehicle was already paid for (not cheap on the island) we were out hundreds of dollars.

So he pulled out our debit card.

Once again, Visa has recently started removing the raised numbers on their cards and both our debit cards have the numbers printed on the front without any raised font.

“Here,” he said, “Just use this.”

She took one look at the card and shook her head. “No,” she said, “I cannot do this. This isn’t a credit card. The numbers, they are flat. These are not credit cards.”

We stared at her. We stared at each other. We stared over at our public display of posterity, three of which were loudly leaking tears about life in general. Removing myself from the front of the line lest I reach into the booth and cause bodily harm to the Italian lady (I really wasn’t in a Win Friends and Influence People mood) Jason and I did a quick pow wow. He checked with the five other companies. Same song, no deal.

And then I remembered that I had my old debit card from the states tucked into a pocket in my wallet. The account is mostly dormant but a quick transfer of funds and it would be up and running without a problem. I ripped open my wallet and held my breath, hoping it was still there.

It was and it worked. I’ve never been so happy to see punched out plastic in my life. Thank you, Wells Fargo.

I’ve debated what to do with the following experience since it took me two weeks to get up the nerve to write it, and even so I kept it simple. It has been sitting in my file box for the past month. Why haven’t I published it? I’m going to go with pride here. This was a terrible moment in my life and I have spent weeks working to  uncrinkle the mess that I’ve made of my wonderful little boy Rex (mostly a mess where English is concerned). Now that I can breath and see that yes, he really is going to be just fine, I’m willing to publicize this really terrible German school experience–my last German school experience–of which I take full and complete responsibility. 

Two weeks ago I sat down with Rex’s (6) German teachers for his annual parent/teacher conference. I thought I was prepared for their feedback. Big miscalculation on my part.

Because his teachers don’t speak very much English, and because I would rather sell my shoe collection than have personal contact with any of them on a regular basis (for fear of what they might try to tell me), I kind of rely on notes home and the placement of the moon to gauge where Rex is at, Germanically speaking.

Since he seems happy and I haven’t heard anything bad, I kind of assumed things were all hunky dory.

With the help of a translator, Rex’s two kindergarten teachers sat me down for a full scale attack. The school counselor, who works with Rex once a week after school, was also present but with very limited English she didn’t say much throughout the meeting.

“So,” his teacher said after pleasantries were exchanged, “We want to know if Rex ever speaks to you at home.”

I smiled, “You mean German?” I asked, “No, he doesn’t speak German to me at home.”

“I think you’re misunderstanding,” the translator said. “We want to know if Rex knows how to talk in English.”

And that was the start of the worst parent/teacher conference ever.

Rex is about the most unconventional kid I’ve ever met. Not mentally handicapped, not even socially diagnosable (he’s been tested and tested so please don’t email me about Asperger’s), he’s just flat out quirky. Quirky and immature, and as our last pediatric psychologist said, “There’s no diagnosis for quirky and that’s okay.”

We know Rex is smart and healthy and happy, he’s a budding inventor and an animal lover, kind to every creature that walks the Earth and oh so tender hearted. He worries about looking stupid to the other kids, never shuts up about whatever big idea he’s working on, and has an aversion to food from foreign countries (as well as much of the food found in America).

The Rex they see at school is a totally different animal and just as real as the Rex I deal with at home. I think as parents, it’s easy to jump to our kid’s defense simply because we know them better or have access to part of them that the rest of the world doesn’t see. Besides, he comes home from school every single day happy as a lark, proclaiming a love of all things German (excluding the food).

However, after listening to his teachers talk about how checked out he is, I felt total empathy for them. They are dealing with a different kid.

“Let me ask,” I said after carefully listening to their laundry list of what sounded like mentally handicapped symptoms, “How do you handle this with Rex? What do you do when he refuses to pay attention or participate?”

“Oh,” his teacher said, “We are constantly trying to talk to him in English (he ignores them) and German, always trying to get him to look at us. We help him with his worksheets and sit next to him. We do everything for him!”

And there it was. If there’s one thing in this world my kid loves, it’s personal attention. One on one time or words of praise from us hold serious buying power with him. In other words, the boy has realized that the best way to get spoiled with attention at school is to act like an idiot.

See, I knew he wasn’t stupid.

When I picked Rex up that afternoon, the wordless school counselor from our meeting stopped me on my way to the car. In her very broken English, she said, “Today…all they said of Rex was…bad. But Rexy is a good boy, we really like Rex here! I’m sorry that today was so hard.”

I thanked her and barely made it to the car before the floodgates opened and I bawled all over the steering wheel. Sometimes being a parent is hard on the heart.

Update: I have been homeschooling Rex since the beginning of April and am pleased to announce that he’s a most excellent, enthusiastic pupil who can’t get enough of all things learning. Environment really is everything. 

So I packed all my diet food for our trip to Italy last week.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

What I should have packed were elastic waist bands and mumus. What planet am I on that I thought I could spend a week in the country that invented carbs without eating any of them? No surprise that I brought every single protein bar home with me plus eight pounds that I’m carrying somewhere along my coastal region.

We learned this week that man can, in fact, live on bread alone because that’s the only thing that Rex (6) would touch. I managed to force a few apples and some Italian hot dogs down him toward the end of the week by threatening to take him to the Italian hospital for shots, but otherwise he was very happy with his daily dose of white rolls and absolutely nothing else.

I’d like to tell you that I enjoyed eating in Italy but this would be a lie. There was no drinkable water where we were staying so I had to rely on Diet Coke. Let’s just say while we disproved the myth about bread, I realized that man cannot live on Diet Coke alone. I’m so full of sodium I could have floated home. Pair that with the fact that none of the restaurants opened until 7:30 and what you end up with is mini kitchen spaghetti for seven nights. Ugh.

Since I live with Mr. Penny Pincher we don’t buy much in the way of anything on vacation (“Water? How much did that cost? Do we really need water?”). But I’m not about to make a pilgrimage to an Island in the Mediteranean without something to show for it.

As we made our way through one of the village markets I came across a booth with hand made Sardinian artifacts. Belts, pocket knives, beautiful leather works. But I only had eyes for one thing: the local cow bells. They were beautiful iron bells hanging from sun tanned leather straps. I’d actually seen the smaller ones on cattle in the countryside.

Growing up on the farm, my folks had a big bell they would ring in the evening when it was time to come in from the field/neighbor’s/barn. I loved the sound of that bell calling me home, I can still hear the exact tone of it in my mind.

When I saw the large brass bells I knew I had to have one.

And thus began the most obnoxious bartering session of my life.

“Sweetheart, I want this bell for my house.”

“A bell? What are you going to do with a bell?” he asked.

“Um, ring it for the kids to come home. Plus I can get a cool hook and hang it by the front door. It will be awesome.”

“That sounds stupid. Why do we need a bell?” We went the rounds which might have included foot stomping and mild fit throwing until he agreed to consider letting me buy the bell.

I asked the Italian gentleman how much and he quoted me a doable price. “Well?” I asked Jason after working the price down and making an almost deal.

“That’s ridiculous. I’m not spending that much for a bell.” He turned and walked to the car.

I made my apologies to the man and huffed after him. After five minutes of marital bartering I finally talked him into the bell. He handed me the cash (sans 5 euro) and I headed back to get my bell.

And the Italian wouldn’t sell it to me.

It was like being the center of a really obnoxious bartering sandwich with my husband on one side and a stinky old Italian man on the other. I even tried the local arm waving technique and slight shouting method. No good. I had walked away from the deal and it was off the table. He would sell me another bell, but there weren’t any there that I liked nearly as well.

So the only thing I brought home from Italy are my eight button constricting pounds to remind me of our wonderful island vacation. The lesson? The next time I try to barter in a foreign country I will leave my husband in the car.

We’ve been stuck on an island in the Mediterranean for the past week. While there were moments of wonderment and bliss, it was also filled with non drinkable water, a five passenger car with no seat belts (there are six of us including baby), no McDonald’s and too much salami.

Bet you never thought you’d ever hear me admit there is such a thing as too much salami (old joke).

I have to say that packing for this kind of trip is harder than you’d believe. For instance, we took five beach towels since the resorts we usually stay at have limited/itsy bitsy towels. Ryan Air is cheap but you pay through the nose for baggage which means I only had three medium duffels for our family of six. Do you know how much space those towels took up? I also packed a bunch of buckets and shovels thinking I was super smart like.

I am not smart. They had about 20 massive towels in our room and I could have bought buckets for 2 euros each. We only used that stuff once (I kept forgetting to take it to the beach with us because I’m such an awesome mother).

It’s a funny thing about living over here and getting a handle on the local lingo. You learn to say please, thank you, can I please have, etc. in German and then you go to Italy and talk to everyone in Duetch. They all thought we were German anyway so we just went with it. We got the impression that they don’t see many Americans on Sardinia which is a shame since it’s probably the world’s best hidden treasure.

Parts of the island look a lot like what you see in The Princess Bride movie with the huge rocks and cliffs, plus tropical beaches and Hawaii-esq foliage as you go inland. We were reading Peter and the Starcatchers the entire time and the lagoons and jungle were a lot like Never Never Land.

Honestly, I have found that my family’s favorite vacations always revolve around mountain goat behavior. My kids like to climb rocks. Rocks, beaches, rocks and beaches, more trails of rocks and beaches and a few museums and voila! Perfect family vacation.

Also I should probably invest in some real shoes. Designer flip flops will only take you so far.

Hitting the local street markets, I got a killer deal on fabric at one of the little vendors.

Reading to the kids in our not so glamorous condo. It had two little bedrooms and a kitchen as well.

Just another lagoon...

Favorite day. It was warm and beautiful and there was so much to see in Santa Teresa.

Guess who forgot the buckets and beach towels?

The Cliffs of Insanity

We learned how to use the timer on our new camera. Not bad...

We found a great museum in the little village of Luras; we had to call and wait for the owner to meet us.

Meet Mario. The building and antiquities have been in his family for generations. We loved this stop.

This was crazy windy, we were under the mouth of Homer's famous Bear Rock.

Awesome boat tour of the little islands around Sardinia.

I loved that little coral building.

My favorite photo from the trip.

All in all this vacation was just as great as we hoped it would be. That said, next time we go back (pretty sure we will) it will be in the hot season. Amazing beaches.

Have you ever been going along with your life, doing what you always expected to be doing, trying really hard to keep everything in your realm within the scope of How I Planned It only to find that something starts to derail? And then, because the derailment was not in the plan, you try to casually force it back into place because you think that if you just will it, it will self-correct and get with the program?

Then one day you wake up and realize that huh, maybe nothing actually derailed. Maybe the one that needs to self-correct is you.

That is kind of my life right now.

We have decided to move Rex (6) into the American DOD school next fall. Hopefully (I think) he’ll be accepted into the German Immersion program, but I’m not worried about it. He will or he won’t, it’s out of my hands and I’m glad we don’t have to make that decision.

In lieu of our decision to change him from German to American schools, Jason and I have been focussing on bringing his English up to speed this past month. We’re horrified to see how much he’s lost and how totally confused he is. He goes to Deutch school and they tell him “i” sounds one way, then he comes home at night and we tell him it says something different.

He refuses to read and we can’t blame him.

And thus we enter a chapter called My Life As I Didn’t Plan It.

The time has come to take Rex out of the morning German program. He’s doing well in the after school program and we want him to have the social and German experience. This means one thing and one thing only: I have become a Home School Diva.

Don’t worry about Hell anymore, it’s apparently frozen and quite lovely this time of year if you like to ski.

I have to be honest. My Big Mothering Plan involved having a bunch of kids close enough together so that they would play and learn and interact and leave me alone to do my thang. I clean, they play. I feed them, they play. I surf the internet, they watch TV. Predictable and low maintenance mothering. Throw in a few time outs, a word about Jesus here and there, some outside schooling and sports, and we’re in business.

Then Rex came along and completely changed my plan. He doesn’t just need English lessons, he needs coordination lessons. He needs to be comfortable with a ball. Do you know what Rex does at recess? He stands by The Pole. I just learned this from his teachers. The German kids ignore him (since he won’t speak to them) and he’s too afraid to try anything new, so he waits quietly for recess to be over.

Then he comes home and asks us periodically if we would teach him soccer “like Harrison.” When I ask him why he doesn’t play at school he says, “If I try the other kids will laugh at me!” So he doesn’t and I want to die.

The next six months is Project Teach Our Kid Stuff and I’m amazed at how much we underestimated him. Not only does he run me for two hours straight in the mornings with school until I finally cry Uncle, but he’s like a really dried up sponge that just can’t get enough. Piano, soccer, reading–this is, by far, the best and most rewarding thing I’ve ever done in my life.

I’ll be working with him until the fall to get him ready for first grade. At first I was worried we wouldn’t get there, but two weeks into this I’m realizing he’s far more capable than we ever imagined. Yesterday he drew a diagram of a pully system for his animals and asked if he could please build it. The scary thing? It was totally right. He even had a list of required supplies.

So I’ll take this train with him. I think the ride will be far more entertaining than what I was doing in the kitchen.

My nephew turned eleven this week. I can remember all too clearly when he was born, what he looked like as a baby, and how loud he could cry about nothing in particular. I remember his biting phase, the potty training nightmare that I watched from the sidelines via the telephone, and how seriously adorable his not-so-little round head was when he was four.

Then I took a good look at my nearly niner, Harrison, and had to go have a Diet Coke (significant since I’m off caffeine).

It was one more gong to my rather hollow head that it’s a darn good thing I’ve made this move and rearranged my life around what really matters right now.

Frankly, moving to Germany has changed me deeply.

Don’t get me wrong, my vanity remains securely intact along with a penchant for inappropriate shoes and too many leggings. If it doesn’t stretch I don’t wear it. Some mothers wear yoga pants and flip flops, I wear leggings and heels. Either way there’s no button to deal with and isn’t that what really counts?

We’ve been here since last July and I had no idea that I wasn’t just entering a new country, I was entering a new era of my life. The last four years have been busy with baby steps; both  having and feeding and changing and clothing them. With four little children I was both caught up in the physical maintenance of mothering while simultaneously routinely disconnected from the insanity. I had my social life and personal interests, just enough to keep me on the phone with family and friends during most key hours of the day.

Essentially, I was mothering on auto-pilot. And considering how crazy four full time kids can get I am mostly okay with that.

But it feels like jumping the pond was a time warp. Gone are the carefree days of chicken nuggets and onesies (although there’s still way too many of both around here). During the past eight months I’ve found myself dealing with serious mothering crap. It has changed every other aspect of my life.

But my biggest discover came last week. I learned the secret to being a successful stay at home mom. Are you ready for it? Stay at home. It’s amazing how easy it is to stay out of money trouble with the man when I never leave the house to spend anything. I’m shocked at how happy, yes happy, my children are to stay home doing…stuff. Who knew pointless errands were so expensive, and why didn’t I realize that my kids weren’t bad, they just weren’t designed for riding around in car seats and shopping carts all day.

I don’t know if I’ve found the right balance yet but things are starting to feel good. Granted, a nice fat wave could come along at any moment and knock me off my relatively clean desk (please don’t ask about the kitchen floor or that stuff on the brown chair because I don’t have an answer).

When it comes down to it, I only want to do one thing right these days: Not Screw Up My Kids. That does not mean I think I have control over their personal screwed up potential. We all know the best parenting has nothing to do with personal agency. My kids will make their own choices to own and sleep with.

But it does mean that I hope to look back on this time and not wish I’d put down my phone/book/computer more and paid attention when someone wanted me to read them a book or help make Baby Parrot “an ‘elicopter.”

My sister, Kerry, told me the other day to read to my kids all the time right now. “By the time they’re twelve,” she said, “Your chances are gone. Get in every book you want them to hear right now while they’ll still listen. After that there’s no guarantee…”

There’s no guarantee anyway, but I’ll take that advice. Its suddenly going so fast.

You know how sometimes you’re sitting with a friend talking about how awesome General Conference was and she says how so many of the talks were on envy and wow that’s really a problem and you think meh I don’t really worry too much about that so you say it out loud and she snorts because she knows you so well?

I love April. Nothing like General Conference to reinforce gravity.

I’m happy enough with my lot. I don’t spend very much time reading about or filching details on what other people are doing/getting/spending because I’m pretty caught up in myself.

‘Cause obviously that’s so much better.

But talking to my girlfriend today she made a really good point. “I didn’t think those talks really applied to me,” she said. “I love my life, it’s not like I spend time wishing I had something else. But then when I heard that message the second time it made me think. By the third time…well, let’s just say I’ve got stuff.”

I was listening to conference in the tub tonight–with the time difference I’m not totally through all the sessions yet–and I got to thinking about what she said. Funny, all I had to do was apply a little brain power and I could think of two good handfuls of crap that I need to work on, just in that one area.

I know the Lord’s intention isn’t to bring all our ugly old sins to our remembrance with conference. Actually I take that back, I think He’s pretty anxious for us to be aware of where we’re slacking or lacking so we can step up and be ready for the Big Day (since that day could potentially be eight months away–according to the Mayans and me–I take His pokes mostly seriously. My church doesn’t actually believe any of that date crap but I like to have my bases covered).

Listening to the Prophet and his apostles speak is my favorite security blanket. Remembering all over again that God has not forgotten us, that He’s still giving us commandments and revelations and solutions to our super unique and often terrifying spin here on Earth settles me. Soothes me. Gives me a really quick look at the eternal perspective and I like it.

With some of the challenges I’m seeing come up fast right now, I needed that extra lift.

I’m not dreading my trials this week, I’m embracing them. It feels really, really good.

Mostly.

With the exception of my mother’s birthday, I’m pretty sure that March is the stupidest month ever. If you add in the train wreck mustache my man is sporting on his face (seriously, I can’t decide if I want to slap him or take him back to the bedroom) what it boils down to is the simple fact that nothing good comes out of March.

Please don’t try to sell me on anything with the word tournament in it or I will poison your computer with a Miley Cyrus Virus. Not that I don’t love a good healthy dose of basketball, but it’s considered madness for a reason.

But the very worst ever thing about March is that even without the excuse of holiday chocolate, it always makes me fatter. And yeah, I said the F-word (the three letter one) because trying to shove myself into my jeans this morning literally made me want to curse.

I am an island of reckless abandonment adrift in a sea of schnitzel and peanut butter chips. Honestly, before moving to Germany I was the world’s best eater outer ever; soup and salad with a big ice water. Now? You only live once and I’m having a secret love affair with all the dead pigs over here in Deutchland. Give me schnitzel with a side order of chubby jeans and I’m a happy frau.

But the insanity has to end. I can’t keep my three pair of leggings laundered fast enough, I’ve got to get back into my wardrobe. Quite frankly, I’m too cheap to go out and try to replace it. The exchange rate alone is forcing me to handle my problems in a more financially responsible manner. I’m cheap and oh-so-vain.

The other thing that’s come up to bite me in the surprisingly rounded tusche is the recent invention of Dr. Pepper 10. Who knew 10 calories could taste so good? It came on sale at the Commissary for 99 cents a case and Jason came home with 15 cases so we could “try it out”.

Enter serious caffeine addiction.

When you pair all these things together what you get is a really grumpy, sugar amped, puffy faced mother who’s got a Costco sized muffin top and is two weeks away from having to wear a bathing suit at the beach.

Today it ended. All of it.

Off sugar, off pop in general, hello whole foods. I have successfully restocked my refrigerator with oodles of smart calorie options that I actually like, downed 65 ounces of water today, and tossed three bags of partially opened chocolate/peanut butter/butterscotch chips.

It’s time to embrace the skinny girl lifestyle again and stop eating like a Clydesdale. Think Arabian; they have super high metabolisms.

I mostly vow, right here and now, to spend the next 15 years following a happy, heart healthy eating style that does not include large daily doses of peanut butter M&M’s (unless I’m at the movies or on vacation), liters of brown pop (except when I’m eating out or having a really bad day), or mass quantities of uncooked cookie dough (not valid on Sunday afternoons).

These extra pounds–the number of which I shall not disclose at this time–are dead meat, baby. They’re gonna melt off my skinny little butt like butter.

Now if I can somehow avoid the two plates of chocolate cookies Mr. Not-So-Wonderful baked tonight while I was out running errands. Did I mention they’re loaded with peanut butter chips? Super rude.

To those of you who are considering the pros and cons of moving four small children and a minivan across the world, I have a few simple pieces of advice. First, if you think you’re smart enough to learn a new language during your free moments between potty training and short order cooking, you’re not.

Second, German locals and police officers take their laws kind of seriously so don’t let the old lady at the end of the street see you talking on your cell phone while driving (this includes your BlueTooth).

And lastly, whatever you do, don’t be stupid and get a dog.

Like most honest hypocrites I like to dish out advice that I have no intention of following. It’s like watching myself ration cookies out to the children and wondering why I don’t apply that same simple calorie counting logic to myself. Where’s my mother when I need her?

Because my husband is quietly persuasive and I’m prone to excitement, I have recently succumbed to the pressure and thrown myself head first onto the current family bandwagon campaign–it’s either that or let them outnumber me. Either way, we’re getting a dog.

On the pro side of things, I know what I’m getting myself into. When I was pregnant with June five years ago we had a darling Goldendoodle puppy. I loved that darn dog more than just about anything. He was gentle and obedient and despite his stiletto addiction (I am still trying to rebuild my collection), he was totally worth the effort. I had no idea how much sweeping I was avoiding until he left us; he was hit by a car and we lost him after a short year. Worst experience ever.

On the flip side, this means I have to potty train someone again. I was hoping that Georgia would be my last. Frankly, I have no intention of even attempting toilet issues with her until she’s old enough to inquire after the flushing mechanism and discuss the pro’s and con’s of bleach tablets.

But getting a puppy means having another kid to train, and that responsibility is all mine. However, we’ll most likely be here half a decade and if we wait until we’re back in the states our boys will miss years of animal husbandry training.

And hey, we need to find some way to move Rex (6) from his stuffed animal fairyland into the land of living, breathing creatures. Getting a dog might convince him that there’s more to life than inanimate objects, even if they are soft and cozy and totally compliant.

Last month we made the shortlist for a litter of mini goldendoodles cooking up in the UK. They’re hard to find and my husband is determined that we need a brown one. It was the first advertised batch that looked like it might fit his high demands so we’ve been waiting with baited breath.

Totally honest? I feel like we’re getting a baby. The mother was due this week and I’ve been walking around nesting and feeling way too many sympathy pains. We’ve been completely convinced that this was it. When the email came today that the puppies were here I did a happy dance all across the kitchen…until I read that none of them were brown females and all of them have gone to other families.

So defeated.

Don’t ask me how I’m going to break it to June that Angelina Cupcake Sparkles Unicorn Rainbow was not, in fact, born this week. I’ll also have to inform Rex that Lisa wasn’t born either. Harrison will have to kiss his visions of throwing the ball to Shelly goodbye for now, and I’m going to have to go ahead and invest in a new mini broom and dustpan.

I was hoping this broom would come with a hypoallergenic coat. No such luck.