Annie Valentine

When my mom was a young divorced mother with three small kids, she picked up a book at the drug store one day. It was called, “Hurlbut’s Story of the Bible.” Since she grew up religion free and really had no opinion about God or anything associated with Him, she thought it might be an interesting read.

She could not put the book down. It was originally written in the 1030’s and breaks the Bible into a massive collection of stories “written for young and old.” She would read it to her little children during dinner so she didn’t have to eat (yes, I get my obsessive Be Skinny gene from my darling Mama). According to her all three of here kids were completely riveted.

I’ve been hearing this story for years. Two months ago I decided to get online and buy a copy of this old book. It took six weeks to get here and I’ll admit I was quite alarmed at it’s size and weight. The thing could sink a ship (then again so could God so that kind of makes sense).

Last night while my kids were sitting at the table with Jason doing an assortment of pencil related activities, I decided to distract myself from baking brownies by cracking the book open. We ended up reading the first four stories. I’ve got to admit, my kids were actually riveted and had a ton of questions about why Adam and Eve were naked and who the snake was. And the murder of Abel? Total shocker.

Scripture study can be monotonous and wordy with little children, but if you’re looking for a way to bring some of the older stories to life while simultaneously not getting fat, then I highly recommend you get yourself a copy of this fabulous old book.

Just thought I’d thump it a little while I had the chance.

Spring Break. In Europe.

Kill me now.

April is always a stressor for parents because we feel the need to vacation as a family. Living in Europe is like vacationing on crack. Sometimes it feels like if I’m not super gung-ho and slightly hyper about traveling in general I’m failing as an overseas American. It is my duty, on behalf of all the people who would like this opportunity, to get out of my house and see the world.

This kind of pressure routinely sends me back to bed and leads me to avoid certain topics of conversation. I hate feeling like we’ve been sucked into the Amazing Race. Questions like, “So what are you doing for Spring Break?” or “We just got back from France/Poland/Yugoslovia, have you been?” sound super innocent but they always give me hives under my armpits.

Last fall Jason and I decided to use our Time Share to book spring break way in advance. I swear the Time Share is the best invention ever, for a very low fee we usually eek two free weeks at a two bedroom condo plus a number of super cheap deals out of RCI (old, reliable, everywhere).

After all the going and the doing, I feel like we need a relaxing beach vacation. Jason feels like Alexander the Great–he wants to conquer the globe one city at a time. We decided to meet in the middle and booked six days on the coast of Malaga, Spain with an extra four days in Madrid to see the surrounding country side.

The best part about traveling here in Europe is the disgustingly cheap air fare. For about $30 a person you can fly roundtrip all over Europe. You just have to watch the specials.

Since my husband has been spoiled by the Time Share, he can’t seem to overcome the idea that travel should be mostly free. Pair it with super cheap flights and what you get is a dude who waits for the airline to pay us to fly.

We’ve been watching the air fare for five months. Five months and it hasn’t ever been cheap enough for Jason to finalize our plans. Here we are three weeks from the vacation and what do you think has happened? Instead of flying our entire family for about $300, it’s now going to cost us upward of $1600 to get to Spain.

It was a nice idea but thanks to our overly thrifty patience, we have successfully killed the dream.

I won’t go into the multiple lectures I’ve given Jason or the week’s worth of glares and sniffs every time someone around us mentions Spring Break in the Alps/Normandy/Venice. I almost took matters into my own hands until I realized that I hate planning vacations. I am happy to do the packing and the pictures, but excavating the details is more than I want to handle.

Finally last week, while sitting with my girl friends in the movie theater, I got a text from Jason. It said, “Super cheap airfare to Sardinia, and super cheap Time Share there as well. Any thoughts?”

I have no idea what or where Sardinia is. For all I know it’s a back alley two villages over. What I do know is that Spring Break is coming fast and I’ll be body searched before I sit at home and do laundry for ten days of pre-sunshine. “I love Sardinia!” I wrote, “It’s awesome! Book the tickets NOW!!!”

And so, according to Wikipedia we will be spending eight days on the second largest island in the Mediterranean Sea, located off the coast of Italy and butting up with Corsica (we’ll be there for part of our trip). Frankly, I don’t care what happened there. I care that my kids get to spend a week in the sunshine, relaxing and playing without being yanked around from one historic site to another. They’re good sports, but this will be so much fun for them.

I guess sometimes it’s okay to lose the race, especially if running it is giving you blisters.

Deep down we all know the real reason people have children: free child labor.

When we had our first child I knew we were in for a good ten years of crazy before things started to settle down and we could cash in on our investment. We’re nearly nine years into this parenting gig and our three oldest children (8,6,4) are fully enrolled in Learn to Work 101.

Basically that means that I clean everything twice.

I routinely feel like I’m training Curious George. They’re willingish and both my boys have hands and thumbs, but I’ve learned that there are certain things that are better left un-kid-cleaned. Like windows. I’ll take a few greasy finger and lip prints over the sticky swirly mess that my kids happily come up with. They don’t seem to realize that we’re not going for “opaque.”

I’ve decided that one of Harrison’s (8) Saturday chores is cleaning and detailing the car. If you’ve ever seen a vehicle transport that taxi’s small children around you know that all it takes is one 30 minute ride and the car is a crumb coated, plastic wrappered, school papered, hidden sippy cupped mess. And somehow the “no food” rule doesn’t seem to cover the existence of crumbs. I’m pretty sure they load up their pockets and sprinkle remnants of pop tarts and toast around the car just in case we get lost on the way home.

When you teach a kid to clean any large area you have to do it in stages, and the stages have to be stupid simple. When I send Harrison down to the car it’s on a step-by-step basis and he has to get each step cleared before moving on. For instance:

1. Open car doors

2. Climb inside car

3. Remove car seats etc.

Last week I had Harrison working on the car and had just reached step seven, remove rugs from car. “Harrison!” I called, “Are you ready for me to come check?” He threw back an extremely put out, overly grumpy “Yeah,” and I started to head down.

Then I thought, there’s no reason I should get to have all the fun around here, so I turned to Mr. Honeydo himself. One thing about my husband that warrants keeping his last name on my social security card is his rocking personal work ethic. It’s like being married to a bald Martha Stewart, he always gets the job done and usually does it well (unless it’s laundry which he hates).

“Hey Sweetheart,” I said, using our favorite now-I’m-going-to-ask-you-something-you-really-don’t-want-to-hear term of endearment, “Why don’t you go down and check on Harrison and the car, just give him the next step.”

He shrugged and set aside the large stack of cardboard boxes he was collapsing (because he rocks) then tromped down to the garage.

Five minutes later I walked into the office and found Harrison playing computer games.

“What?! Why are you here? There’s no way you finished that car already!”

“Oh,” he said, “Dad said I didn’t have to.” He smiled and I stomped down to the garage in a huff.

“Jason! What are you doing down here?” I yelled over the roar of the vacuum.

“Oh,” he said turning it off, “I’m just detailing the car.”

“But that’s Harrison’s job!”

“I know, but he’s horrible at it. I figured it would just be faster if I did it myself,” he said, flipping the switch back on and promptly ignoring me.

I almost pulled the plug and threw a fit, but we all know that the only thing harder than teaching your kids something is teaching your husband. When it comes down to it, I guess I don’t care how the car gets cleaned as long as long as I’m not the one who has to do it.

Harrison is eight. This is the age that discussion about having The Discussion is a regular topic of conversation among mothers and fathers.

It’s funny how differently people view having the sex talk with a kid. The when, the how, the if, I’m pretty sure it’s a major case of stress for any parent who considers virtue and wholesomeness highly credible attributes in young children. Sex is both the most virtuous and the least virtuous topic out there, depending upon your situation and how you decide to approach it.

Personally, I was raised on a farm. If I ever ventured into questions about creation in general my parents always suggested I take a walk in the field and observe the cattle. It wasn’t the worst way to learn about the birds and the bees, but I was practically 24 before I realized that humans did it too. A little more up front would have been helpful.

Lately one of my besties has been heavily debating the when and how to tell her daughter. She went with one of the How To Break it to Your Kid books and did the whole Special Secret, Special Hug, Special Naked bit that’s so highly suggested.

I think that method is great and wholly support parents who implement it. At the same time, I believe there is no single right way to talk to a kid about sex, and in fact I’d propose that the method should fit the child. Harrison is of an age where some kids are ready to hear a more mature description of the what-why-and-how, but both Jason and I feel like it’s not his season.

But there’s nothing like peer pressure to light a fire under a parent, if you know what I mean.

A few weeks ago I decided that perhaps it’s time to open the channels, if you will. Not fire hose the kid down, but just see if there’s any water pressure. Isn’t it funny how once we mentally entertain an idea, especially if you don’t force the issue, a moment will present itself that’s custom ordered.

Harry and I were cleaning one of the many messy rooms in my house not long after this and I had the thought that I should just casually ask him what he knows/thinks/has heard about s-e-x.

Being the total wuss that I apparently am, I dismissed it and continued on with my chore, choosing instead to probe his mind on what makes Super Mario so super.

An hour later the thought came to me again. Since I’m not completely dim witted I went ahead and casually blurted out, “So Harrison, have you heard anything about sex?” Yeah, I’m super sneaky and all kinds of prepared.

“What?!” he said, blushing scarlet. “No!” He quickly turned away and made himself busy arranging toys.

“No problem,” I said, “But just so you know, you can always just ask Dad or me if you’ve ever got any questions, or if someone says something that makes you uncomfortable. We know everything.” The room was opressively silent and I kind of wondered if I had just destroyed his innocence in one fell swoop.

“Actually,” he finally said, “There is a kid on the bus who’s always talking about…things.” Can I get a phew? This led to an awesome conversation about appropriate topics and how to handle situations where kids are being rude and crude. Options included moving, reading a book, listening to an ipod or some other music source, and always saying “please don’t talk about that,” even if they ignore your request.

Two days later Harrison came home from the bus really upset. “Buddy,” I said, “What’s up with you? Did something happen on the bus?”

“Yes!” he said and walked over to whisper in a super secret way, “Benjamin was talking on the bus…about…this (insert rapidly waving hand in front of chest)….and this (more rapid hand waving in front of zipper)….!”

I was so glad we had opened the channels of communication, and I’m glad that we didn’t tell him more than he needs to know. After asking a few carefully selected questions, I realized that he doesn’t want to know about sex, he wants to avoid having to listen to kids discuss it.

We’ve decided to periodically ask him where he’s at with his understanding and not rush into it. This would include learning right now the importance of never looking when someone with a cell phone says, “Hey, look at this picture!” or tries to show him something that might be the wrong kind of surprise. If he learns to guard what he sees right now it could really save him in a year or two when some kid tries to flash a picture of some girls you-know-what’s in his sweet little face.

I know I’m probably opening a can by writing about this, but we can’t be the only parents dealing with this topic right now, and I think it’s important to hear different methods and different ways.

My point is that just because something works for one kid doesn’t mean it will work for another, and like my sister says, what’s so wrong with baby steps? I’m more concerned with him knowing how to handle situations where kids talk about it inappropriately than making sure he knows everything about sex.

For us, he just needs to know that when he’s got questions or feels uncomfortable, we’re a safe, open place to go. Right now that’s enough.

Let’s talk about this picture for a moment, shall we?

That is my baby. In her bottle is a two-day old leftover can of flat Diet Dr. Pepper 10.

I am sure that there are dozens of highly trained mothers out there with 1, 2, even 3 children who would never in a million years consider this kind of behavior acceptable in any setting. I know because I, too, was once that mother. A wonderful, thoughtful, conscientious mama who gave my children whole foods and routinely snubbed the evils of carbonation, sugar substitutes, and Heaven forbid McDonald’s.

I can remember when Harrison was a baby and my Father in law (one of my favorite humans ever) gave him a few drops of Diet Coke from the end of his straw. I literally thought I might rip his head from his shoulders for tainting my child with poison (I wasn’t a big pop drinker back in the day). A few weeks later when Harrison got an ear infection I was pretty sure it was from the Diet Coke.

But let me tell you, I have learned a few things about survival. Take yesterday, for instance. After nearly five hours of dragging this poor child from one government office to another trying to get an official gas card for my rental (don’t even think you can just swing in and gas up around here), running from base to base to get a copy of my stolen vehicle registration, plus having to try and find a new car one the side, this baby was DONE.

Even with a weak nap she spent the afternoon in tears. Part of this is her missing father; we stopped by his office to fax a paper and I’m pretty sure she wet herself from excitement at finally seeing Daddy again. He wasn’t there. She cried when we left without him.

And I wanted to stop at the local market and get milk, but what do you do when your exhausted baby is fast asleep in the backseat and you need to go in? You skip it (unless we all think I should have just left her unattended in a foreign country so I could go get milk and avoid ruining her metabolism for-e-ever).

So forgive me if, upon her rather abrupt and overly weepy awakening, I resorted to the only thing I could find in the house that wasn’t water (which she had violently thrown across the room).

After the week I’ve had it can’t get much worse (did I mention the strep throat? No? Well let me tell you, that was fun).

I have decided that things crash in three’s: within a few short weeks I’ve lost my car, my Mac and my sewing machine.

I do not complain about my sewing machine.

She’s an ugly old girl. I got swindled on Craig’s List three years ago in an attempt to save my dearly beloved some money. Instead of getting something new and cheap, I bought myself an old Singer, circa 1983-ish. Despite my intense and immediate buyer’s remorse (why do I feel obligated to to pay top dollar for other people’s crap just to make them feel good about themselves?), I knew the only way to save face with the man was to suck it up and sew already.

And oh how I’ve sewn.

For the past three years I’ve sewn pillows and costumes and Christmas pajamas, ball gowns and pin cushions and curtains. I’ve made purses and aprons and banners, stitched up dozens of wounded stuffed animals (Rex’s animals require at least one surgical procedure a week), mended pants and crafted skirts and ran the needles until they were dull as doorknobs.

Thanks to my in house sewing station I’ve been a regular little DIY princess who routinely avoids the children so I can learn to be a “homemaker.”

And I’ve done it all on the world’s stupidest sewing machine.

Three project packed years. Talk about ploughing through, I’ve put more miles and needles and stitches on that baby than I ever expected. And not once, not once have I even allowed myself to dream of it’s death. I’ve taken great care to hone the fine art of practicality and thrift in this department. The shoe department is a different animal, but as far as sewing machines go I get an A+.

A month ago I started taking a sewing class with my girlfriends. Apparently I’ve been stuck in the 60’s with my sewing mentality; my machine isn’t the only thing that’s holding me back. Despite being three decades behind in all things mechanical I’ve allowed myself very little machine envy during class, even when my lawnmower and I have had to listen to the purr of the new computerized Singer Curvy that sits next to us.

Imagine hauling a 1986 personal computer into a college class while everyone else is using laptops. A PC that your kids have lovingly decorated with permanent pens. So not cool. And for whatever reason, I really don’t care. It gets me from stitch A to stitch B, so no complaints here.

Yesterday while working on my sewing homework my routinely loud and obnoxious machine started making a rather uncomfortable grinding noise, kind of like a chain saw. But hey, the thing was still stitching so I decided to just press through. It’s not like I can take it into my local Singer stationmaster.

And as I punched in the back button at the end of the row it gave a little hiss and slight stench and presto: nothing but a death hum.

Apparently I’m being blessed for not caring that I don’t have the coolest or the smartest or the quietest or the newest or the most convenient machine. Either that or someone dropped my machine off a balcony without telling me (why did I not think of that before?).

For once in my marriage there was absolutely no argument when I called Jason and told him that my machine was dead and I would have to buy a new one pronto. He knows, he’s seen, I’ve done my time. This isn’t a passing fancy and I have earned a grown up girl machine.

According to Amazon it shipped this morning. As Rex would say, I sure hope the Seven Little Postmen hurry.

This is the last thing I want to say about the crash. Thank you for letting me work through this in my own coincidentally public way, my blog is where I bare my heart and soul and it’s not always pretty. But writing my way through this has brought me closure, one step at a time.

Today I saw the corpse. Honestly, seeing my car sitting there all dead and crushed in the wrecking yard was big. I needed to see that car, I needed to look at what she did and how she helped save my family.

Here are a few photos for you to glimpse through while I talk. I’m also including a picture of Rex in his self-induced coma. Such a kill. Also kind of freaky.

I need you to notice a few things. First, the fact that the semi truck literally ripped the guts out of my car and splattered them all over the road. Second, the fact that there is a very deliberate and beautiful line of demarkation: From the exact point where Harrison sat in the front seat and beyond our car was pristine. Not a scratch.

Looking at my little Mazda 5, I can’t understand why the windshield didn’t shatter. And considering the angle and the speed with which we smashed into the stupid semi, we should have rolled clear to Bulgaria.

We didn’t just survive this thing, we walked away completely unscathed. All those mornings of family prayer, and the mornings where we added another prayer for safety in the car, it’s like they’ve been building up in some sort of Safety Account just waiting for us to cash it in. Looks like we had prayers to spare.

My kids are all dealing with their shock and grief in different ways. This morning I woke up with Harrison stuck to the side of me like some kind of industrial velcro. Evenings and mornings are the hardest for him, he had a bad dream this morning and had to puke his anxiety out in the toilet. Very hard for me to watch.

The hardest part of all this is having my captain on the other side of the world. My boy Jason single-handedly keeps my world turning. Really, I’m just a glorified child who gets a really awesome allowance. He’s the responsible party and I’m…well, I’m just the party. When things go wrong, Jason handles the paper work and I rent the movie. I’m also very good at home made bread.

I hate having him gone. I need him, I need his arms and his voice and his fax machine know-how. The aftermath alone is stretching me in ways I would rather not be stretched. I can do it, but I hate it.

On the night of the accident, right before I left the hospital, our Bishop and one of my neighbors took me aside and sat me down for a priesthood blessing. The moment they anointed my head I felt power flow through my body like a live current of electricity. It literally took my breath away.

The blessing was beautiful, especially when it promised me that I would be in tune with my children and their individual needs this next week, that I’d know how to comfort and help them in their moments of fear and grief and anxiety.

Laying in bed that night I realized that during almost every moment of our ordeal, up until the kids were tucked safely in their beds, there was a priesthood holder within arm’s reach. In Germany, that’s a miracle of it’s own. When we pulled into the hospital, it was no surprise to find our home teacher just happened to be delivering a baby upstairs and was to there to see us within no time.

I’ve had dozens of calls, multiple dinners, people who stopped by to whisk my kids away or help me put them to bed. In three days I’ve felt more love and support and strength than I can comprehend. I love everyone who has cared enough to call and comment and thank God on our behalf that we were so beautifully spared.

And hey, we even made the German newspaper. They didn’t know our names but the accident was considered a local miracle. Love those Germans, they know Heavenly intervention when they see it.

So this is me wrapping the nightmare up. I guess I shouldn’t call it that. If there’s one thing I’ve decided, it’s that if I ever get in another accident I hope it’s exactly like this one.

Today I dug into my shoe basket and pulled out a forgotten pair of flats. Heels just sounded way too risky.

When they piled the kids and I into the ambulance after the crash last night (30-45 minutes later? An hour?) my oldest three sat huddled in a group, clinging and crying and all wanting to sit on my lap/shoulders/head, anything to feel better (Gigi was fine as long as she could sit in her stroller). The neighbor kid got a little white so they took him to one of the waiting ambulances.

Finally the German doc leaned in and anxiously told me that we would have to split all the children up, there was no way we could move out in that condition. They did quick evaluations starting with June. It will come as no surprise that my little spit fire was the first calm one of the bunch.

“June,” I said as the doctor finished checking her, “do you think you can go with that nice German man right there and ride in another ambulance? Are you brave?” She smiled at me, gave me a big hug and kiss and hopped into his arms with a little happy wave goodbye.

It about killed me. Not that I didn’t have enough to worry about with the boys, they were sobbing next to me on the bed like a couple of girl scouts. I sat between them trying to think of how I could convince Harrison to leave my side.

With Jason gone my kids and I have implemented the Team Valentine (we use my real last name but I try to avoid using it publicly as much as possible–it’s about the only thing I keep private) to help us when Daddy’s away. It means that we all pitch in to pick up the slack; that could be a hug, or helping Mom with chores, or reading a book to someone. We have a jar that we’re filling with fuzzy balls in order to earn a totally awesome Saturday out with Mommy next week.

I looked at my beautiful terrified eight-year-old crying his heart out next to me. “Harrison,” I said, “Can you look at me?” He turned his big green eyes up at my face and I smiled. “Buddy, I need your help. We can’t leave until we’re all in different ambulances,” I said as he started to cry harder and burried his sweet face in my chest. “Harry, I need you to do something for me: Dad isn’t here to help, but do you think you can be brave and ride alone so Rex can stay with me? Team Valentine, Buddy, can you do it?”

I wish I could describe watching him take that last big sniff, blow it out and wipe his eyes. He looked up at me, pressed his lips together and gave a solid nod of the head. Then he hugged me and jumped off the gurney to go with the strange Germans waiting to take him away. My little boy, such a wonderful man in the making. He didn’t shed another tear the rest of the night, and in fact was totally into the neck brace and gurney scene by the time we pulled up to the ER.

But oh, my little Rexy. Sobbing, certain that we were all going to die and just waiting for the last big bang. The doctor did a quick physical check and found that Rex had hit his head on the side of the car, a nice bump was already blooming. Side bumps are something to watch, so it won’t come as a shock that when Rex started to pass out in his seat I about peed my pants.

Of all my kids, the only one I’m afraid is too good for this Earth is Rex. June? She’ll live forever, but Rex I routinely worry is too guileless and kind for his own good.

“Hey!” I said to the doctor (they had two full-on physicians there) “Is he okay? He’s passing out!” They rushed to him and checked his vitals, laying him on the bed like a little limp rag doll. Within a few minutes they stood back and looked at me.

“Um,” said the doctor, “We think he’s asleep. Does he do this when he’s frightened?”

Then I remembered, it’s exactly what he does when he gets sick, goes to bed and sleeps until he’s well. Still, I felt slightly anxious that there could be more to it. I glanced out of the ambulance and saw Brother Ford standing there, waiting through the entire ordeal and making rounds on the other kids. I motioned him in and asked if he would give my Rex a blessing.

Let me tell you right now, having him stand next to me and lay his hands on Rex’s head was the most powerful, comforting experience I had had. My husband might be on the other side of the world, but Heavenly Father surrounded us that night with worthy, priesthood holding men, ready to step in and bless my children at a moment’s notice.

After the blessing and a little more reassurance from the medics that Rex was perfectly fine, I couldn’t help admiring the kid. When the docs would periodically pry his little eye lids open to check his pupils they’d snap shut again like taught little rubber bands. He slept through the next four hours of procedures, including a CAT scan. In fact, the tech was all prepped to put him under until they realized he was self-medicating. They said Rex was an absolute dream to work with.

I have more to say, but again I am emotionally spent. I can’t sleep and I’m totally exhausted. Regurgitating my experience in print seems to be the most effective method I’ve found of moving through the whole thing. More later, forgive me for spilling it out so coarsely.