Annie Valentine

Today I feel like I just might be a colossal failure.

Due to my inflated ego and obnoxiously overconfident attitude about almost everything, I don’t think about failure much. Fear in general isn’t part of my chemical makeup and I’m not used to dealing with it.

But for the first time in my life I lay in bed at night and silently quake at the thought that not only am I possibly going to fail at something really big, but the people who will suffer most from my failure aren’t me. Me I can handle, it’s the thought of failing my child and how deeply that will affect his life that is so devastating.

I have four kids. Of my four kids three of them are demanding enough to ensure that they receive whatever it is they need most from me. Harrison (8) is constantly after hugs and lengthy conversations about the fine characteristics of Mario and why plumbers have the best jobs ever, June (4) forces me to take her with me any time I leave the house for “girls only” trips, and Georgia (1) spends all day on my lap/hip/bed begging me to read her a “booh.”

And then there’s Rex.

In case you don’t know about Rex, he’s six and is currently enrolled in the German schule here in our village. This has been…overwhelming. For all of us.

Rex is there and continues to remain there because when I ask God what to do about Rex’s schooling He repeatedly thumps me on the head and tells me to stop asking and give this time and attention.

The time bit I’m handling. But as far as extra attention, Rex comes home and slips right through the cracks. He’s so happy to be back with all his toys and animal friends and sisters and brother that I don’t have the heart to rip him away from his comfort zone and tutor him.

I am also lazy.

Put the two together and you get a kid who isn’t learning anything from his loser mother. How is he ever going to learn to read and write English if I don’t teach it to him? How is he supposed to move ahead and start speaking German (nothing yet, it’s been six months) if he’s not getting extra one on one help at home? He is almost seven and doesn’t even know any sight words. What am I doing???

Last night I spent the 30 minute car ride to the adult session of Stake Conference talking to our good friend and brilliant pediatrician, Eric. Eric usually takes a few minutes with Rex when he gets the chance to do quick spot evaulations and observations and then keeps us updated on his thoughts.

It was brutal.

In talking to him and assessing where Rex is at with school, it’s pretty clear that he has a bit of a language problem and not just with German. He spoke very late, his conversation and use of English is a year or two behind (as is his maturity level), and according to the professional he needs to be bombarded with language, both English and German, on a structured daily basis.

This means I have to nail his butt to the table and structure some kind of program for him. I’ve avoided it because he’s so tired after eight hours of German a day, but I think Eric is absolutely right. I’ve got to dig in my heels and get it done.

Sitting in Stake Conference last night was an emotional experience. Every talk seemed to enforce the thought that I was failing in the home, not doing enough for my children, being a passive member of the household. It’s great that I stay home and sew and cook, but homemade skirts and three (okay six) meals a day never got a kid through the German school system.

Finally toward the end of the meeting I put my head between my knees. You know when you feel too lame to pray so instead you kind of send your worthless thoughts up to Heaven, hoping that maybe they’ll be heard but not really willing to force the issue? I thought to myself, what am I doing? I suck at this job. I’m lazy and weak and not up to being the kind of mother my children need. I can’t do this, I’m not even worthy of it…

Those are the words that ran through my mind. And as I said them, the speaker (who I wasn’t really listening to at that point) read this quote from Elder Packer: “We need everyone. The tired or worn out or lazy and even those who are bound down with guilt…”

I felt like Heaven was speaking back to me and couldn’t help laughing through my tears, that Father in Heaven would be so generous and quick to answer my sorry little plea for help and strength. And as the speaker closed we sang “How Firm a Foundation,” and the third verse rang through my soul like some kind Heavenly balm:

“Fear not, I am with thee, oh be not dismayed

For I am thy God and will still give thee aid

I’ll strengthen thee, help thee and cause thee to stand

Upheld by my righteous omnipotent hand.”

The word omnipotent is what really stuck. He knows. He knows how this can work, how it should work, how it will work. I don’t have to do this alone, help is out there and I’m going to find it.

My sweet girlfriend’s husband has been deployed for the past year.

Ashley is 23. She’s only been married for a few years and her man has been gone for a big percentage of them. They moved here to Germany last winter and he deployed almost immediately; we’ve never actually met him.

For the past year she’s been waiting and doing and being and trying to keep his side of the bed warm all by her little old self.

By far the most painful part of his absence has been the not knowing his return date. The troops have been coming home in droves, bus after bus of fathers and husbands and boys back from really long deployments. She’s known he was coming “soon” for weeks now. I’ve decided the word “soon” is a new four letter word, the waiting has been so miserable.

Today she finally got The Call. His is the very last troop coming in to return from deployment at their base.

Standing on the top bleacher with her tonight waiting for the orange doors to open and send her life back to her was beyond intense. All I could think about was Peggy Lee singing, “Waiting for the train to come in…waiting for my man to come home…” She sings that song way too calmly.

“Wow,” Ashley said, “I don’t even think I’m going to cry. I feel so…numb.” Um, yeah, that’s what happens when your entire nervous system finally shuts down because it can’t handle all the adrenaline.

I sat on the bleachers with my family and watched all the wives and mothers waiting for their husbands. They were beautiful. Each had taken great pains to look however it was their man wanted them to look, and no two outfits were even remotely the same. I saw women dressed for prom, women dressed office classy, retro-40’s with super cleavage (cleavage was the one constant in the group), and sassy mall getup. Every head had been hit hard with the straightener, curling iron, and aerosol, and the shoes were fabulous straight across the board.

The moment the orange doors opened and the microphone went hot it was like being at an eighth grade dance and knowing Justin Beiber was about to make an entrance. Talk about heart pounding.

And then the soldiers flooded through. 324 of them and Ashley was so scared and excited and nervous and terrified that not only did she lose complete use of her hands (we had to hold her “We Love Lt. Wall” sign for her), but she couldn’t find him. Anywhere. I personally haven’t met him, plus watching all the children pointing out daddys was kind of making me bawl my head off so I was mostly worthless.

The anthems played, the prayer was given, and with less than ten words the men were dismissed.

And she still couldn’t find him.

After all these months and last few weeks of waiting and worrying and anxiously wondering if it was ever going to happen, those moments were eternal and excruciating for all of us. She stood there frantic, tears pouring down her cheeks, “I don’t see him, I can’t find him, is he here? Why didn’t I wear my glasses?!”

And then as the soldiers started to move the sea of tan parted and there he was.

I don’t think her feet even touched the bleachers she flew down those steps so fast, high heels and all. Into his arms, faces buried together, they stood on the gym floor and I’m pretty sure the world went invisible for a moment.

We stood back and let them meld. Because that’s what it’s like when you’ve been apart for any serious space in time. You have to regain a sense of independence and self-reliance. You start to wonder, can we be a couple again? Will we work the same? What if we’ve both changed?

And if you’re lucky, the answer is yes you can, yes you will, and yes you have. Absence doesn’t always break you, it can make you stronger where you need it. Ashley grew in leaps and bounds this year and I’m sure her man did as well. And seeing them tonight, I have no doubt that their growth, in the long run, is going to make their little family unit stronger and brighter and better.

I am a closet sewing freak. Any time I fall off the radar and I’m not on vacation you can guess that I’m up to my clavicle bone in a sewing project.

Also I don’t always know what I’m doing.

So my girlfriend told me two months ago about the Military Daddy Daughter Princess Ball scheduled for February. It’s an insanely expensive excuse for little girls to dress up in their finest, and not something Jason would approve on any level whatsoever. But June? June spends at least 10 hours a day in princess attire. How could I not sign her up?

I might or might not have been living vicariously through her as well while making this decision.

Instead of calling Jason for permission I decided to exercise my financial agency, took the bull by the horns, and bought them a ticket. I kind of also got on ebay and ordered Jason a tuxedo (don’t judge, he’s needed one the past few years and it was only $70…okay you can judge a little).

Then I had to decide what to do about the dress.

I got online and found some great little princess dresses (all of June’s are thoroughly loved, not a one is rip and stain free) but the price was up there. Besides, my sewing machine was calling to me.

When I saw this one I knew it had to happen.

So I did what any financially responsible and routinely delusional adult would do and decided I could make it cheaper (HAHAHAHA). I enlisted my amazing sister-in-law who has only boys and loves to sew, gave her a very loose idea of what I needed for the project, and just over a week later the box arrived in the mail. Thank you, Lindsey.

And then I had to do something with it. No pattern, just me and yard after yard of really slippery fabric.

Just about this time Jason saw the charge for the tux on our debit account. I’ll be honest, my whole surprise-him-and-he’ll-be-happy pipe dream wasn’t exactly spot on. He was kind of furious. Yes he loves June, and yes he’s willing to do memory building activities with her, but the bottom line just about sunk my ship and for sure my grocery budget.

Save yourself some money so your husband isn’t furious with you with these great Target coupons available for your arts and crafts projects, including sewing.

I am now going to save you three weeks of arguing and sewing mishaps and jump to the finished result.

The day of the dance I was very possibly the most overworked, under deodorized fairy godmother you’ve ever seen in your life. Why? Because I didn’t just make one Cinderella dress, I made two. My girlfriend’s daughter needed one desperately and they couldn’t find one in time. As luck would have it I found four yards of pink satin stashed in the bottom of one of my bins.

The night before the dance was horrible. Jason’s tux still hadn’t come in the mail, the dresses were unfinished and none of the accessories were made. And then in my eleventh hour June got strep throat and scarlet fever, so we spent the night in the ER hoping they could get her well enough for the Princess Ball (she’d asked every day for three weeks if this was “the day”).

With very little magic the next day dawned bright and June was a modern medical miracle. Thank you penicillin. At one o’clock my not-so-enthusiastic prince charming called from the base.

“My tux just came in the mail,” he said.

“Are you kidding me?” I couldn’t decide if it was Heaven sent or my worst night mare. That meant I had to add hemming his pants to my list.

“Do you have a bow tie for me?” he asked.

“Um…” I so did not have a bow tie ready. I thought he’d just be wearing his regular suit. “Almost..”

“You owe me big time,” he said before hanging up.

Honestly, the moment they were finally out the door I wanted to collapse on my kitchen floor and die a quiet death in my pajama pants.

Here is the finished product. Thanks to my darling Caitlin for coming to the rescue with June’s hair and makeup so I could finish sewing and tacking, plus my almost neighbor Stephanie who provided shoes and a back up sewing machine in my hour of need. And my sewing lifeline, Corinne, who talked me through some of my biggest snags. I made all of June’s accessories, and never ever ask me about the bow tie. I’ve still got PTSD from it. Those were four hours that I’ll never get back.

June added the purple tutu around her waist at the last minute and refused to take it off.

Waiting for the big entrance

See the red carpet and all the swords? Slightly intimidating...

Let’s just say that it was awesome, they had a fantastic time and made a great memory, and it will be three years before I’m willing to go through this kind of ordeal again.

The other day I got an email from Harrison’s third grade teacher informing me that he had been caught in a homework lie. He told her I’d taken it out of his backpack. He told me the night before that he didn’t have any homework.

Something was afoot.

The moment Harrison walked in the door he knew he was in trouble. “Hi, Mom,” he said shuffling into the kitchen.

“Hi, Son.” I gave him a big hug and pulled up a chair so we could talk face to face. “So you got in trouble for lying about your homework today, huh?” I said.

“Yeah. Well, I didn’t really lie…I mean just a little one…” we talked about it for a moment and he admitted he’d fibbed. After apologizing he headed to his room.

I watched him walk away and spied his green backpack dumped on the floor.

Grabbing it by the strap, the thing felt like it weighed a good 25 pounds. I plopped it on the table and unzipped the mystery.

One by one I pulled out crumpled, unfinished homework sheets. Pages and pages, an entire quarter of untouched worksheets. Why hadn’t his teacher said anything? I was horrified to see over 20 sheets of neglected homework crumpled on the counter.

And then I found the first moldy lunch.

I’m careful with money so I usually make Harrison a cold lunch for school. He has a running hot lunch account for emergencies, but we only use it occasionally; lunches cost $2.40 and that really adds up.

By the fifth moldy lunch sack I was in total awe. The apples alone were hefty, not to mention all the water bottles. No wonder his bag was weighing him down.

“Harrison,” I called up the stairs, “I need you in the kitchen.”

He turned the corner and stopped in his tracks, eyes locked on the table. The lunches. The homework. The terrible awful truth.

You know when your kid is in so much trouble that you can’t even yell because they’re such a pitiful sight? Imediately he crumpled into a heap, crying about what a terrible person he was. “I’m just a liar, Mom! A liar! I’m gonna have to live with the Devil! I know you guys hate me, you hate me! Can I have a hug, please?” He sobbed and cried, explaining that he didn’t mean to stop doing his homework, he only lied once because he was tired and then it just got easy. No one noticed.

We talked about the lunches, and how his best friends get hot lunch and they make the cold lunch kids sit on one side of the cafeteria, and he was feeling left out.

Just about then his father walked in he door early from work. Harrison ran to his room to hide his guilt and I brought Father up to speed. We decided it would be necessary for Harrison to reimburse us for the lunches. He would also lose all electronic privileges (minus light fixtures) for the week while he finished the overdue homework.

He came down and peeked his head around the corner. Jason gently talked to him for a moment, telling him to please go get his money so he could pay for the missing lunches. We knew this would be the hardest part. He’s been saving up to get the newest Mario game, and at two dollars a week it’s been a slow process. He was only days away from that last allowance and victory.

He ran up the stairs and was back in the kitchen twenty seconds later.

“Here Dad,” he said, holding his hand painted money box in front of him. “Just take it, take it all. I’m so sorry I lied to you about the homework and the lunches, there’s almost thirty dollars in there and I want you to take it.” Jason smiled and hugged him, telling him that we only needed enough for the six lunches.

The next morning before school I watched him grab his backpack and throw it over his shoulder. “Hey!” he said with a smile, “It’s so light!” He hugged me. “Bye Mom, I love you!”

His backpack wasn’t the only thing that was lighter.

It’s Valentine’s Day. I feel a personal responsibility to uphold the value of this particular holiday.

Also, for all you readers, here are some delightful Amazon coupons to provide discounts for your Valentine’s Day.

Here’s the thing about today. I know there are parents out there who strive to make it a “family” holiday, something where we talk about how much we luv each other, and luv our friends, and luv our pets, and luv Sponge Bob. I should not roll my eyes at this. I should not make fun of this. I should recognize that yes, Jesus wants us to luv everyone so why not make today about everyone?

Because I can’t. I can’t pretend that putting your children/dog/remote in the middle of your marriage, the pew at church (of which I’m totally guilty), or your bed is okay 365 days of the year. I’ll give you 364 of them with absolutely not much judgement, but I’ve got to hold out and uphold the value of today.

If you’d rather spend your Valentine’s Day Eve with a bunch of little rugrats instead of the man who gave them to you, it just might be time to reevaluate.

Tonight, just as Jason started the dishwasher (ahem, big hint there fellas) Englebert Humperdink came on KIXI AM 880 out of Seattle with, “Quando Quando Quando.” I love this song and I love the way he sings it. And my man? He asked me to dance. Doesn’t happen very often and I never turn it down.

And while we held one another inappropriately close, Jason and I confessed something to each other:

For the first time in 13 years we don’t have a darn thing planned for Valentine’s Day.

It kind of rocks.

We have not invested in cards, flowers, or reservations of any kind. There will be no hidden balloons, singing telegrams waiting in the frigid bushes, or naughty poetry. Heck, I haven’t even stopped to think of an outfit. I’ll probably just show up in my birthday suit and call it a day. I have the feeling that will work out just fine.

I am sure that in it’s way this year will be as memorable as any other; we do have the babysitter scheduled and plan to leave the house unaccompanied. Who knows? We might hit the drive through and go make out in the car.

Standing in his really nice arms tonight smelling today’s leftover cologne, with Englebert and the hum of the dishwasher in the background, I don’t think I could have loved that man any more.

Crazy are we. With all the miscommunications and bad habits and public yelling matches (always one-sided, guess which one?) we still love to crawl in bed with each other at the end of the day.

This year for Valentine’s Day I’m giving Jason a song. It’s an old one, and I bet you never stopped to think about how romantic it really is. But after this many years together the fact that I still feel like this on such a regular basis is nothing short of magical. (If you’re stateside you can listen to it on YouTube, but I can’t link it).

“Heavenly shades of night are falling, it’s twilight time

Out of the mist your voice is calling, ’tis twilight time
When purple-colored curtains mark the end of day
I’ll hear you, my dear, at twilight time

Deepening shadows gather splendor as day is done
Fingers of night will soon surrender the setting sun
I count the moments darling till you’re here with me
Together at last at twilight time

Here, in the afterglow of day, we keep our rendezvous beneath the blue
And, in the same and sweet old way I fall in love again as I did then

Deep in the dark your kiss will thrill me like days of old
Lighting the spark of love that fills me with dreams untold
Each day I pray for evening just to be with you
Together at last at twilight time”

Those last two lines say it all. Jason, I am crazy for you. See you at five.

Apparently I’m a liar. This is highly disappointing since I tell my little children regularly that “liars live with the Devil.” And then I cackle and threaten to get them vaccinated.

My husband is big on the budget. I recently won a particularly empowering budget war and took home a cleaning lady.

A week ago she was scheduled for her big debut. After four hours pre-cleaning for the cleaning lady not a sock was out of place. I had toys and books and clothing organized, found homes for things that were still camping in boxes, and pre-spotted my kitchen floor. By the time Wednesday night rolled around I was wiped (so was my house) and ready for someone to handle all the messy work–mopping, vacuuming, bathrooms, etc.

Thursday morning I woke with giddy excitement, but ten minutes before her ETA she called in sick. It was completely deflating.

Today was her much anticipated revamped debut. I have waited with baited breath and stubbornly dirty bathrooms for over two weeks. Last night I put another two plus hours into refitting and reorganizing the flotsam and jetsam so she wouldn’t be scared off.

“Hallo!” I said, opening my door with a smile. She looked nice enough, early forties, German, over dressed. Over dressed?

I ushered her inside and we began the tour of the house. When we had finally made our way back to the kitchen I handed her my list and pointed out the supplies neatly laid out on the table.

“Oh!” she said with a little start, “No no, I can’t clean today. My daughter has a meeting at school, she told me yesterday so I can’t stay. Sorry! Next week for sure,” she said.

I closed the door as she left with a little extra force and looked around my seriously dirty house. It hasn’t seen a real mop job in I don’t know how long, the toilets are unmentionable, and I kind of wanted to cry.

To make matters worse, that meant I’d have to return the cleaning budget cash to the bank account. I’ve totally overspent this pay period (it’s called magic diet juice and was a necessary investment) and hate to think of that much needed paper fuel going to waste.

Unless…

What if I cleaned the house? I looked at my watch. Two hours before my husband’s arrival, could I really do a four hour job that fast? And what if he asked me about it? Then again, if he asked if the cleaning lady came, I could honestly smile and say, “Yep!”

And without another thought I was off. I plunged in and started at the top, squeegying my way down four floors of windows and dusting and bathrooms and mopping. I took extra care to make it look like someone far more talented than myself did the actual cleaning.

Just as I wiped down the last toilet seat Mr. Prompt walked in the front door next to the bathroom. I shut off the light, shoved my supplies into the corner and casually emerged.

“Hey baby,” he said, “Did the cleaning lady come today?”

“Mmhm.”

“So how did she do?” he asked. How did she do? What kind of question was that? I hadn’t thought that far into my deceit. That was also the moment I remembered the countless hours my man has logged practicing and learning the fine art of human lie detection.

“Oh…you know.” I said, trying to avoid outright dishonesty and jail time.

“What do you mean? Did she do a good job or didn’t she?”

“Honey, you’ve got to give these people time. A person can’t really tell anything this early on…”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, “How much did you pay this woman?”

And that’s when I knew there was no way I could look my husband in the eye and tell such a big, fat, live-with-the-Devil lie. I sat down on the bench, put my head in my hands and spilled the whole sorrid tale.

The worst part? He thinks the house looks amazing and wants to know why I don’t just do this every week. I think my sister’s mantra is right: Lying makes it worse.

Maybe I’m just tired from staying up until eleven, or maybe I’ve just got PMS (seriously, it is bad), but right now I’m kind of hating homework for parents.

Last month my son’s third grade teacher (who totally rocks, I love the woman) sent home information about a heritage project the kids were doing at school. It consisted of a hand written documented interview (for the record getting a third grader to hand write anything is kind of like going to the DMV on a Monday morning), hand drawn flags from three different countries, a hand drawn world map, plus a display and oral presentation. The display needed to include things like food from one of the cultures, an artifact or piece of clothing, etc etc.

Apparently he was supposed to do the majority of this project at home–in addition to his math homework, weekly spelling assignment (which is helpful but huge) and unfinished class work.

I. Hate. Homework.

When the original information went out I figured they were working on it at school and he’d be bringing home some of the projects, or there would be deadline reminders. And frankly, being a person who lives and dies by deadlines I hate it when my kid has one. I forgot to put it into my phone and knew the project would be due “sometime in February,” but February has a ton of days. It could have been any of them.

I haven’t heard a word from Harrison or his teacher about this &%$@ project for a month now. Because I’m not a complete slacker I went ahead and had him interview his grandmother last week and requested a ton of other information from my sister about our family, but that was all me; he hasn’t given this a fleeting thought.

So last night at six o’clock he waltzes into the kitchen and says, “Oh yeah, Mom, I hate to tell you this but my Heritage Project is due tomorrow.”

THIS IS NOT A SMALL STATEMENT. It’s also not a small project.

Let’s just say last night my kitchen was not a scream-free zone.

I don’t understand why third graders are given such a huge Mommy Motivated project. We all know who did 75% of the work on this, or at least was the only driving force behind it. He wouldn’t have known where to start with assimilating this kind of information.

I am all for teaching kids to accomplish multi-faceted interactive projects, but wouldn’t it be more helpful to set small deadlines for each of the categories? Like, interviews are due this week, or maps due next week. That way parents wouldn’t be staying up until 11:30 the night before frantically frying up Johnny Cakes and rummaging around for an old piece of cardboard.

I know I am to blame here for not checking sooner, but I do not agree with giving a third grader this kind of project without more step by step instruction. Throwing it together the night before didn’t teach the kid a darn thing, and with all the unfinished homework he brings home (that’s another story I’ll tell you later) I don’t know when he’s supposed to be a kid.

Forgive the rant, I wish this country sold Pamprin.

Is there anything worse than sitting in church and hearing a beautiful talk on family happiness that includes some prophetic quote about how you should never, ever have to raise your voice to your children or spouse for any reason whatsoever, only  to realize in that moment that you just might be screaming your way to Hell?

I got another parenting book in the mail from my mother last week, Scream Free Parenting. Haven’t cracked it yet because I’m still too busy contemplating the title. Sounds like a load of horse muffins.

On Friday we needed to leave the house to meet Jason. The kids were scattered around the upstairs engaged in a number of different mess making projects (most of which included destructive materials like scissors, make up, and discarded scrap metal).

“Kids!” I called, “We need to leave in ten minutes, I want everyone to get shoes on RIGHT NOW please! Thank you my little darlings, Mommy loves you!”

Setting the timer on my phone for ten minutes, I pulled on boots and checked my German “going out” basket to make sure it was loaded with the essentials–diapers, wipes, keys, bandaids, sandwiches from yesterday, snow shoes etc. Moving to the kitchen I gathered shoes for the baby, quickly sitting down next to her and fastening them on her chubby little feet.

I looked at my timer. Three minutes and not a single stir from the nether reaches of my home.

I headed upstairs to the family room and looked in on my kids. “Harrison, Rex, Junie Bug, seven minutes before we go. Please get your shoes and coats on right now, we have to leave!” I headed down flipping off lights along the way then quickly fixed my lipstick and grabbed a coat.

Timer check. Five minutes to go and they hadn’t moved an inch. That’s okay, I told myself, there is still plenty of time for them to get shoes on and get in the car if they come down right now.

“You guys, I’m serious. We have to leave now, please grab your shoes, I’m taking Georgia to the car. Hurry!”

I headed down to the garage and strapped the baby and my basket into the backseat, throwing the keys in the egnition and checking for my purse. Taking the stairs two at a time I entered the kitchen and looked at my phone: two minutes to departure.

There wasn’t a kid in sight. I looked around at the random shoes and coats strewn about the entry way, lazily waiting for me to do something about them already. How many times had I asked my kids to put their shoes under the bench or hang up their backpacks? How many times did a woman have to kindly speak to her children before they actually listened?

And before I knew what was happening Nice Mommy was replaced with Now I’m Going To Yell My Head off Until I Get a Little Respect Around Here Mommy. And so the thunder storm began.

By the time I’d dragged my kids from their veritable projects and verbally forced them all down the stairs and into shoes I was sweating.

“Gosh Mom,” Harrison (8) said, “You don’t have to yell at us! All you have to do is ask!!”

“Yeah, Mommy!” June said, both hands on her hips. “You don’t have to be so MEAN!”

I know many professionals who say that parents in my position just drive away and leave their kids to teach them a lesson, or they make them come without shoes and coat. Unfortunately I don’t think they would have missed me, and while the “you’re coming with or without shoes” works for some people, it’s also really annoying to take your kids out in foreign country, in January, with soggy socks on their feet.

I guess maybe it’s time to crack that book and see if scream-free parenting is myth or magic.

I’ve got a lot of experience with body talk.

Growing up with so many sisters Body Talk was everywhere. I think I spent the first 27 years of my life hating my body. It was just before Rex came along that I had this big, fabulous, epiphanepic moment where I figured out something important: my tummy fat isn’t a bad thing (although I’m happily looking forward to the day when the IRS sends me a little post c-section tucking bonus).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m vain all over and constantly trying to keep myself into a single digit size in the denim section. My romantic relationship with Sugar is comparable to that of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. We’re kind of like this, minus the excellent cleavage.

Don’t you love the look on Sugar’s face? Constantly Mocking me?

But the biggest thing I took from that experience so many years before I had a daughter was just how powerful our personal beliefs are. Whether we want them to or not, they transfer to our children, and if you’re a mother your ideas, however secretive you are about them, are especially sticky where your daughters are concerned.

So, I decided six years ago to really love my body. Yes, I love it better when it’s skinnier, but I never look in a mirror and hate myself even in my head. I might have some chubby love going on around the waistline, but I’ve also got four fabulous kids to show for it. I despise the three letter F word and do my best to keep it out of my mouth (I also feel this way about double whoppers from Burger King but fail at least once a year).

Two nights ago I turned on Armed Forces Network for the first time since living in Germany. It was bedtime and my kids were brushing their teeth (okay, Harrison was) when I happened across “Extreme Makeover Weight Loss Edition.” I love these shows. They’re as good as a Weight Watcher’s meeting or watching Richard Simmons cheerlead. Harrison loves them and begged to join me. Before long I had Harry on one side and little miss “I’m Not Sleepy” on the other.

“Mommy,” June said after a moment of watching the 600+ pound contestant weigh in. “What’s all that stuff on him?”

“Stuff?” I asked, totally confused.

“Yeah, why’s he big like that?”

Huh. My four-year-old daughter is totally clueless about fat in general. That kind of rocks.

“Well,” I said carefully, “That’s fat. He needs to lose some weight so his heart won’t have to work so hard.”

She looked at the television for a moment then pulled up her shirt and poked her belly. “Is this fat?” she asked.

And there I was, at one of the most momentous cross roads in my daughter’s life. All those years that I despised my stomach. It was my “problem area,” the place that no amount of sit ups or plank poses could our would cure. I’m barely recovering from two decades of stomach loathing and my daughter springs this on me. What to do?

So, I pulled up my shirt and poked my frighteningly white and slightly blubbery tummy. “Sure,” I said, “See? It looks just like mine!” She reached over and poked my tummy and I poked hers and we laughed. “A little fat is healthy,” I told her.  “It’s important that we eat lots of good, fresh food and drink lots of water (and Diet Coke) and play outside as much as possible so we can stay healthy.”

“Yeah,” she said. “We’re healthy girls, huh Mom?”

Of all the gifts I’ll ever give her, I hope I can endow her with the ability to love her body. I need to try a little harder and remember to love mine.