Paton Manning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I guess my blood runs blue after all.

Remember that time I dissed Paton Manning?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I guess my blood runs blue after all.

lost

I swear this is the last you’ll hear about Disneyland, but I had to save it for my column. Enjoy the anxiety.

“Is there anything worse, as a mother, than the realization that you did not prepare your child?

Our trip to Southern California a few weeks ago was loaded. I’d say it was fantastic, but I’ve got four children under the age of seven, and frankly, it was seven nap-free days of torture.

By day four we had mostly perfected our security watch. When you’re walking through a crowded amusement park with four small children who like to follow random flashing lights and pigeons, you need seventeen extra eyes to keep everyone under surveillance.

“Okay,” I said to my husband, “I’m going to get a corn dog for the six of us to share. I’ll take Junie and Georgia, and meet you back by the Tiki Room in ten minutes, and we can finish the day up with one more trip on The Jungle Ride.”

The little girls and I wound through the crowd to the much anticipated corn dog stand, loaded up (and bought an extra chocolate chip cookie just to be rebellious), and slowly made our way to the designated meeting place.

As I walked up to my husband ten minutes later, I could see by the look on his face that something was amiss in the Magic Kingdom.

“Honey,” he said, “Is Harrison with you?”

“Of course not,” I replied as my heart started to slam around in my chest.

“I hate to tell you this, and don’t freak out, but I think–”

“We’ve lost him.”

There comes a moment in every mother’s life when she realizes that as tough as this job is, she really wouldn’t sell any of her children to gypsies, given the chance. This was one of those moments.

I immediately headed straight to the nearest employee for help. It had been over ten minutes; my husband thought Harrison had followed June and me, and I had left my cell phone in the stroller so he couldn’t call and confirm.

Twelve minutes.

It’s funny, because we’d had a number of serious discussions with our children on this trip about strangers, and staying by Dad and Mom so the bad guys didn’t stuff them in bags and take them away forever. Yes, our children are now terrified of people who carry gunny sacks around.

But as I reported my missing boy–seven-years-old, blond hair, green t-shirt, smart, thoughtful, loves hugs and motorcycles and Shamu and oh my gosh, where is my baby–I realized that we hadn’t talked about what to do if someone got lost. How could we forget the if? Why did we think that the two of us could possibly keep them all safe?

Fifteen minutes.

I know that children who are lost at Disneyland are always found. I know that the park is full of responsible adults who know just what to do with a little boy who followed the wrong pair of Levi’s. But when the clock hit fifteen minutes, I began to think that maybe, for the first time, the system was going to let some poor mother down. That mother was going to be me.

And then the phone rang.

My strong, smart boy, had made his way to The Jungle Ride, where he thought we were headed. He waited, and as his panic grew, he started to cry. Some other wonderful mother found him and gave him her cell phone. That was when he called me.

All those little trips in the car when we sang the phone number song, just in case someone ever needed to call Mom or Dad, finally paid off. We might have forgotten to have the, “Let’s meet at the flagpole,” conversation, but somewhere along the line, I gave him what he needed to find his way back.

We can’t prepare our children for every possible dilemma, and that’s a scary thought. But at the same time, we’ll never know how many catastrophes they’ll avoid, or how many life altering mishaps will never come to pass because, as parents, we took the time to give them our best.

Sometimes that’s all we can do.”

mommy revenge

So when we were at Disneyland, we had the chance to grab a photo op with Chip and Dale. As we turned to leave, Rex shouted out, “By Chicken! By Dale!” Get it? They thought it was hilarious.

Last week I was wiping June after a #2 and praising her for her toilet talent. “Sweetheart, I love that you poo poo on the potty,” I said.

She smiled, “And my poo poo loves you, Mommy.”

Lastly, I try to keep stashes of candy around this place for good behavior rewards. I also keep sugar-free candy for myself so I don’t catch low carb insanity. But no matter how hard I try to hide it, someone always finds it.

That someone is three and female and has a radar for chocolate like nothing you’ve ever seen.

So you will understand why, as I was cleaning behind the recliner yesterday, I happened upon something that made my entire week. It was a large chicken bouillon cube, unwrapped, with a big bite taken out of it.

I just might have cackled like the wicked witch of the west. That’s what you get for getting into my candy, my pretty.

Baby makes three, and that’s not usually the best number

We’re coming up on twelve years of marriage, and I’ve been popping out kids for the last eight of them. It won’t be hard to convince you that this kind of recreation (not that kind) puts a serious strain on Dr. Love.

The reality of our situation is simple. Yes, we do regular date nights. Of course, they’re always timed because The Budget doesn’t allot for more than two hours of babysitting, and our little GG always accompanies us because nothing tastes quite like Mama, and Mama suffers from a closet case of separation anxiety.

So when Jason asks me when or if I’m planning to wean the baby so we can “take that trip” before the big move, I get a panic attack. Wean the baby? My last baby? My best nurser, who loves me more than anyone else in the entire world? Leave her for four days with a stranger???

I love him. He’s the king, my best friend who spoils me, and helps out around the house better than a Disneyland employee. Of course I want to run away forever and enjoy days and days of QNT.

But the baby. My baby. Did I mention that she snuggles and hugs me tight all the time? Did I mention that she’s only six months old, and that even when she’s ten months old it’s probably going to be too soon?

I know our window here is closing fast. In four and a half months we’ll be jumping the pond and leaving our support system behind–support that the children know and love and are related to. I feel horribly torn. It’s not even that I need the getaway from the kids right now, it’s that I need the reconnect time with my man.

But I can’t seem to wrench this mommy cap off my head long enough to shake out my hair and have a little fun.

There really is no happy answer. We can’t take her with us, it would defeat the purpose. I don’t know. Ask me in three months.

vacation money, or the lack thereof

Here’s this week’s column. I’m guess we’ve all been here at one time or another.

“I have one more thing to say about last week’s “vacation”. Other words to describe those eternal seven days of my life might include “mobile prison” and “meltdown time bomb”. We will never, ever, take a toddler to Disneyland ever again.

But the thing that really made my week irritating was the money issue. Some of you might remember that a few years back Mr. Frugal and I converted to the Dave Ramsey way of thinking. It’s a financial debt reduction program that brings peace and happiness to your credit score. It’s been a few years, and the pinch has really paid off. We are now responsible, mostly debt-free adults who know how to be money healthy.

We’re also no fun anymore.

See, Dave’s financial debt reduction method includes mantras like, “Never have fun if it involves money”, and “Hi, I’m Annie’s husband. You might know Scrooge, my generous older brother.” My husband is now very good with money. Darn it.

Here’s the thing about a vacation to Disneyland. You save and save and save for the tickets, and you think it’s going to be the best reward in the world . And yes, getting into the park is a treat. Standing in line for Peter Pan is a treat. Doing the Buzz Lightyear ride seven times in a row is a treat.

But frankly, that just doesn’t cut it. We have four small children who do things like, oh, I don’t know, eat.

Our big problem this vacation was colossal miscommunication. I thought we were buying our food in the park, and he thought we’d live on one meal a day, supplemented by following the mouse around and nibbling on his leftover churro crumbs. We were there from open to close, with one meal to hold us over. Seriously.

Have you ever seen what happens to four children when they’re tired and hungry? Even worse, have you seen what happens to their mother? I don’t know about you, but splitting an ice cream six ways is no fun.

Day two, I got a little smarter and stopped ahead of time to get cheese and crackers and strawberries. And while this was a good idea, I couldn’t help feeling irritated that there wasn’t a single penny alloted for Park Fun. We didn’t even let our kids get within ten feet of the souvenir shop doors. It was smart, but they were sad. I was sad.

My poor husband, really the man had the best intentions. Unfortunately for both of us, we didn’t talk about this elephant until the last day of our vacation. I was really fed up and really underfed by that point, so I kind of growled all over him. Of course, it was all too late to rectify the issue, so we kissed and made up.

And next time, we will budget accordingly. It will include sufficient money for food.”

just don’t tell

Well, now that this karate saga is finally closed, I am happy to report that Rex has started in a new class called Motion Evolution at the Bravo! academy here in Layton. It’s climbing and tumbling and fun, and the goal is to help children build self-esteem through movement. It’s like the class was specifically designed with Rex in mind.

When I started him in the class two weeks ago, I made a quick decision to NOT tell his teacher about his anxiety. In hindsight, I think talking to the Sensei about him ahead of time made her a little prejudiced towards him. Prejudiced might not be the right word. Maybe it just tainted the water, you know?

So this time when I introduced him to his teacher, I decided at the last minute to let him have a go and see how he did before burdening her with that kind of information. What’s the worst that could happen, he wigged out and I had to ‘splain myself?

I don’t know if it was the weather or the teacher or what, but the kid totally rocked his new class. He listened, he waited his turn, and he absolutely loved it. There’s no doubt that karate is too rigid for him right now, and seeing him in an environment where the teacher encourages them to have a great time has brought me so much peace.

I guess what I’m saying here is that there’s nothing wrong with switching gears. Sure, we don’t want our children to feel like a failure by pulling them out of something, but we also don’t want them stuck in a program that doesn’t feel right.

In the future, we’re starting every  new venture with a two month reevaluation date for our kids. We’re telling them right from go, at eight weeks, if it isn’t a good fit, we’ll try something else.

And I don’t think I’ll mention Rex’s problems until they need to be talked about. He’s doing better every day, and I don’t want him to think that this is something he can’t overcome on his own with practice and maturity. I think the best thing I can do for him right now is have confidence in him. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.

 

flu and other thrilling news

We officially have the super flu. Remember the colds and ear infections my girls have been fighting this last week? They have now morphed into the throw-ups, and from what I hear we’re not alone. Poor Jason, he’s got it as well. Of course, it didn’t keep him from going to work and infecting the rest of the world, but we all know that’s completely out of my control.

Due to said sickness, Georgia is having a Hold Me Baby Day. I can’t even put her in the sling, she wants me to sit and hold her while she tries to breath through her sadly congested nose. And I don’t care what the doctors all say, I miss the good old days of infant Rondec and other decongestant medications. They keep telling me that “those drugs never really worked” and “saline is the best method”.

Let me tell you right now, they totally worked on my babies. This saline solution, snot sucking crap is just not cutting it. Give me a good prescription strength cold medicine that can help her sleep and eat without a steady diet of mucus running out her nose and down her throat and we’ll all be a little happier.

On a less ill note, my children are insanely happy to be home, and I couldn’t agree more. The hum of my dryer and a little PBS kids in the back ground this morning is like music to my vacationed-out ears.

And now for my best news, we found a home in Germany! Apparently, they’re closing down a number of overseas bases and sending more people to Ramstein. This means there’s a current shortage of 4-5 bedroom homes. We’ve heard of families spending 2-3 months in temporary housing before settling on something.

We fly out July 18th and the family currently living there leaves a week later. After getting two totally random recommendations for this exact same house from two unrelated individuals, it feels pretty obvious that Heavenly Father is handing us something and we’d be idiots not to take it. Sight unseen isn’t that big of a deal when you’ve got faith on your side, right?

 

 

Magic?

Here’s this week’s column, old news to most of us.

“So we’re taking the kiddo’s to Disneyland. To be honest, the man and I have been far more excited about our “surprise” trip than I could have imagined. Who knew rodents dressed up in polyester had so much appeal?

Being the creative geniuses that we are, we decided to copy the commercials and surprise the children. Thanks to a call from “Mickey”, aka my part ventriloquist brother-in-law, the kids believe we’ve been personally invited. They also think the mouse is paying.

Stupid, rich little rat.

We packed up the car and kids yesterday, determined to make this the Best Road Trip Ever. Taking a cue from my mother, I brought along coloring pages, cheese sticks, a communal water jug, a Grab Bag filled with good behavior toys and doo dads, and seventeen pounds of candy.

What could go wrong?

Ten minutes down the road my kids were singing Kumbaya and sharing Skittles. Forty minutes down the road they were singing Ninety Nine Bottles of Beer and hoarding their Skittles. An hour into the trip, no one was singing and they were trying to shove Skittles up each other’s noses. Oh yeah, Mickey would totally love that.

By the time we hit Nephi we had stopped twice at Walmart, three times at public restrooms (two were dry wolf cries), and once at the orphanage in case anyone wanted to get out (okay, the orphanage bit was just in my mind, but it was a serious consideration).

And then we hit the snow storm.

Here’s the thing about snow. When you’re in love and tucked away in a cabin in the woods, it’s romantic and inspiring. When you’re trapped in the car, 22 miles from the nearest exit, with two kids who have to pee, it’s, well, kind of like Hell, frozen over.

We stopped at St. George to hole up for the night and stretch our legs, then packed the kids back into the car bright and early the next morning.

Cue sick child.

Our three-year-old had spent the previous afternoon coughing and sniffing and complaining of an ear ache. I gave her the suggested doses of the appropriate drugs, and we all prayed her ear would get well in time to see Cinderella.

I don’t know if she stuck a skittle in there or what, but by the time we were three hours into  day two of The Best Road Trip Ever, she was hurting something fierce.

Cue the Mojave Desert.

When a woman brings a child into this world, the doctor secretly plants a Freak Out chip in her brain that can be triggered by things like short sleeves in winter, toilet lids left upright, and a lack of pediatricians in the desert.

By the time the afternoon hit, my panic level was through the roof. We were hours from our destination and neither of us have a smart phone (aka a cell phone with magical powers that can call down the host of Heaven while ordering pizza). HOW CAN I SAVE MY CHILD AND FIND A DOCTOR WITHOUT A SMART PHONE?

We secured an address, made like the wind, and tried to get to the doctor before closing. As luck would have it, we missed the clinic by two minutes. That’s right, no matter how cute my snot crusted little dumpling was, they weren’t about to bust open those doors on a Sunday evening. I’d like to blame them, but really I can’t.

By the time we rolled into Carlsbad our children were passed out in the backseat, the baby was tired of her plastic prison, and I needed a vacation to get myself revved up for the vacation.

That was four hours ago.

But, tucking those little darlings into their beds, with whispers of tomorrow floating through the air, I can’t help feeling like maybe, just maybe, there’s going to be a little magic left for us tomorrow. Well, first a doctor’s appointment, but after that, definitely magic.”

I would rather choke on a pair of Minnie Mouse ears…

Please don’t make me go back there tomorrow. No seriously, my feet and I just can’t take it.

Why, oh why, am I the vainest person in Southern California? And why, oh why, can’t I just suck it up and buy a pair of tennis shoes?

I have recently realized that I don’t own flat shoes. After raiding my shoe trunks, it’s apparent that a two inch lift is as short as I get, and that’s including a run to the mailbox and early morning car pool treks.

So, in preparation for this vacation, I went out and bought myself three new pairs of flats so I’d have a decent variety of footwear, just in case anyone at Disneyland noticed I was wearing the same shoes two days in a row. And yes, this takes personal vanity to a whole new level for me.

Not only are my feet crying, but my children have joined the chorus. On the haul to California, it became apparent that we had two budding ear infections in the girls. Yes, we’ve had them seen and purchased the appropriate medication, and yes, they’re grumpy and sleepy and just want to go home. They really didn’t need the vacation from their nap schedules right now, but what can we do?

On the plus side, my dear friend Becca suggested we head straight over to City Hall and ask for help with Rex. You all know about his anxiety, and standing in line for hours isn’t the best thing for a kid who gets antsy and nervous. Our therapist concurred, so I went to the cast member on duty and asked if she had any suggestions for helping him in case he freaked out.

Not only were they happy to help us out, but we got the Disneyland Golden Ticket: a pass for six that allows us to go through the handicapped entrance so Rex doesn’t end up in the fetal position halfway through the Peter Pan line.

The eliminated wait time has been so refreshing that I never want to come to Disneyland without a handicapped person again. It’s been the silver lining to all the sickness and aching feet. Also, my sister has requested that Rex accompany them next time they attend as well, cause he’s just so fun.

 

Em Eye See…

We are going to Disneyland!! RIGHT NOW!!!!

Jason and I have been planning a surprise trip for our kidlets and we left on Saturday. As you read this, we’re on the road to Anaheim, heading to see The Mouse.

We (I) sent the kids on a scavenger hunt all over the house Saturday morning and it ended in the Charity Ball Jar. Remember back when I told you our theme this year was Charity Makes Me Happy? Well, we started a jar (per someone’s suggestion) and have been trying to fill it with kindness inspired colored balls in order to “earn” a previously paid for vacation to Disneyland (the kids thought it was St. George).

I’ll be honest, the past week Jason and I have been shoving handfuls of balls in that stupid jar when the kids aren’t looking, just to hit the fill line in time and save us from looking like liars (which we obviously are).

So, when the last clue sent the kids to the jar, they found a phone number inside. Ten digits later, they got Mickey himself (also known as my ridiculously talented bro-in-law Jake who agreed to play said part). He invited them to Disneyland and they said yes. To be honest, there was a moment there when we thought they were going to turn him down for St. George, but it all came out right in the end.

And so, after two days of Hell in the car, we’re now, officially, headed to Main Street. I absolutely can’t wait.

(Also, the kids think Mickey paid for the trip. Stupid mouse, taking all the credit.)

Saving my boy

Here’s this week’s column, brought to you with all the passion I’ve got in my pent-up mommy account.

“There comes a time in every mother bear’s life when she has to ask herself: Do I fish him out of the river, or stand back and watch him choke?

I, for one, am done with the choking.

Two months ago my husband, our therapist and I enrolled my five-year-old, Rex, in a begginer Karate class. He’s young for his age, distractable, and adorably enthusiastic. But the class was for ages 3-5, how bad could he be?

His first class was positively painful to watch. All that pent up anxious enthusiasm led to goofy, non-Karate acrobatics and absent minded summersaults. But, by the end of his 30-minute class, I could see a definite improvement.

The second class was slightly less painful, with a measurable amount of progress. I was impressed. This was a brand new adventure for him, and he was starting to get it.

Then the third class came along. Unfortunately, the head Sensei lady stood in as a class substitute. She’s your typical Type A personality, perfect for running a tight Karate operation. Not so perfect for little boys who are just trying to figure things out.

Having missed Rex’s earlier performances, she didn’t realize that what she saw was improvement. It might have been small, but it was only his third class. At the end of session, she “invited” us to enroll him in private lessons. There was no other option.

Ouch.

Being the non-confrontational person that I’d like to pretend I am, I held my piece and went along with Dad, who immediately jumped on board. Hey, we want our kid to succeed, if a few private lessons are going to help him, we’ll fork over the extra cash and play ball.

I’d like to tell you that watching my boy giving his heart to this woman has brought me joy and happiness. Instead, what I’ve been seeing this past month is a lady who doesn’t like my kid. He tries harder to obey her than I’ve ever seen him try at anything, yet I can feel her palpable dislike for him. And I don’t care what anyone says, you know when someone doesn’t like your child. It shows.

So, per her suggestion, I dropped him off alone last Thursday for his private lesson. He was scheduled to work with the Sensei from 5:00 to 5:30. At 5:28 when my husband walked in, my child was still sitting quietly by the door, looking out the window. She’d “gotten busy,” “other people needed her at the front desk,” and “we just started a few minutes late.”

Right. Because ignoring him for half an hour is totally acceptable. Hey, as long as his overbearing mother isn’t around, why should she give the kid any attention?

After his lesson (which I watched quietly from around the corner, and which he totally rocked) I took her aside to get a read on his improvement.

“Hey Sensei, so how is Rex doing? We’re anxious to help him get back into his class, just wondering what your thoughts are.”

“Oh,” she said, “Well, I don’t think that will be happening any time soon. He’ll need two, probably three more months before we even consider moving him back into a class.”

At that moment, after watching her impose her hard-core techniques on him for the past month (techniques that our therapist was slightly alarmed by), I knew it was time to fire the Sensei.

A karate chop to the throat also crossed my mind.

There are moments in life when a mother has to do what’s best for her child. Sometimes, doing what’s best means helping them pick up the pieces of life’s learning experiences and setting them back on their feet. But sometimes it means kicking the Karate teacher’s trash all the way back to Hong Kong.”

Rocking the center piece

With two days left to tie up all the last minute wedding details I’ve invented, things are a little nutso around here. The past three weeks have been delightfully insane. They’ve included multiple coupons for JoAnn’s and Michael’s, power tools, favor call-in’s, hot glue guns, and enough spray paint to make Al Gore cry real tears.

All in all, it’s been one of the greatest creative outlets I’ve found to date. In my next life, I’m going to be a wedding planner.

To give you a little glimpse into the insanity, I’ve decided to post a step by step look at the creation of the center pieces. I’ve made 11 of these babies, and it all started with a tree.

This one lives in my front yard.

I headed out, big fat cutters in hand, and trimmed off a substantial bushel of branches to take back to the kitchen, where I cleaned them up. Don’t they look inspiring.

Then I took these flowers from the dollar section and popped the heads off. I pulled out the Burn Man and hot glued them in no apparent order on a few select branches. Cue ambulance.

Here’s where I got really tricky. With a little help from my favorite spray gun and Walmart’s Hi-Ho Silver spray paint, I found the perfect balance of early spring silver buds. Watch.

Pretty, right? At this point I went out to our very small wood pile in the garage and rummaged around. I found a few uncut logs, took them to my wonderful neighbor guy who’s retired with a saw, and had him cut them into stumps. To make a long story short, we drilled holes in the top, wove our magic wands over them, and presto! Really cool center pieces.

I did the math, each of these girls cost us (DeNae) right around $12, minus 7 years off my life for power tool PTSD. But really, so worth the sacrifice in the end. (They’re so lovely in person, the red table cloth doesn’t do them any favors.)

And BTW, if you’re available this Friday morning and March 3rd and would be willing to help, please email me at regardingannie@gmail.com. I could use a few more girls who Like To Do Wedding Crap to help with setup since I’ll be gone on the big day. (Barbaloot, your email address apparently hates me. Will you give me a holler?)

It’s going to be fabulous.

Best. Weekend. Ever.

I would love to start out with something witty and enlightening, but I used my funny all up this weekend with my sisters.

Holy crap we had so much fun.

Each year, my mother and two of my older sisters and I get together for a weekend getaway in February. We leave hearth and home behind and meet up for three days of Old Country Buffets and Ross marathons.

This year our mama was particularly festive, she went so far as to bring a Grab Bag filled with  mostly cheap prizes that could be earned with good behavior, coke-through-the-nose jokes (cttn is the new lol), or willingness to try on particularly unattractive clothing (or prom dresses).

Here I am working on my “second chance prom” look. We might or might not have brought in the janitor to help zip me into this dress. And yes, I’ve got all my undergarments tucked away under my armpits. They were kind of ruining the picture.

We took Georgia with us and she was an absolute angel. Minus the time she “got violent” and attacked my mother with kicking and headbutting because I took off to the hot tub without her. Apparently her finely tuned smelling skills told her that lunch had left the building.

All in all, it was an absolutely amazing weeked. I fly home tonight and can’t wait to hug and squeeze my babies and their father. There’s nothing like a few days away to make me conveniently forget all the puking and the biting. Get ready because Mama’s coming home tonight!

PS – Vanessa named me her Monday. Swing over and take a peek, if you’d like.

Just another nonproductive outburst

Here’s this week’s column for The Standard and Vidette. Honestly, I am a such a work in progress (minus the progress).

“It’s a funny thing about New Year’s Resolutions; now that we’re in February, I can think of twenty that should have made the list.

Last weekend my husband and I headed out to run a few errands. This is something he does because it’s his responsibility; I tag along because it means he’s trapped in the car with me and can’t escape. Usually this works to my advantage. Usually.

“So,” he said as we pulled out, “I really think we need to talk about something.” In my marriage, this is never a good start. There I was, all snuggled up next to him with Karen Carpenter crooning away in the background, and he had to go ruin it with a Something conversation.

“What is it this time?” I asked.

Here’s the thing about “Things We Might Disagree On”. These conversations need to happen. They have to happen. If we don’t talk about them eventually, nothing good will ever happen. Also, I hate them.

In his typical, calm, adult manner, he addressed our current hot topic. It took about 13 seconds for me to raise my voice.

“Honey,” he said, interrupting me, “Can’t we talk about this like normal adults?”

“I am talking like an adult! All adults talk like this!!” I said.

“Okay, can’t we talk about this without yelling?”

“I am not yelling! Believe me buddy, you’d know if I were yelling!!”

“Really? Because it kind of sounds like you’re yelling. Perhaps you could just bring your volume–”

“What’s the matter with my volume? I’m a passionate woman! You’ve been married to me for eleven years, this really shouldn’t be such a surprise, especially since we’ve talked about my volume 4000 times!”

“I’d just like to have a civil, quiet conversation without you getting all excitable.  If you’d just learn–”

“Learn? LEARN?? I’ll never learn! Haven’t you figured that out about me by now? This is who I am, and I am excitable! Just because I’m passionate does not make me bad, I like to speak with conviction! If you didn’t like it, you shouldn’t have married me!” Probably not the best moment to remind him of that decision.

Now, this last statement was said with something a little stronger than your typical “conviction”. Words to describe my actual tone might be more along the lines of “hysterical”, or “extremely loud”, or even “good golly can’t I drop her off by the side of the road?”

The worst part of this rather unpleasant conversation was that up to this point, we hadn’t even begun to talk about the actual issue because we were so busy arguing about how to talk about the issue.

Lucky for my husband, it was right about then that we reached our first destination. I threw open my door, barreled out of the car and slammed it passionately behind me. He locked it.

Being the overly excitable soul that I am, there’s nothing better for my excessive zest than a cold walk in the winter air. Something about all that silence made me realize that perhaps, just maybe, he had a really good point.

Just because my natural inclination spurs me to react with fervor doesn’t mean fervor is always right. There’s a time and a place for every emotion, perhaps it’s time for me to cut back a little on the fervor? Was he really asking that much of me? To talk in a nicer voice?

I was back at the car five minutes later, feeling much more subdued and not a little chagrinned at my rather zesty outburst.

I knocked on the window and he grudgingly unlocked the door. I climbed in and looked at him.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?” he said.

“You’re right. I need to chill out and speak in a calm, adult manner.”

“Honey–”

“No, let me finish. I’ve decided to make it my New Year’s Resolution–” he’s heard this phrase 19 times in the past two months “–and I can change, I can be…vanilla. I will learn how to talk like a reasonable person, even when I’m upset. Now, what is it you were saying?”

It’s amazing what a little dose of discipline will do for a girl. Would you believe we went on to finish our discussion and still wanted to hold hands when we were done? Now that is progress.