Regarding Annie

As we were sitting on a cruise ship just outside of Barcelona, six days into our epic spring adventure, I was wondering why we ever left home.

I should have known things weren’t looking good on our first night. One of the big problems with car trips is my unquenchable urge to pack junk food. I hate it, I shouldn’t do it, none of us need it. But all that food I try so hard to keep out of the kitchen during real life finds its way into the backseat and we spend the entire ride passing around peanut butter cups and potato chips and Coke Light and Capri Suns.

We planned to take our spoiled little darlings to Disneyland, Paris for a few days of wet, slushy outdoor fun. I suppose that’s what you get — precipitation — when you book amusement park tickets for the cheapest week of the year.

I don’t know what it is about large, rewarding events like a trip to the Mouse House that make all my children act so horrible. We like to think that they are frequently obedient and mostly respectful little creatures who know that their parents follow through on threats and blessings alike.

We like our kids to play sports.

Don’t get me wrong, I do not aspire to the soccer mom status. I like to wear inappropriate heels to athletic functions and read my book when my kid is off the field.

Soccer and baseball are usually painful seasons for me because I know there is no way to avoid taking up residence on the sidelines. This probably makes me a mostly awful parent.

Around here we — meaning I — do a couple of things to welcome in the new year (besides fireworks which were awesome this year).

Last year, I came up with a family word for the year. Since my short term memory isn’t so good at retaining and applying specific goals I thought a word might be easier.

My stipulations for our family word are simple: Will it help us be better and get back to Heaven? Is it universal enough that I can yell it at the kids in almost any situation?

I have four children. Now I admit whole-heartedly that if it wasn’t for my broken back and all the kidney problems during pregnancy, I would probably have at least two more.

Not because I can handle them but because I love babies.

I like children. I love babies. Sweet, snuggly, carryable babies who don’t say anything and think gazing into your eyes while you feed them is a good way to spend an afternoon. They’re great for keeping warm at football games and provide a built in escape from boring social situations.

It’s Christmastime and I would be lying if I said we didn’t miss our families. We will have turkey with all the fixings for Christmas, but let’s face it, the birds are more tender in America. According to my mother, this is because they “let them walk around too much” over here in Germany.

I know what you’re thinking, but one little comment from her and German chicken has never tasted the same. Ever since her first encounter with cooked white meat I judge everything fowl, fact or fiction.

Sometimes I look around me at all the techno paraphernalia we carry everywhere and wonder what in the world happened to all those old rotary phones. It feels like I’ve seen mountains of change in my 3 1/2 measly decades.

Then my father comes into the kitchen and starts throwing around stories about the old foot bridge on the farm, and the year they got electricity. My favorite is when he references his childhood wardrobe with “two pairs of pants and two shirts because that’s really all anybody ever needs.”

Judging by my laundry pile I think they were onto something.