Veritably Bare

Six Months

2011-10-13T21:48:00.004-05:00

Apparently, on the night Ollie was injured, I wrote a blog post. The intro said that it would be posting two weeks after I wrote it so that I could have time to notify all the necessary parties and talk with him before it hit the public internets. I don't remember writing this. Obviously it wasn't finished, since I quit mid-sentence. Maybe I realized that I could sleep at that moment and I walked away and went to bed. I don't remember much about that night. Discovering the draft of this kind of felt like a gift and kinda punched me right in the gut. I cannot believe how far he's come so fast, or how instantly our lives changed, or how quickly this has passed.

The six month mark has hit me harder than I expected.

Here is what I wrote that night, about 7 hours after the call:

I received a call this evening that my husband was seriously injured. His injuries are to his lower extremities. They informed me that tourniquets were applied and he was medevaced to the closest FOB. They gave me a phone number for casualty affairs, the people responsible for tracking the wounded. The Rear D Commander is the one who called me and I asked if his wife was available. He let me know that she was already on the way. Immediately after we hung up, she was at my door. I was grateful because I needed her to help get the kids in bed.

I called the number and they had no new information about my husband. I sat in my room for a while. I think I made phone calls. I regretted not filling the xanax prescription I got yesterday. When I was composed, I came out of my room and gave all the kids ice cream. We managed to get them to bed on time, although Birch knew that something was wrong. She asked if another soldier was hurt and I said yes, and I would give her more information when I found out. I did not tell her it was her Daddy.

Eventually I spoke with the CA person who informed me that Soldier Boy has had his left leg amputated below the knee and that his right leg is stabilized. They said he is in stable condition but intubated because he is sedated. His condition is now VSI.

I called his mother and told her the news and then hung up. For a while I laid on the floor sobbing, while my friend held me.

I feel like an insane person.

I am not sure if he has been conscious since the incident. I don't know whether he sustained other injuries. He has a neck brace but the CA guy said it was a precaution because of the sedation.

They won't have more information for me for 8 hours.

I am certain that he will no longer be able to attend the physician's assistant school as planned.

I am angry.

I am scared.

No, make that terrified.

And I will be carrying the whole family and holding us together for quite some time.

For this moment I am tired and maybe I will go to sleep. Or maybe I will lay in bed wondering what it will be like to lay in bed with my husband again. Or maybe I will lay there just

32.5

2011-10-12T09:34:00.002-05:00

Six months ago I woke up to the last "normal" day of my life.

It was my birthday and I waited all day for a call from my husband that didn't come.

I bought new clothes and some sexy, high-heeled sandals.

10 miles

2011-10-06T12:12:00.003-05:00

Yesterday I joined my husband for a 10 mile bike ride. He has been going weekly, riding a recumbent arm bike and has done 35 miles in a day before. I was pretty smoked after 10, but it was a good time.

Near the end, we left post through a gate I'm very familiar with. The road cuts through a veterans' cemetery with countless proud, white headstones. Funerals are held almost daily. While we were riding by, I looked over and saw a small procession of vehicles in the graveyard and a family gathered under a shelter. You can generally tell the age of the deceased by the size of the procession. This was probably an elderly person who served in one of our prior conflicts.

Once again I was reminded of how glad I was to be outside that black fence and not standing on the inside.

Rest in peace, nameless veteran, and thank you for your service to our nation.

I still have filters.

2011-10-06T08:41:00.003-05:00

My abilities to filter my speech and to endure bullshit have been extremely diminished over the last 6 months. I'm not exactly rude, but I have no time for dancing around subjects when I'm dealing with people. Like the lady at Dairy Queen. Blunt. Somewhat inappropriate. And generally not giving a shit as long as I accomplish my intended purpose.

Aside: Before he got hurt, I rarely asked businesses about military discounts. If it wasn't publicly posted, I let it go. Now, though, I want my husband to know just how many people and businesses care about him and appreciate what he's done. I couldn't care less if we save $2 at Dairy Queen.

Anyway, I still have a few filters left. This is a good thing. Instead of saying things out loud, I will share some of my mental conversations with you here.

To the woman who lives on the second floor and carried her furniture up the stairs to her apartment:

I understand that you have a handicap placard and I also understand that there are invisible disabilities. I also understand, however, that the only fucking advantage for parking in those spots in front of our building is the ramp. Oh, and the little extra space to get the wheelchair out of the car. Really, it's about the space at this point. But you repeatedly choose to park in the handicap spot that is FURTHER AWAY from the building entrance because you have that little fucking placard and by god you're entitled to park there. You've stared at my husband, stood outside my bedroom window at night yelling up the stairs to your partner, and swiped the spot while he was sitting there waiting for me to pick him up. I don't know what your fucking problem is, but you're a sad, pitiful, ugly excuse for a human being. At this point, I'm going to stop fighting you for the space. I will leave it open for you, because if you can stare down a one legged man in a wheelchair as you park in the space and then run up the stairs, you obviously need it more than us.

To the other people in our apartment building who have handicap placards:

Again, I understand that there are invisible disabilities. However (HUGE FUCKING COMMA) there is absolutely no advantage to parking in the handicap spots unless you need a ramp or space for a wheelchair. Since one of you walks over a mile to work every day (sometimes leaving your car in the handicap space when you go) and the others of you walk the entire apartment property daily for exercise, you don't fucking need it. I do appreciate that you try to leave one space open for us, but obviously we can't use it because of the bitch on the second floor.

I'm not going to argue whether you are disabled and deserve the placard. I don't know your issues. But my husband obviously has the greatest need and common damn courtesy would dictate that you let him have the fucking space.

To the lady who was waving her arms around like a maniac behind me when I was going one mile below the speed limit for about a hundred yards on post:

I'm sorry I didn't speed up as quickly as you wanted me to. In case you were wondering, I was suddenly overwhelmed with wondering what my husband's screams were like when he saw the blood gushing out of his stump after he was blown up. I fell in a mental hole for a minute. Forgive me.

To the PT student who sometimes helps out my husband:

Quick fucking flexing everywhere. This is not about you. Shut up and listen and stop fucking preening.

To the air force medical student in the commissary who walked the entire store talking loudly on his cell phone:

No one is impressed by you. Medical MOS basic training does not make you a bad ass. And about how when you deploy, you'll stay on a FOB because you're not dumb enough to have an MOS that takes you outside the wire makes me want to punch you in the face. You're making an ass of yourself in front of WWII, Korea, Vietnam, Desert Storm, OIF and OEF veterans. You have not earned anything yet, so hang up the phone and shut your mouth before you embarrass yourself any more. And even if you do luck out and stay on a FOB if you eventually deploy, you're going to be treating men and women who have the guts to leave it. You would do well to stop thinking of them as stupid and give them the respect they deserve. One day you may earn respect as well, but you haven't yet. So save your phone conversations with your mama or your girlfriend or your kid sister for when you're not in public. They're the only ones who are impressed with your AIT stories anyway.

Holy crap it felt good to let that go. I'm glad I have some filters left or I might end up in some altercations. Anybody wanna bail me out?

No, but he got his leg blown off in Afghanistan. Does that count?

2011-10-03T22:30:00.002-05:00

Blink.

Blink.

"Let me check."

So it turns out that getting your leg blown off in Afghanistan is, indeed, worthy of a 10% military discount at Dairy Queen, even if you aren't "in uniform.... you know, like wearing an Army jacket or something?"

FYI.

Life is Funny. Kind of.

2011-07-20T09:58:00.003-05:00

This morning I found myself walking out to the van toting a leg. It wasn't until I tucked it snugly into the back there that I remembered how my old self would have thought that was a funny, albeit tragic, sight. Until that moment of reflection, it was neither funny nor tragic, it was normal.

How far we have come in such a short period of time. I remember the first day he left the hospital and we wheeled him out to the truck. I couldn't figure out how to fold up his chair. It took a good ten minutes after enlisting Birch's help before we got the thing folded. I heaved it up into the back of our rented SUV... and it didn't fit. I stood there for a few minutes, playing Tetris in my head, moving things around. Finally, the door was able to shut as the chair lay awkwardly on its side and propped up on one end by the baby strollers. I felt victorious and completely overwhelmed at the same time. Wheelchair wrestling in 100+ degree temps is not a sport I ever wanted to take up.

And yet, here we are. Putting the wheelchair in is second nature. It is no longer so awkward or heavy to lift, it has its own spot in the van, I know how its attachments work and where to store them. It's normal.

Most of the time I am really alright with this version of normal. The schedule is daunting (his medical appointments and physical therapy are his job--if he misses them, he faces Article 15s and/or losing rank). I have to make sure he is at each one, on time, with whatever he needs to take. As he has been healing and he is able to take more responsibility for himself, it has gotten much easier. I am used to being the only driver. There are days that I get overwhelmed and feel sorry for myself, but watching him face his own struggle with courage and grace generally snaps me out of my funk.

But.

When I see artifacts of the old normal, the world trembles and threatens to take me down. Sometimes just talking with friends back at Knox unexpectedly shakes my grip. Not the ones I've stayed in contact with, but the ones I associate only with "Before." Before is a place I don't want to think about. I saw pictures today from the deployment--from Before. I don't dwell on what we lost, so when I come face to face with it, it knocks the wind out of me. And then I think of our friends who are still in the fight, and the others who have been injured or killed... This has been a terrible deployment for our unit. It is barely half over.

Today I go to the GYN to figure out the plan for my highly squamousy cervix. My care at the hospital at Knox was completely unsatisfactory. I am definitely going to need surgery and I am going to try to convince them to take the whole damn thing this time so we can quit stretching out this whole stupid process. If I am going to have a 6 week recovery from surgery, let's make it worth it. Scheduling surgery for me in between all of SB's appointments and lifting his wheelchair and packing up the house at Knox and moving our things and getting the kids enrolled in school and whatnot is going to be a blasty blast. Finding someone to come take care of us for a while is going to be awesome, too.

I'm a little stressed out and sad today.

84 Days

2011-07-09T09:16:00.003-05:00

I just shared this on Facebook, and thought ya'll might like it too:

84 days after my husband was blown up, 60 days of inpatient stays in 3 different Army hospitals, 20 units of blood transfused, 19 pins/screws in his leg, at least 15 surgeries..... here he is, standing (balancing, even) on 2 legs. Take that, Taliban.

He's a fucking badass and I am so incredibly proud of him. That cage on his right foot? HURTS. He could have chosen to lay in bed longer. No one would have blamed him. But he didn't--he got up and walked on the damn thing.

"Do we need to call an EMT?"*

2011-07-08T08:01:00.004-05:00

*Best if read with your best southern gay male impersonation. (Not that there's anything wrong with that, my brothers and some of my best friends are gay southern males.)

We were flying into Baltimore to meet my husband at Walter Reed. My friend, who is a 19 year old firecracker going through her second deployment, was napping beside me. Her husband was with Soldier Boy and helped pull him from the truck after the blast. She flew from her parents' home in Florida the day after SB was hurt and spent a month with us. Because it's funny, we shall refer to her as Ms. Spears.

At some other time I might let you know about the insanity of the 24 hours before that flight, but suffice it to say that at 3:00 in the morning we still didn't know whether we were boarding a plane for DC or San Antonio. Our flight was leaving at 6:00. It was pretty dern awesome.

My emotions had been mostly in check for the few days between when I found out he was injured and when we boarded the plane. I was in production mode, and my friends carried me through all of the necessary tasks. I didn't have time or energy to break down. When things got overwhelming, I would completely shut down and just lay in the dark somewhere. Ms. Spears and I were exhausted in every possible way. We both racked out between Atlanta and DC.

I woke up as the plane was descending. It was then that my emotions busted through every single one of my carefully constructed barriers and resulted in what can only be described as, "The Ugly Cry." Did I ever tell you that I don't cry in public? And that there are precious few people in real life who have seen me cry? It's just something I don't do. I cry in the shower. Or in bed. Or while I'm driving alone on long road trips. Those are safe places to cry. Not in the middle of a fucking airplane as it's headed toward one of the busiest cities in America.

Oh, but no, that's exactly where The Ugly Cry decided to come through. Ms. Spears woke up and with a "what the fuck happened?" kind of look started to console me. I think I might have squeaked out the words "it's real" as I sobbed, nose running, almost gagging, gasping for breath. There was no containing it or stopping it and very little slowing it down. A very nice flight attendant came by and asked if she could help. Little Ms. Spears requested an ice pack of some sort. The lady was understanding and went to make one for me.

That's when Mr. Helpful decided to come by. "What is wrong with her?"* Ms. Spears quietly explained that my husband had been seriously injured in Afghanistan and we were on our way to see him at Walter Reed. I'm not sure what I expected him to say, but "Do we need to call an EMT?"* was not on my checklist. It was, however, the magic bullet for The Ugly Cry. I laughed out loud and managed to look at his disgusted snarl. I laughed harder. The people in front and back of me were relieved, I think, and then I went back to making checklists. For the remainder of the flight, Mr. Helpful concluded every intercom message with, "And a Delta Representative will be meeting this flight."* Ms. Spears and I giggled every single time.

We had several bags to pull and a few things to carry. Truthfully, I was a little unsteady and needed a hand as we walked through the airport. Two Delta Representatives met us at the door with a wheelchair. For real. A fucking wheelchair. We asked if they could just please help with our bags and they said that they couldn't help with bags if we didn't use the wheelchair. We looked at each other, simultaneously dumped our bags on the chair and walked up the ramp, arm in arm.

Flash forward to yesterday. I was having another tearful day. Honestly, I haven't had that many during this whole thing. Sure, I've shed tears, but I haven't been held captive by them. Unfortunately, I scheduled an appointment for migraines and it coincided with Crying Day. This time I didn't even do the Ugly Cry, I just got choked up while I was talking about needing help with my migraines because laying down in the dark is not an option due to my responsibilities right now. Those tears and the break in my voice damn near landed me in the ER for a 72 hour psych eval. The doctor held me at the clinic for over an hour, refusing to allow me to be alone in the exam room, because she was afraid I might kill myself if she stepped out. Because, (gasp!), I cried.

This is why I usually only cry in the damn shower.

I ran out my front door three months ago, leaving my children, my pets, all of my belongings, and my friends behind. I ran into a hospital to see my husband with more wires, screws and tubes coming out of him than I knew was possible. Oh, and he was missing a foot. And he was really fucking drugged up, disoriented and in a lot of pain. We have walked (or rolled, as the case may be for some of us) through hell these last few months and it's not over yet. I am tired, I am having migraines which impede my ability to care for my family, my pets and belongings are still far away, my schedule is completely random, and I have no friends here. I am attempting to find my feet and do some nice things for myself, but it is hard right now. Sometimes I am going to cry. Not only is that ok, it's fucking healthy.

So, no thank you, I don't need an EMT or a psych eval. Tears do not constitute a medical emergency.

The Salad Days

2011-07-05T08:16:00.002-05:00

Last summer was glorious. Other than Soldier Boy's month-long training at NTC, we were together and did many things. I took a million pictures and tried to soak up every last moment of joy. We were blessed, and I knew those days were numbered. A lot of times people who experience trauma or tragedy tend to regret not appreciating what they had before the loss. I can say with absolute confidence that I have no such regret. For years I have worked on being mindful and having gratitude. Even during the deployment I tried to enjoy the beauty of every moment. And even now--we could still be in the salad days, for all we know.

Even so, I am weary. I find myself longing for those easy days, even for our bickering, and for the things about him that made me crazy. We have both changed so much throughout all of this, and not just in the ways you would expect. He quit chewing tobacco. I've been wanting him to do this since we first met. Now he chews gum. I fucking hate tobacco but every time I am at the store and see the tobacco counter I feel this sharp pain in my gut. The gum-chewing drives me crazy, too, but at least it won't kill him. I hope. He also never finishes his coffee. It's the damndest thing. We used to have to make more than one pot a day and now he never finishes his first cup. I still haven't figured out the right amount to make so that I don't have any left over at the end of the day.

(Jorge the catio lizard has just joined me while I am writing outside, listening to the birds. I love Jorge.)

Another thing that is different is that I have to sleep on his left side because of how the bigass frame on his right leg has to be while we're in the bed. I've always slept on his right and I don't sleep as well on the other side. Cuddling is awkward and uncomfortable.

For years I have wanted SB to sit on the porch with me. I find it relaxing to sit outside and drink coffee or wine or whatnot. I like to read a book or converse or doodle or any number of things. He has refused to sit with me the whole time--he doesn't like to sweat, he doesn't like the bugs, he doesn't want to be outside, etc. Now he drinks coffee with me out here on the weekend mornings. I LOVE it. I want it to continue. It is still very strange.

The only weird thing I've noticed about me is that I can touch raw meat now. Anyone who has ever watched me cook before is amused by this change, as I have gone to great lengths not to touch food for most of my life. I don't mind touching raw vegetables but never meat, and never sauce, or anything sticky. After caring for SB's wounds, I am able to touch anything.

I feel so strange, like I don't really know myself anymore. I feel naked and exposed any time I'm alone and away from home. Interactions with other people are awkward and strained. My soul feels like it is pouring out of my eyes so making direct eye contact with anyone is anxiety-inducing.

I want to go sit by the ocean in a rocking chair on a porch and not talk to anyone for a while. These may still be our salad days but it is hard to enjoy them when there is so much heaviness in my heart.

I feel like shit today.

2011-07-03T22:49:00.002-05:00

So many things piling in on my head today and I feel like shit. No Pollyanna enthusiasm to be eked out at the moment.

Today is Crush's third birthday. Most of the time I don't really think about his rather exciting entry into the world, but then stuff slams into me and I still don't really understand how I ended up giving birth with no family and how my mother could stop for a sandwich at Burger King when she was told I might be bleeding to death and she should hurry to the hospital. I don't understand how my dad or stepmother could behave the way the did and I don't understand why we all pretend none of it ever happened. I don't know why I even talk to any of them anymore or why I continue to make efforts to keep them involved in our lives. I sometimes hate that my kids like them so fucking much.

HD had to go back to the OF's house yesterday and I am sick to death of that, too. He does so well here, he starts building true confidence, learning how to be a team player and work together, how to express his emotions appropriately... and then he goes back to that sick old fuck who teaches him the finer things in life, like "1800 is a really good tequila." I don't know how to process any of that and every single fucking time he goes back I feel like the worst mother in the world and I relive the humiliation of court and I feel angry and worthless and numb all at once and all I want to do is lay down on cold tile so I know where I am.

I've lost myself somewhere and I have no hopes of getting me back. I want an active life, I want to rock climb and bike and all sorts of things but I can't do that, because I am a taxi. I take SB to a million appointments all over the place every work day and there is no time left for anything else. The children will soon be in activities so I will be driving them to their things as well and if I am lucky I will have 5 minutes to myself every 3 weeks.

I am supposed to go back to Kentucky to clear housing there and pack up our household and retrieve our pets and car but I am overridden with anxiety about leaving the kids and SB here, even though I have arranged help for all of them. I do not want to be in a state so far away from them again. I have had enough of that. I don't want to walk back into our home and find it in a state of weird decay because no one has lived there for so long. I do not want most of our belongings back because quite frankly, the prospect of dealing with them is overwhelming. The prospect of breathing is overwhelming sometimes, much less traveling up there and doing all of that and then driving over a thousand miles with a dog and a cat and a kayak on the roof of our car makes me crazy to think about. Although the idea of the dog and cat riding in the kayak on the roof of the car kind of made me giggle when I re-read that sentence.

I feel like shit today. I don't want to be talked out of it or platituded or consoled. There will be days I feel like shit and that is ok. There's always tomorrow to feel not like shit. Until there isn't, and then it doesn't really matter anymore anyway.

How bad is deployment?

2011-06-29T07:41:00.003-05:00

So bad that this outcome almost (almost) felt like a relief.

Almost.

So far my husband has lost three friends, every NCO in his platoon has a purple heart and a third of them have been sent away from theater permanently for medical treatment. He was shot at every day this deployment and had more close calls than I care to think about, even now that he is home and "ok."

Deployments are bad. So bad that when your soldier gets one leg blown off and the other smashed up and comes moments from dying, you are almost (almost) relieved because the fucking thing is over and he will never have to do that job again.

Alternate Reality

2011-06-26T21:08:00.002-05:00

I spent two months feeling like I'd accidentally flipped to the wrong page in a choose your own adventure. It seemed like at some point we would get back on track, like this was all some sort of weird twisted dream or maybe we had some sort of 1-up that could take us back to a previous save point.

Obviously modern invention does nothing to help a person through the first stage of grief. (Denial).

Grief.

What a strange experience to be so fucking full of gratitude that you're about to explode and to be overwhelmed with grief at the same time. Sometimes it is hard to remember to grieve when we are grateful for so much. He almost died. Really. He almost took his last breath over there on that godforsaken shit-infested desert soil. Fuck. That.

Before he left, I was careful to go over his whole body and memorize it, love it, grant it whatever safety I could and tell it goodbye. It's not like we didn't see this as a possible outcome of a wartime infantry career. And really, in the course of history, this is the best time for an amputation.

Really? Is this my life?

Yes. This is my life. This is my reality. Our reality.

My husband lost his foot. No, actually, he ripped his foot off after being blown up by sick religious fucks in an endless war across the ocean. Damn, I guess I fell out of Denial and straight into Anger. Yay for grieving progress.

I walked into the bedroom a few minutes ago where he is sleeping, and once again I was completely surprised to see Stumpalufagus. It's weird, because I know on the surface that his left foot is gone, but when he is laying in different positions or I get caught up in some sort of normal task and stumble onto him the breath gets knocked out of me again. Whoa. This is not a choose your own adventure and there is no save point and we don't get a mulligan. This is life. His foot is gone. Forever. Retrieved and cleaned up by a friend.

Stumpalufagus (or his "residual limb", a word used by all the medical personnel that weirds me out), or "Stumpy", is actually very cute. I love him. At first, before I saw Soldier Boy, I was afraid that I was going to be freaked out and that his stump would be scary. I fell immediately in love with Stumpy and more in love with my husband for enduring such hardship and coming out with such humor. I love him so much and I am so fucking grateful that he is alive.

And yet. This grief. The things we have lost, the ease of our previous life (imagine, we used to hop in and out of the car at will! and give each other foot massages on the couch. and he could drive. and put on underwear by himself.), our future plans--his school to become a physician's assistant now depends on his recovery and passing a med-board and the school holding his slot long enough for all that to happen and for the army to waive any requirements that he will no longer be able to meet.......

We have gained a lot too and that is what I try to focus on in my daily life but holy fucking shit this hurts. Like, deep in the gut in a way I can't describe hurts.

I feel stupid sometimes, though, because in the facility where he does all of his physical therapy, triple amputees abound. Like Kenny, our first roommate, who is 22 and a triple amp and his girlfriend died while he was in the hospital and nobody told him for several weeks so he thought she was ditching him because of his injuries, but no, she was dead instead. What!?? Kenny is awesome and full of life, smiles and humor.

We are so fortunate. I never want to lost sight of that.

But damn.

Damn.

Damn.

There are things I have to think about and feel and let go of and accept. I can't ignore them or pretend that I am better than I am or that because I am grateful I have nothing to mourn. I know, deeply, that it could have been much, much worse. This place is incredible for perspective. I also know that this is a bump in our road in the long run, and that his injuries are really not going to preclude him from most of the activities he wants to do in life. I know that our current arrangement is temporary--I am not going to be the only driver forever, I am not going to be slinging his wheelchair forever, I am not going to be the only sober adult in our house forever. He is not going to be on such heavy doses of narcotics forever. He is not going to be in so much pain forever.

I know these things. I am trying to appreciate the things we DO have now--being back together, finally being able to cook for us again (two months of restaurants make you never want to eat out again), having slow time to heal and come together as a family. These are good things and quite honestly I am more at peace with some things now than I ever have been. I enjoy sitting on the porch with him drinking coffee, taking naps, having nothing better to do than sit quietly and enjoy one another. These are great things. The multiple appointments per day are a little overwhelming, but it is calming down. It's nice.

But holy fuck, I just walked in my room and there was my husband, laying on the bed, missing a foot. And don't even get me started on the contraption on his other one--the frame is supported by 6 screws and about 12 pins going into his bones (including one through each toe.) We refer to that one as FrankenFoot.

I want to throw myself around him and protect him from the whole world, to siphon some of his pain to give him some relief, to bear his burden so those worry lines leave his forehead. He never had those before. He never had a frown before, either. He still laughs and jokes--don't get me wrong. They just don't flow as easily as they did before we flipped the wrong page and slipped down the rabbit hole.

Sporting the Scarlet W

2011-06-22T08:06:00.003-05:00

Hello, all you faithful friends who kept me in your reader or stop in occasionally to see if I have posted anything. There are many things I need to write and I hope to be able to put them down here. This space has been wonderful therapy over the years. Unfortunately, I find myself needing that therapy again now.

First, a quick informative post to catch you up to speed:

On April 13 this year, Soldier Boy was seriously injured in Afghanistan. His vehicle was struck by an IED and his legs were pinned in the vehicle. The blast maimed his left leg below the knee, which was traumatically amputated at the scene through his own efforts to free himself. His right leg was mangled. He retained consciousness throughout the incident, tying one of his own tourniquets, instructing his soldiers on how to remove him from the vehicle, carefully putting all of his sensitive items together for accountability, and encouraging his driver who also sustained injuries in the explosion. He was conscious until he got to the FOB hospital and they sedated him. During the incident he lost 2 liters of blood and has received more than 20 units to replace his supply. Fortunately, all of his injuries were below the knees.

I met him at Walter Reed, where he was an inpatient for a month. After that, they transferred us to a different major hospital, where he was an inpatient for another month. Our children were scattered across three different states and had 4-5 different caregivers during those two months. They joined us a few weeks ago and we are now living in a small apartment near his rehabilitation facility. He has a left below the knee amputation and the ortho teams are doing what is called a "limb salvage" on the right. He has multiple breaks in his tibia and fibula, his heel, all of his meta-tarsals and four of his toes. They have installed a "taylor spatial frame", which is a lot of external hardware that is screwed through the skin into his bones to hold them in place for healing. The cool thing about this frame is that he can bear weight on it. He will soon be fitted for a prosthetic and will be able to walk. For now he is in a wheelchair, going to PT several times a day. His attitude is fantastic and he shows no signs of TBI or other traumatic injury.

We are very fortunate.

I obviously have a lot to work through. I wanted to get the facts out here so that I can write freely in the next few posts without worrying about confusing whatever readers I have left. Thank you all for sticking around all these years. Now we are off for a new and different adventure.

As for the title--my friends whose husbands have been injured during this deployment have come up with the phrase "It's like I've got a big scarlet W on my chest!" When they are around the wives whose husbands have not been injured, the atmosphere is strained and uncomfortable. We are probably going to make t-shirts. It's not contagious, you know.

You Probably Think I've Lost It Completely

2011-02-25T00:12:00.003-05:00

The anxiety was heavy, entwining me in its suffocating tendrils, making every breath an excruciating effort. Panic struck every time the doorbell rang or a car slowed in front of the house. Paranoia and depression were winning and my ability to fight was waning.

I laid down in bed, trying to reason with myself the way the therapist taught me. I focused on a few positive things, working to turn it all around. Talk myself into some fitful sleep if possible.

In a moment, for no particular reason, it all (and by "all" I do mean "everything") turned inside out. I saw clearly my relative size in the universe. Then, for the first time in a month, I laughed. Hysterically laughed to the brink of tears and eventually giggled myself into an incomparably deep, restful sleep.

Some people might call it enlightenment (I am probably one of those people). Others might call it God or Allah or Yahweh. All I know is that I keep laughing at the most mundane things. A few days ago I was overcome with joy as I washed my hands, the water delightfully flowing through my fingers. In all the Universe, this is the place where I get to reside, and it is beautiful. My family, my marriage, all the critters that like to visit our yard, the people we know and even the ones we don't know but with whom we cohabitate on this lovely little planet--it feels like an exquisite secret.

Along with all of this inner peace (who knew?) and joy (what am I, a televangelist now?), has come an increased sense of morality, based on treating my fellow earth-inhabitants well. (Whoopsie, there goes my lucrative televangelism career with the word "earth-inhabitants.") The effect of my newfound perspective is quite the opposite of what I once expected it to be. You would think that when you grasp exactly how tiny and inconsequential you are, you would take your actions/behaviors/thoughts less seriously. In fact, part of what I laughed myself to sleep about that night was how ridiculously seriously we humans take ourselves when we are indeed so small. What I realized, though, is that we are entirely serious about the wrong sorts of things and end up choosing to dwell in misery far more often than we should. We draw up arbitrary divisions between ourselves and other beings until we box ourselves into these tiny, lonely, miserable little prisons called, "me." Somehow, seeing our stature in the grand scheme of things has made it all the more important to treat others with love, forgiveness, and kindness.

I can focus on those things that separate me from others, or I can embrace the things that make us the same. I can wallow in sorrow over him being in harms way on the other side of a huge planet, or I can bask in the comfort of finding a partner whose love for me is without fail. I can worry about the uncertainty of our future or I can enjoy the water flowing through my fingers.

Staying away from the rabbit hole of fear, panic, anxiety and paranoia has gotten a little easier. I still have to remind myself to breathe every now and then. Another time I laughed recently was when I realized that I was holding my breath, but there would be air available for my consumption whenever I decided to breathe again. The tension in my shoulders and above my eyebrows melted away as the air filled my lungs.

Choosing to focus on beauty is not an effort to ignore pain. But I absolutely cannot forsake the beauty of this moment for fear of pain in the moments to come. That one day in my future I will again experience breathtaking, excruciating, unthinkable, nearly unbearable pain is a given (unless, of course, I am next in line to shuffle off this mortal coil and it happens in a painless way, if that's even possible.) I've learned to allow myself uninhibited moments of joy in spite of my certainty of that future suffering. I hope with practice those moments grow into minutes and then maybe even bigger until embracing the beauty of this human experience becomes second nature rather than a concerted effort.

And no, kids, I haven't been hitting any sort of wacky weed, prescription mood enhancers, or other mind/mood-altering substances. I miss my husband terribly and want nothing more than for him and my little Heavy Duty to come home to me. In the meantime, however, I'm going to enjoy the hell out of washing my hands, taking deep breaths, and soaking up the divinity of being human.

PreDeployment is a Big Fat Hairy Bitch (Part 1)

2010-12-30T10:43:00.008-05:00

I think I've covered Deployment and Reintegration here at Ye Olde Veritably Bare, but I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned the unique joy that is PreDeployment. Most of us tend not to talk about the hardships of this phase, because we are trying to enjoy the time we have left and not dwell on the difficult stuff. It is seriously challenging, though, and deserves some attention.

This phase is awesome and begins around the time that you find out about the deployment (which must be fun for the families of soldiers in units that know the date of their next deployment while they are serving their current one--I'll take Simultaneous Deployment/Reintegration/PreDeployment for $500, Alex) and it ramps up and up and up until they (finally) leave. For me, upon learning with certainty the time frame of his departure, a rock sits in my stomach, I can't breathe, and every movement of my body takes a herculean effort. It sits with me for a few days before I finally let myself break down (typically in the shower, clinging to the wall for support as I do that ugly heaving sobbing thing). I let all those awful thoughts wash over me. I relive that awful doorbell ring from last deployment, I go down the rabbit hole of terror and face the worst scenarios my imagination can throw at me. It is there, of all places, that I find my feet and know that even in my worst case scenarios (believe me, they are really fucking bad), I know that we will be ok. We will find our way through any hardship and we will be ok.

This usually happens months before he leaves. Every now and then the panic grabs me again, but never to the degree that it does that first time I'm slapped with the reality of another deployment. After the acceptance, everything--everything--we do together takes on new meaning. In the beginning it makes everything sweeter, because we are more present during activities like holidays and birthdays and family excursions. Before long, though, it becomes laborious. The last Thanksgiving. Sprout's birthday. Dad's birthday. Heavy Duty's visit. Christmas. There's this unspoken emphasis on making everything memorable, taking pictures, getting little details together to make it special.... and of course wondering whether we are making memories to last a deployment or for a lifetime.

God, that's heavy.

I honestly try to live every day, deployment or no, with the knowledge that we do not know what the future holds. I know that anything can happen to any one (or several) of us at any time and we need to relish today. I know that worry doesn't change the future, but it ruins what we do have here in the present. Many times every day I remind myself to be here. Right now. (And now.) And, well, now.

So during PreDeployment goodness, I wrestle even more with the worry/Zen/holy fucking shit what if it all goes south conundrum. Sometimes I do well, sometimes not so much. My mood swings from strong and confident to angry (at my husband, at my kids, at the government, at terrorists, at idiots, at the dog, at humankind, etc) to a messy blob of tears. I try to maintain an even keel (at least on the surface) for the kids, but I sometimes fail miserably at that, too.

There is much more to say, but the kids' ability to not interrupt me has vanished. It took me ten minutes to write a sentence, and my anger is rising. Time to stop and come back later.

Here's a good thought, though, which was my recent Facebook status: No matter what the deployment holds in store for us, there is no possible way I will go into premature labor 1000 miles from home 4 days after he deploys. That is definitely something to be grateful for, yes?

And cause ya'll have been patient with my absence:

Yours Truly

Crush (Master of garnering sympathy)

Birch (With her new sassy haircut)

Sprout (She got a new sassy haircut, too)

Still Afloat

2010-12-28T09:34:00.002-05:00

Hey, there, my old blog friends. Life has hit a fast track and I've been hanging on for the ride. For the most part, all the things on my path have been wonderful. I have a lot to write about soon, though, and I plan to be back strongly in the new year. Maybe. I also plan to exercise, start a craft club and go back to college, so we will see what gets cut.

Thank you to those of you who have sent me messages or commented to see how we are doing. We really are well and I really, really appreciate your love and concern.

I will be back.

"Dependent" and "Beneficiary", but "Caregiver"?

2010-11-03T15:24:00.003-05:00

My latest annoyance with the military's treatment of families comes from Birch's school. She is enrolled in a DoDEA (Department of Defense Education Activity) school because we live on post. For the most part, I love it. Her teachers have been outstanding, she has a host of extracurricular activities, and her needs as a highly gifted student are being adequately met. It is a safe, warm, friendly environment for her.

However.

(There's always one of those, right?)

I recently attended a deployment fair at the school. As part of it, they had a workshop called "Parent to Parent". In the room were five families, all of whom were married couples with children. In this case, the fathers were preparing for deployment. During the entire session, they referred to the fathers as fathers and the mothers as "caregivers". We were never once called a "parent". We are merely "caregivers," on par with babysitters and grandmas who move in when a single parent who is away. Not to knock on the contributions of actual caregivers, but I'm a parent, dammit. Quit talking to my husband like he's the only parent in the room. I have more face time, more school involvement, more responsibility with the day-to-day life of our children than he will ever have. I am not saying that in a bitter way--it is just the way it is.

I'm already degraded to being a leech with the whole "beneficiary" and "dependent" labels, since moving my family to follow my husband around the country effectively ended my career. Now I'm "just an Army wife." I've dealt with that just fine, but slap me in the face with "caregiver" when we are referring to my children and I will bitchslap you right back where you came from, assholes. I am their mother and I've worked really fucking hard for that title.

Let me be clear--on a personal level, the teachers and administrators are wonderful. They actually know me better than they know my husband because I am the one who is always there. I'm pretty sure they couldn't pick him out of a crowd, even if he was wearing his nametape. The system, however, including the family support system created by the Military Child Education Coalition, regards me as a "caregiver."

I was already pissed about this, but the letter Birch brought home yesterday pushes it way over the top. It is a letter from DoDEA regarding its "biennial Customer Satisfaction Survey."

The CSS provides valuable feedback to DoDEA from its most important customers--parents and students--about the quality of education it provides and areas needing improvement.

Awesome, right? We get to tell them what we think. I'm really good at that (shocking, right?). Then you get to the part where it says (bold is mine): "All sponsors with students enrolled in DoD schools...may participate." Just sponsors. (For my non-military peeps, the soldier is the sponsor.) So my opinions of the school and what it offers my child are unwanted.

Well, I am "just a caregiver."

*Snort*

Just Take the Bitch Out

2010-10-26T19:26:00.002-05:00

Looks like we'll be having a "Say Bye-Bye to My Baby-Maker!" party. We might have a bonfire in which we burn the crib.

That is, if the freaking doctor listens to me this time when I emphatically tell him (because god forbid I have a female GYN in this godforsaken excuse for a hospital) that I'm DONE with it and I'd rather surrender it before it eats me afuckinglive. Because apparently Mr. "I Burn My Margins Anyway" didn't do such a fucking good job this time.

Yes, my friends, the cells are still highly squamous and we have an appointment scheduled to determine the next step in two weeks. Then maybe two weeks after that we'll have something done about it (Happy Thanksgiving!) and then six weeks to recover (Merry Christmas!) and then we will bid SB farewell for a bit.

Peace is every step.

Peace is every step.

Peace is every step.

The Powers that Be

2010-10-19T15:55:00.002-05:00

The decision has come down. He will deploy before attending the school that will change our lives forever.

Full Moons and Sweaty M&Ms

2010-09-28T07:41:00.006-05:00

For once, chaos and drama are afflicting everyone around me instead of me. I feel like I'm on a little tiny island in the midst of some pretty huge fucking storms. Marriages all around are falling apart, mothers are losing children to cancer or custody battles, friends are in the midst of huge financial crises.

At several points in my life I was arrogant and judgmental, thinking those things couldn't touch me. Experience has taught me that there is no real difference between any of us and everything can change in an instant. I am grateful for this time of peace in our lives. I am reveling in the joy of my marriage and motherhood. The only real way to preserve a moment is to fully experience it, letting it become a part of my consciousness so that it becomes part of my being.

The privilege of shepherding my children to adulthood has been wonderfully overwhelming lately. How lucky am I to get to experience these tender years with them? I get to walk with them on their journey, guiding them when I can, teaching them about life and what it means to be human. In the beginning of motherhood I didn't understand the end-goal. I was so wrapped up in making sure they did what they were supposed to because I wanted well-behaved, well-adjusted children. I've realized recently (again) that I'm not raising children, I'm raising adults. They are individuals--individuals who exist completely outside of myself. It is easy to see them as extensions of me, but they are totally separate critters with different outlooks, goals, and idiosyncrasies. I'm working on respecting them as their own people.

So far being mindful of these truths has changed the tone of our household. Overall, we have more joy in our home and our kids are even becoming more respectful of one another. Being present has made my heart overflow several times in the past few weeks--as we gazed at the full moon from the driveway after bedtime, as Sprout shared her palm-sweaty m&m with me, as I paused after yelling at them to "CALM DOWN!" to realize they just needed to burn some energy so we went out and ran laps on the sidewalk after dark. I love watching those little dudes running their hoppy, uncoordinated strides in the evening.

In the interest of transparency, I just yelled at the littlest ones to quit throwing things on the floor. I still get angry and frustrated and tired and snap at them when I shouldn't. There are times they feel like leeches and I can't handle another single touch or "Mama?" preceding a sentence. I find myself saying "Go away!" or "Be quiet!" way more often than I should.

Overall, though, I realize how fortunate I am. When I take a moment to see them--really see them, not just look at them--I am flooded with gratitude for getting to spend this time with them. They are my heart and joy.

Boggle

2010-09-15T22:24:00.002-05:00

I've had a lot on my mind recently but "quiet house time" generally coincides with "barely holding my eyes open" time so there hasn't been much opportunity for writing. Also, I don't like where my desk/computer is and it completely impedes my creative productivity.

Excuses, aside, here's a little mind vomit:

1. Soldier Boy was selected for the school, but he might deploy for a while before he can attend it. We're still figuring out details. The selection is huge, HUGE for our family. He does have a report date, which is super nice. So I'm in pre-deployment pre-PCS mid-notknowingwhatthefuckthearmyisdoing mode. It's cool.

2. I've been spending a lot of time considering marriage, as I watch one close to me dissolve. Several others that are close are on the rocks or are in constant turmoil. I never really thought it would affect me like it does, honestly. It makes me want to hold SB closer. We have problems sometimes like everybody else, but they aren't all that bad. I finally came up with something worthy of "vows" the other day, since I always meant to write my own. "Let's always be good to each other." He agreed very simply and sincerely. Good enough for me.

3. Crush is TWO and everything that entails. Taking him anywhere outside the house becomes extremely unpleasant very quickly and I feel like a failure most of the time. It will get better. I need some more quiet time to come up with a better plan.

4. This is certainly not on the bottom of my list, but I've left it for last here. I've spent an inordinate amount of time over the last few days trying to figure out when it would EVER be appropriate for an adult to say "fuck you" to a 7 year old, but I just can't come up with anything. Not really in any circumstance. Ever. I'm betting some of my audience could identify which drunken old womanizing fuck said that to which 7 year old. This hurts my heart and consumes most of my energy at the moment.

Motherhood is a Lot Like This

2010-08-13T07:21:00.002-05:00

Alternately titled: Why I make lists.

Also alternately titled: It's a wonder anyone in my family ever gets fed.

Maybe titled: The men in white coats are coming soon.

My thoughts are in italics. My actions are in *'s. The children's words are in quotes.

Need to pee.

*See the puppy*

Rosie needs to be let out.

*Start walking to back door, see the kitchen.*

Gotta make breakfast for Birch.

*Open blinds in kitchen, look outside.*

Hey, it's trash day!

*Head to laundry room for recycling.*

Need to feed the cat.

*Feed the cat.* (Pet feeding success!)

*Feel proud of self for feeding the cat.*

Need to pee.

*Hear dog whining.*

Crap, forgot to let dog out.

*Momentarily feel like a moron for not letting dog out, then let her out.* (Let dog out success!)

"What's for breakfast?"

Gooosh, climb off my back! Wait, what IS for breakfast? Cereal? No, that was yesterday. Bagels. I am such an awesome mom for switching up breakfast.

*Feel proud of self for offering a variety of foods for breakfast. Put bagel in toaster.*

I wonder what's going on on Facebook.

*Go to computer, get lost for 5 minutes.*

Dammit, what am I doing? I'm supposed to be making her lunch. But maybe I should start the laundry right now.

*Hear dog whining and let her in. Walk back to computer and sit down.*

LUNCH!

*Walk to kitchen and get out lunch supplies.*

I want coffee. I should make it now so it's ready for the bus stop. I love being a bus stop coffee mom.

*Walk to coffee pot, see bagel in toaster.*

Bagel, then lunch. Bagel, then lunch.

*Put bagel on plate and give to Birch, walk back to kitchen.* (Breakfast success!)

I am going to do ALL my laundry today. I will have all clean clothes, folded and put away. I am the awesomest laundry doer EVER. Hey, it's trash day!

"Mama, can I watch a moooooviiiieeee?"

Sprout is so cute in the mornings. I need to hug her.

*Sit down on the couch to snug with Sprout.*

LUNCH. Crap, I forgot. But I'm an awesome mom for packing her lunch every day.

*Put a blankie on Sprout and feel a little superior to other mothers who don't pack lunches while I walk to kitchen.

Need to pee. Make lunch first. Hey, coffee would be nice.

*Finish lunch.* (Make lunch success!)

Hey, it's trash day! And I need to pee. And start that laundry.

*Make coffee.*

Oh crap oh crap oh crap, gonna miss bus stop coffee time. Brew, coffee, brew!

*Quickly start educational TV show for Sprout and stare at coffee pot.*

TV this early is ok if it's educational, right? Right. COFFEE COFFEE COFFEE!!!

*Look out door to check for bus.*

Hey, it's trash day!

*Get my coffee and make sure Birch has all her things for school. Step outside with her.* (Make coffee success!)

Hey, it's trash day!

*Bounce out to bus stop to meet friend with coffee.* (Bus stop coffee mom success!)

Need to pee.

*Chat with friend and our girls.*

"Hey, did you know it's trash day?"

Hey, it's trash day!

*Pretend I remembered it is trash day.*

Need to pee.

*Chat for a while longer after the girls get on the bus. Interrupt conversation several times to remind each other about trash day.*

Must pee.

*Go inside to restroom.* (Elimination success!)

Gotta feed the little midgets.

*Walk to kitchen, look out front door.*

Hey, it's trash day!

*Walk outside to take trash to curb. Receive text from neighbor reminding me it is trash day. Feel brilliant for having recycling in my hand already.* (Trash day success!)

I should totally blog this.

*See flowers that need to be potted on porch.*

Five Years Ago

2010-08-10T21:46:00.006-05:00

Five years ago I started blogging. This has been a truly amazing and unexpected journey.

Five years ago I was in complete turmoil. I had left the abusive OF, had ended the most shameful decision of my entire life--an affair with Prince Charming, had been raped by HD's cousin, and was trying to set up a new home with the few items I managed to take when I left. I lived in a shitty little duplex in an ancient and badly renovated house, and I slept on the top bunk of the bunk beds I bought for HD. During the day I still worked for OF as a Realtor, during the nights HD stayed with OF, I was a fine dining server.

Five years ago I still drank too much. I hated coming home to an empty house, so I went out to a local bar and closed it down every night HD wasn't with me. I was very fortunate to make a friend who respected me, cared for me, and helped keep me out of trouble during those reckless nights. MicSteve was one of the people who helped me find my feet through it all.

Five years ago I was dating Soldier Boy, but I frequently told him to date other people because "I am dangerous and volatile and I am going to hurt you." He forgave me when I hurt him and stuck around until I became stable. I'm glad he didn't listen to me when I told him to leave. I'm glad he turned the truck around and came back the one time he considered leaving.

Five years ago I had cut myself off from all of my friends and family because of the OF. I found myself completely alone and unable to reach out to people I once knew. I made one other friend--Frank--who was also patient and kind during my turbulence. Our friendship survived despite my best attempts to kill it. He has been a true friend from the beginning.

Five years ago I was paranoid that people I knew would find my blog and learn about the "real" me. I thought no one would like me if they knew, because really I didn't like myself then, either.

What an amazing journey this has been. I feel incredibly fortunate for how my life is today. My husband loves me more than I knew I could be loved. We have beautiful, intelligent, healthy, talented children. His salary sufficiently provides for us now. I am settled, happy in my own skin, and proud of my accomplishments. I am no longer desperately flailing. I no longer feel like I'm dying in a desert--I no longer have to cling to every kind word, look, or touch from complete strangers. I have an occasional alcoholic beverage, but never feel compelled to drink away my pain and sorrow. I have reconnected with literally hundreds of friends from my past and am on speaking terms with my family. I have made many new friends online and through the Army.

There are so many steps I would never have made alone. I will be forever grateful to Soldier Boy, Frank, and MicSteve for walking with me through that black pit five years ago. And also for my earliest blog readers who offered kindness, forgiveness, support, advice and encouragement--Brico, Addict, FlyGirl, Monkey, Lime, BT, Os, and the rest.

Five years ago I had absolutely no idea that life could be this fulfilling. I didn't know that others would forgive my mistakes... I didn't know that one day I would forgive myself. My path has been difficult, but entirely necessary to arrive at the place I am today.

Five years ago I was at the lowest point of my life.

Today I am grateful.

Sometimes.

2010-08-08T00:33:00.003-05:00

Sometimes, when he has been gone for a while and I am doing well, out of nowhere I am nearly knocked down to my knees with the thought that he might not come home again. This raging, nasty, throbbing pain leaps up out of my chest into my throat and I can hardly breathe.

He's only been gone a week for training. He will be home by the end of the month. It's just that I know what this training is for. I guess we can switch from "reintegration" to "pre-deployment" mode, although I'm not sure we've fully recovered from the last one yet.

It's gonna be ok.

In the Event of my Untimely Demise*

2010-08-06T23:05:00.005-05:00

Dear Children:

One day I'm going to die. I'm not gonna lie, I hope you're alive when that happens. No offense, but I would prefer not to put you in the ground first. (Or spread your ashes to the winds, as the case may be.) I really hope you survive me for quite a long while and lead happy, healthy, productive lives. My time could come 30 seconds from nowawr;as235 @#fakkoooooooocx ,bxncxb........

(just kidding!) or 70 years from now, but it's pretty inevitable when you consider the fate of life on our planet.

I'm pretty ok with the idea that I'm not gonna be around forever, except for the idea that I might leave you kids when you still need me. That freaks me the fuck out, quite honestly. (BTW, if I die when you're a minor, I hereby give you permission to drop the f-bomb whenever you want. You still might get in trouble at school, though.)

In an effort to leave you with some sort of farewell, rather than "Oh shit, Mom died in a freak paperclip accident," I'm going to write you some notes whenever the mood strikes. Enough people we love read the blog here to pass this on to you whenever it's appropriate. This way I'm assured that you'll find my words to you eventually. Unless, of course, we are all wiped out together in the Impending Zombie Apocalypse. (Just so you know, I had to spell "Apocalypse" about 5 times before I got it right.)

Braaaaaiiinnnnnnssssss.....

First, I should probably tell each of you that I'm sorry.

Birch, I am harder on you than I probably should be. I'm learning as we go along and I'm trying my damndest to be fair, give you credit where it is due, and leave you enough room to deal with the demons of your early childhood. I am sorry that I am so distant from you emotionally. I love you more than you can imagine. I'm just not so good at showing it. I am trying to do better about that. The distance has nothing to do with you and everything to do with my own demons that showed up before you were ever born. I love you and I'm proud of you for your strength, intelligence, and empathy.

HD, I have so many things to apologize to you for. I made so many mistakes when you were a toddler that haunt us still today. My downfalls prevented me from protecting you and keeping you close to me. My first instinct should have been to keep you safe, but I rationalized and bargained with common sense to convince myself that I was doing the right thing. I am sorry that your life is so difficult, that you are tormented by your father, and that you only get to be here for short period of time. Please know that I love you wholly and that I am working to bring you back home. I'm also sorry I threw the plate when you were 4 and you wouldn't eat. I was wrong. I know you remember it and I want you to know that there was nothing you could have done that deserved me scaring you like that. I was angry at the court system, angry at your father, angry at the Army, angry at myself, and it all came raging out at the wrong time. We have talked about this and you have forgiven me, but I haven't forgotten it and will always regret that action. I love you without end and I hope one day you can forgive all of my mistakes. I am proud of your intelligence and sweetness, even with the shit your dad and I have put you through.

Sprout: You are so much like me that we clash constantly. I love you so much, but I know that we have shared many angry moments. I am sorry that I am not more understanding with your insatiable need for control and independence. You would think that our similarities would be something to bond over, but instead we have some pretty epic clashes. I am the adult, I am the mommy, and I should be the one to avoid those battles. I am sorry for those times that I yell when I lose my patience. I love you so very much. My heart breaks repeatedly when I see your earnestness and how important everything is to you. I understand. Really, I do, and I'm sorry my actions don't always assure you of that. I love you and I am proud of your passion and your unstoppable will.

Crush: My little Boo Boy. I am sorry I don't give you enough individual attention. You seem so independent most of the time that I overlook your need for affection and interaction. I admire how you get right back up after falling down to try things again. You just grunt and keep on going. I often think I haven't given you as much as I gave the older kids, and I'm sorry. I try to remember to slow down and talk with you about things--colors, letters, animals, sounds, music, vehicles... I'm sorry I talk so much to other people and not you. I love you without fail. I am proud of your perseverance, strength, and determination.

Kiddos, I am absolutely certain I hurt you in ways I didn't list here. Please know that any pain I cause you is unintentional. Alas! I am human. I make mistakes and am often misguided and frequently don't find the right answer until way too late. Forgive me. Not for my sake, but for your own. Harboring grudges will only hurt you more.

One day, my darlings, you might seek answers to all sorts of questions (but mainly the answers to Life, the Universe, and Everything). There are lots of places to turn to figure all that out, but I implore you to just be quiet and listen. All of the answers are within your grasp at any moment, if you are open enough to accept them. You might find understanding from a book, but I recommend you find your own path before you follow one prescribed to you by anyone else. Truth, my dears, is self-evident. Anything crammed down your throat is most likely bullshit.

If you ever want to feel close to me, you can find me in the mountains near the rivers. You will hear me in a symphony of crickets. You will feel me in the resonant tones of acoustic instruments. You will find any wisdom I gained in the company of trees.

Don't let losing me--or losing anyone or anything else, for that matter--define your life. Loss is devastating and can become all-consuming. Allow yourselves to heal. Get together and share adult beverages (only if you're of age!) or chocolate and talk about all the ways I am fucked up and laugh at me and our memories and maybe, if you're so inclined, shed a tear or two. Then pick up and keep on going, kids. It'll be alright.

*This does not, in any way, mean that I intend to meet my fate in an untimely manner. I am neither sick nor suicidal, although I am quite accident-prone. I know a passal of children who have lost parents. There are things I want to tell my own kids, even if it has to be posthumously. Writing this particular installation may even make me a better parent today, before my meeting of any type of demise.

Notes to Self

2010-08-04T09:40:00.003-05:00

Eat breakfast.

Spending dedicated time with the children being present and attentive makes them less clingy.

Joy, peace, love, and patience are choices you should make every day.

Go make your bed.

Relax. No, really, relaaaaax.

It's not that bad.

Crying is good sometimes.

A little bit every day adds up.

Remember when we used to meditate?

Love you like you love them.

Sometimes other people are right.

Take your iron.

There are biscuits in the oven.

No, really, there are biscuits in the oven. Probably burning by now.

GO GET THE BISCUITS.

More on Wikileaks

2010-08-01T20:17:00.003-05:00

It takes me a long time to get pissed. My pissedoffedness is growing daily. This post will be shrill, with lots of cussing.

I just don't see how what was released has any positive impact whatsoever. "Things are worse in Afghanistan than we thought!" Not if you pay attention to the casualty count or read Michael Yon (who several years ago painted this exact portrait of Afghanistan) or love a soldier who has deployed there. I've been pretty fucking aware, quite frankly. Not a damn thing they've said has surprised me.

This is just like when everybody wanted to gawk at families greeting their loved ones at Dover. FREEDOM OF SPEECH!!!! FREEDOM OF THE PRESSS!!!! FREEDOM THIS FREEDOM THAT WE PAY TAXES BY GOD WE SHOULD GET TO SEEEEE IT!!!

So now there are families who allow the press at Dover. How many of those pictures have you seen? How many of those names do you remember? How many make headlines? They don't. 66 troops died in Afghanistan in July. Sixty goddamn six. How many of those people who were screeching "FREEDOM LET ME SEEEE!" know that? Not fucking many. Because once it was no longer controversial, it didn't matter any more. It wasn't about mourning fallen warriors, it was about the incessant need of Americans to watch disaster in the making.

Here we are with Wikileaks, with a whole host of people trying to be "serious" about it, saying it means good things for our nation and it's a victory for transparency and certainly it is the beginning of the end for the war in Afghanistan and are hailing this as some sort of magical key to fixing the corruption of our government. It's "unfortunate" that some Afghans may die because of it, but weren't they dying anyway? So what's a few more, right?

No, indeed, it is not going to fix shit. Not the war, not the government, not one single fucking thing. National outrage doesn't last. And really, the only people who are outraged about the information leaked are the people who have the sense to know how many lives will be lost because of it.

I am a flaming liberal treehugging peacenik hippie. I am disappointed in the Obama administration for not being progressive enough. I save spiders rather than squash them and I cried real, wracking, sobbing tears when they cut down the trees behind my house. I have close friends with whom I cannot say one political word because we ended up shouting at each other (one of them is my husband.) SERIOUSLY.

So don't try to shove me in some Republican/right wing/conservative box because I am not praising Wikileaks and its arrogant, snide, self-serving fucktard of a founder or worshiping Manning as some sort of whistle-blowing hero.

There are serious problems with our government, within the Department of Defense, and with the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Manning wasn't trying to fix any of that. He got his tiny little rocks off by getting his name all over the news through selling people's lives for fame. And Wikileaks couldn't slow down long enough to remove the names of informants because they were about to pee their collective pants with the excitement of notoriety they were about to gain. You can almost hear their drool splash on their keyboards as they got their grimy paws on the documents.

Something needs to be done to address the nation's problems. This was not that something.

I know quite a few of my readers will disagree with me. We're not always going to agree. I feel pretty strongly on this one, though. Again, no personal insults in the comments, or no soup for you.

Let's Chat

2010-07-28T08:21:00.004-05:00

I haven't seen any of my military blog-friends post about the whole Wikileaks releasing 90,000 classified documents to the media and then to the world at large (if you have and I missed you, I'm sorry. Life is a little hectic around here lately). I'm not one to avoid sensitive subjects, so I'm busting down the door here. The documents provide detailed information about the Afghanistan war from 2004-2009 and Wikileaks promises that more documents will be released as soon as they scrub "personal information" from them.

This has been weighing heavily on me since the story broke. I've talked with friends on Facebook and I've had long discussions with other folks in comment sections on non-military blogs. It is a hot topic of conversation in our household as we try to make sense of it and worry about the inevitable fallout from the leaks.

I would like to open this up for discussion here, but I have a few things to say before we begin.

Politicians benefit from citizens being polarized. They gain when we are unable to have real conversations about real issues, they profit from us demonizing each other. It is extremely easy to slap a label and all of its stereotypes on people who disagree with us. Let's all agree that we aren't going to do that here, today, aight? No slandering each other, no pointing fingers at one administration or another. This is a serious issue that deserves thoughtful discussion. Let's not allow it to devolve into petty snarky bickering that only serves to distract us from the real business at hand. If we do, the politicians have won! And really, no one wants that.

Respectful disagreements are welcome here. Namecalling, insulting, virtual eye rolling, and finger pointing (and a host of other -ings) are not.

I have always loved Wikileaks. I think an organization which serves as a clearinghouse of sorts for whistleblowers is desperately needed in the world today. Since serious investigative journalism bit the big one in the major news outlets, Wikileaks has provided a much needed service to institutions in many nations. Rooting out corruption in government is in the best interest of citizens.

That said, when this story broke, my heart froze and I immediately wanted to start banging my head on something to dull the fear that overtook my brain. There is absolutely no way that in 90,000 documents (over 200,000 pages) of classified information, all of the stuff that can hurt our troops and the Afghan people was scrubbed out. Last year I attended memorial services for men who gave a smidgeon too much information on unsecured lines of communication.

The amount of information that has just been delivered to the hands of the enemy (the Taliban--the ones who throw acid in the faces of little girls who dare to go to school and who set fire to women who stand up for their rights and slaughter young women who were raped)--will be used against us. There's a reason so many of the details of war are kept classified. Now the enemy knows which of their tactics are most effective, exactly how many of our troops were wounded--where, when and how. They know our routes, tactics, and equipment.

That's not all they know. When my husband was deployed, the Afghan interpreters used code names and worked far from their homes. To protect their families, their real names were never spoken. They were incredibly brave men who risked their lives to help international forces. We attempted to start a humanitarian project to send clothes, toys and school supplies to the children in my husband's region. We were unable to do so because if the kids were caught with even an ink pen from the Americans, they and their families were tortured by the Taliban. It would seem that Wikileaks didn't scrub enough from their documents and they now know the identities of Afghan informants.

I might need to invest in a helmet because I'm not sure how long I can suppress the urge to bang my head on stuff.

Not only will these people pay an enormous price for their courage, now the Afghan people are going to trust us even less than they did before. So much for hearts and minds.

I see this as a failure on the part of several different institutions. First, the label "classified" is abused by the people who have the power to apply it. It is used to cover up a variety of misdeeds on the parts of individuals, groups, and sometimes whole institutions. Its overuse is a clear example of the kind of corruption that Wikileaks attempts to spotlight. When classification is abused, it devalues the label and makes all classified information less safe. Thanks a lot, powers that be. I truly think that all wrongfully classified information should see the light of day. Fuck those asscovering sons of bitches who abuse their privilege.

That said, some information is deserving of its classified status. Wikileaks could have/should have done better. They need to fully understand the line between falsely classified information and information that will cost lives. They will not succeed in the role they have chosen for themselves if they cannot differentiate between the two and choose to protect lives when necessary.

Next, who leaked this? Does anyone really believe that a PFC--even working as an intel analyst--would have access to that much information? Really? If so, I see this as a failure of his entire chain of command. If my staff-sergeant husband can be held responsible when one of his PFCs drives drunk while he's on pass over a 4 day weekend, I'm pretty sure PFC Manning's chain should be held responsible for something of this magnitude which occurred while he was serving in Iraq. Really, though, I don't think the PFC did this, but he will probably pay the price just like SPC Lynndie England and a few other lower enlisteds paid the most for Abu Ghraib.

I am having trouble reconciling what I think about all of this. On one hand, I am glad that some of the stuff that has been released is of the "abusively classified" persuasion. But more than that I'm scared shitless about the stuff that needed to stay secret. I am worried about those Afghan families that will pay for their courage with blood. I am worried for my friends who are in Afghanistan now and for my husband and his comrades who will be back there soon. The release of this type of information in such huge quantities will not be without repercussion.

I am afraid that the shock wave will be felt most keenly on the front lines as usual, and the ripple that reaches the Fuckers on High will not affect them in the least. I am afraid that the American public in general doesn't care about any of this and that they were glad to see the headlines change back to LiLo and Gibsongate. I am afraid that none of this will bring about any positive change. I am afraid that the sector of the population that is cheering the leak don't have a fucking clue about the bloodshed it will cause, and I'm afraid the people who are screaming treason will succeed in silencing whistleblowers of all types.

I am even more afraid to send my husband back to war.

How has this news affected you? What thoughts do you have about its implications for your family, your unit, the nation and the war? What positives, if any, do you see in this situation? Please keep your discussions respectful and free of snark, vitriol, and insults. I'm a dictator here at VB and have no problems deleting comments that don't follow the rules. Practice free speech in your own space if you so choose.

The Tears He Shouldn't See

2010-07-20T12:11:00.003-05:00

I don't hide things from Soldier Boy when he is deployed. A lot of spouses do, and that's their choice. No one thing works for everyone. My husband would worry more if he thought I wasn't telling him all the important things that happen here while he's gone.

Until we watched that damned "PS I Love You" movie the other night, I thought I shared everything with him. As tears streamed down my face and I tried to control my breathing so he wouldn't know I was crying, I realized that I do hold something back. There are some tears he just shouldn't see.

He knows how much I fear for his safety when he deploys. We have had many conversations about what I would do if he doesn't return. We have made plans, we have made horrid jokes. (He wants to be stuffed and stood in the front entryway and I can decorate him according to the season). He reads my blog, for cryin out loud, with all the posts that are labeled "I don't want to be a widow." I mean, really, he knows.

But he hasn't seen. He shouldn't see the devastation in my eyes, feel the air leave my body and my knees go weak. He doesn't need the weight of my panic, despair, resolve, and loneliness in his mind as he performs his already difficult ritual.

Midway through the movie he figured out that I was crying. He held me close and I successfully stifled the sobbing. When it was over, I hid my face with my hair and sat outside in the dark until I composed myself. It was the night I listened to the crickets. Afterwards, I took a hot shower and found myself clinging to the cold tile walls for support and to bring me back to the present.

When I was done, my eyes were back to saying, "I love you, I would miss you, but we would be okay." They're not lying--all of those things are true. Those are the things he needs to know when he leaves, when he goes outside the wire, when he does all those things he trains to do.

He just doesn't need to be encumbered by the sight of my heart cracked wide open and bleeding through my eyes.

The Voices You Don't Hear

2010-07-16T09:03:00.003-05:00

"The silent ranks" usually refers to military wives, but I don't think we're so silent anymore. We have voices in blogs and news columns and books and we even have our own teevee show.

I think the silent ranks are our kids.

Army Blogger Wife's husband Gunner is deploying for the fourth time very soon. Their daughter Abs is a handful, but sincere, intelligent and determined. Sometimes I think I'm looking into Sprout's future when I read about Abs' antics.

Her latest one involved asking a very sensitive question in a crowd of 800 people during their latest pre-deployment brief. Read about it here, and have a hanky ready.

Our children bear so very much of these wars.

Cherished

2010-07-15T21:21:00.005-05:00

When my husband wakes up a little because I'm moving around trying to get comfy next to him, he doesn't get upset. Not even when I do it several times in just a few minutes. Never a harsh word. What does he do?

"Mmmmm.... I loooooove you, Megan," he sighs dreamily as he drifts back off to sleep.

Every. Single. Time. Even if we went to bed mad at each other.

I love that man a whole lot.

Crickets

2010-07-11T00:35:00.003-05:00

I was sitting outside recovering from watching a movie* that made me cry the entire damn time (and I don't usually cry at movies because I don't like being emotionally manipulated, but this is entirely beside the point).

After a while I realized that most of my life I have found comfort in listening to crickets and other nighttime bugs screech out their mating songs. Or maybe they're just bitching at each other because they keep running into each other in the dark. Or maybe it's mother crickets harping at babies to shut the hell up and go to sleep!

Again, not quite the point.

Anywho, as I was listening to them and letting them soothe me (at that time I was not pondering what they were saying to each other, by the by), I had an earth shattering revelation.

You're going to laugh.

I'll tell you anyway.

These are not the same crickets.

I know, right? I've been listening to the same sound my whole life and it's been made by who knows how many millions (billions?) of different crickets.

I'm not sure what the means, really, but it felt kind of hopeful at the time.**

The End.

*P.S. I Love You. I knew you were wondering.

**No, I haven't smoked or otherwise consumed any mind-altering substances.

***Crickets, man. Deep.**

Time for a Swear Jar

2010-07-08T21:23:00.003-05:00

"Look, Mama," as she thrust a picture she drew in my face. "It's a beautiful sunny day, with lots and lots of rainbows....." She smiled serenely as she tilted her head to the side.

That same sweet innocent little girl, in the same singsong tone, said to her little brother:

"Just shove it in your fucking mouth!"

Um, yeah. I know we're an infantry family and my husband uses the f-bomb as punctuation (my favorite is when he uses it as an ellipsis), but really. Time for a swear jar or other effective method of reducing its overuse in our household.

We did have a nice long talk about how there are some words that grownups say that she shouldn't. She grinned at me maniacally the whole time we talked.

I can't wait until she's a teenager. Ahem.

Strepaliscious

2010-07-08T09:31:00.002-05:00

I should learn to expect that when I get the house to the state of cleanliness that I strive for, I'm going to get sick. Every. Single. Time.

Or when I get in a good workout routine.

Within days I have some incapacitating illness so it all goes to shit. I swear it can never even last a whole week.

I don't like being sickly.

Whine whine pout pout stomp stomp.

And I would like the microscopic critters that are jamming needles into my throat to kindly stop now.

Stompity stomp stomp.

Chops

2010-07-06T09:10:00.005-05:00

It might take a little while to get my writing chops back. To rediscover them, I'm going to try (TRY) to write every day again.

The Army is causing its fair share of stress at the moment. Soldier Boy has applied to an awesome school. We don't know yet whether he was accepted. For a long time, we believed there were two potential outcomes: 1. He would be accepted and we would move by the end of this year. 2. He would not be accepted and deploy again sometime later this year. Not knowing which I needed to prepare for was pretty stressful in and of itself.

Now I realize there's a third, and more distressing option. 3. He will be accepted, deploy anyway, and we will move next year instead.

Really? Both? I don't want both. How am I supposed to get excited about his acceptance if we have to survive deployment first? And I do mean "survive." I know I'm a fatalistic pessimist, but I'm already flirting with anticipatory grief. Deployments are conquered day by day. There's no way I will be able to plan for the new life that will come with this school while working through deployment. I'm not even going to be able to be happy about it.

I know that's not very Zen, but there ya go.

EDIT: Dear Universe: If the choices are "both" or "just deployment," I will take "both" please. And thank you. No whining here. Moving right along.

In Which We Talk About Ourselves in the Royal Tense

2010-07-05T09:14:00.003-05:00

Many years ago, perhaps when I was a child or teenager, I developed a theory that every person is actually made up of three people. The first--the person you think you are. The second--the person you want to be. The third--the person you truly are. Since stumbling on to this idea, it has been my goal to make those three different people as close to one as possible. At the time, I knew they were very separate entities.

When I started blogging five years ago in August (seriously? 5 years?), Veritably Bare was the only place I let my true self out. I let out the dark, ugly deeds and feelings of my past, I talked about mistakes of my present, fears for my future. At first only two people I knew in real life knew about my writing. "Paranoid" doesn't even begin to describe how I was about making sure no one in "real life" knew the "real" me. I religiously checked my stats to see if anyone in my town had found it.

Over the years of writing I grew. A lot. As I found acceptance in the blog world, forgiveness from complete strangers, I started letting more of my real self show through in my every day life. Eventually I began to forgive myself for my mistakes, just like my friends already had. I have become stronger, more confident, and wiser. I have become more empathetic for other people struggling. Through writing with so few filters, I have learned who I am and am proud of that person.

My blog has helped me come close to reaching that goal--we three are becoming closer to being one.

I haven't written very much for the past year. Part of that is because I have less time to write. Part of it is that I feel, for the first time, that my blog is more filtered than my real life. It has taken me a long time to put words to the feeling I had about this space. I didn't really want to admit that I no longer felt "bare" here.

A few days ago I realize that I've been honest with everything I have said here in the last five years... everything except my name. "Sis B" and all the variations of her name no longer fit me. It feels like a veil I wear, covering up the things I lay out so bluntly. I will keep her name around for historical reasons--she did get me through some incredibly difficult times--but I am no longer her.

I am Megan.

And this is my life.

Because Haircuts are SUCH a BFD.

2010-06-24T22:48:00.002-05:00

My son would rather hate his hair and be called a girl by a myriad of well-meaning strangers than to face his father's anger by getting it cut.

For a while I was worried that he knew I didn't like his hair so he acted like he didn't like it, either. Then the tears came on multiple occasions because he doesn't like it covering his ears so he can't hear, it's hot, and people tell him what a pretty girl he is all the fucking time no matter how boyish his clothing.

It really wouldn't bother me that people think he's a girl if he was happy with how he looked. If he didn't cry because of it. If his hair was his choice.

I have assured him that whether he wanted to grow his hair to his butt and dye it purple or shave it all off or anything in between--I would let him have it how he wants it.

"My Dad won't let me get it cut. He told me no haircuts while I'm at your house."

"Daddy doesn't get to make the rules at Mommy's house. If you want it cut, we will get it done and then he can be mad at me--not you."

"He will be mad at me anyway even if you make me."

So I drop it. So I hold him when he cries over it. So I stand up for him to all the fucking people who think they're being nice when they tell him he's pretty.

.........

"You love Birch more than you love me," he said, his eyes brimming with tears. "You spend so much time with her and you don't have any left for me." His voice cracked.

It took us a few minutes to get down to the root of it--he is upset that she lives with me more than he does. I began by insisting that I love all the kids the same. It got trickier from there. I told him it wasn't my choice and I miss him terribly. That some days I cry a lot because he isn't here. That I want him here and that I love no one more than I love him. That made him smile through the tears that freely fell down his tan little cheeks. He needed some sort of explanation, some sort of truth. I don't know how much is too much. I don't want to say anything bad about his dad and he doesn't know about court so I used a ubiquitous "they" and let him derive his own meaning from that. "They'" say that you need to spend more time with your dad right now.

Yeah, that's the ticket.

.....

"I hate it when my Dad gets mad," he bawled into my shirt as we discussed his hair for the millionth time.

"Does he scare you?"

"Yes."

"Does he hurt you?"

"Yes, he whacks me."

"On your butt?"

"No, on my ribs. Right here," he pointed to his lower ribs on the side. My mind races with all the ways his 4th degree black belt father knows how to cause pain in that region without leaving marks. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

"Does he do it all the time?"

"No. Just sometimes."

"HD, I need you to listen very carefully. The next time that happens, I need you to tell your teacher at school, ok?"

"Yes."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

"Ok honey. It's not ok for him to hurt you like that."

.........

Who the fuck do you tell that stuff to that will listen and have the authority to do something about it? What does it fucking take? How do I go about this? I did everything "right" last time, but obviously it wasn't so goddamn right. My high road led me off a cliff last time.

The system didn't work last time. Not only did it not work, but it made things a million times worse. I don't trust it this time. We can't afford for things to get worse.

But can we afford to just sit here, either? The little boy in torment over a goddamned haircut because his father has some sort of serious mental illness when it comes to hair styles and will fly into a rage?

Since he can talk candidly now, will anybody listen? I'm afraid to even talk to him about any of it because I'm afraid it will sound like I coached him on what to say. I try really, really hard not to ask leading questions, but I couldn't help myself with the "does he scare you/does he hurt you" ones. Those are really important questions. The answers I got sent me reeling.

...........

"Do you want somebody to talk to like Birch has her counselor?"

"What's a counselor?"

"You know, the lady we go see with the candy in the box and Birch gets to talk to her as much as she wants?"

"Yeah...."

"Would you like to have somebody to talk to about what you think and feel, who can help you figure it out?"

"Yeah!"

.........

So I think I am going to try to get him in with our family counselor before he goes back to his Dad's house. Maybe she can give some perspective and have some idea about how to help him. I'm also sending an email to OF to let him know that HD is having some adjustment issues and he should see a counselor and that our insurance will cover it. Of course that will piss him off and he will refuse but at least it will be on the record. Right?

........

I know hate doesn't hurt anyone but the hater, but I hate that old fucker.

"Does it ever get any easier?"

2010-06-04T23:46:00.001-05:00

I was sitting on a nasty bed in a Holiday Inn in Killeen, Texas, when Jules called and asked me that. It was an April morning, maybe Easter, when she called in tears on the anniversary of her father's death. "Not really, no, it doesn't get easier... you just get used to it, I guess..."

Yesterday my mind was light years away from her, basking in the togetherness of my family and the excitement of an upcoming trip which involves picking up HD, seeing FlyGirl and photographing a wedding for an awesome girl. I took my cell phone outside and sat in the driveway to talk with HD. It was my favorite time of night when the light is fading and the air feels lazy. A faint scent of honeysuckle blended with fresh cut grass and mingled with car exhaust and whatever funky smell that is that emanates from the sewer grate in front of the house. It was perfectly warm and I let out a happy sigh as I listened to HD tell me about his day.

She crept up on me, just like that. I was somehow rocked back in time to a phone conversation with her--the words lost in foggy memory but the feeling of that moment perfectly preserved. I think of her daily but I'm so used to the void in the place that she used to occupy that I sometimes forget her beauty and what I'm missing.

I've gotten used to it, I guess... except for those moments I unexpectedly feel her life. Then the loss is as fresh as the day I got the phone call... three years ago today.

An Olympic Gymnast, I am not.

2010-05-26T21:28:00.005-05:00

My husband likes to say I fall down a lot.

He is so totally wrong. Yeah, I might sport bruises in odd places because I bumped in to something. Twice. Every now and then I stumble and get thrown off balance by invisible forces. And really, much like Sprout, my running looks more like continuous "almost eating the dust" rather than a quick means of travel, but I rarely, if EVER, fall.

So HA! Eat that, turd.

Ahem.

So really, this penchant for almost falling is not just in the physical realm. I kinda, maybe, sort of really have trouble maintaining balance in other arenas as well. I need to find the comfortable area between "all" and "nothing" and then manage to keep an even keel.

I need to find a way to channel my "This is NOT normal" energy with my "relax" philosophy in order to make progress. I must learn to work toward that in a steady, even, balanced way. I can't go haphazardly down the path when I allow my energy and emotions to go unchecked. I also can't sit the fuck down and quit because I choked those feelings off at the neck.

Everything I've learned in life comes back to balance. And baby steps. (I know, right?)

I have to work for this, I have to have hope and faith that it will one day produce the results I want, and I have to be unattached to the outcome in a way that I am not staking my and my family's well-being on one end result.

At times like this I miss the days that I could "let go and let God" and believe that somebody else was in charge. Alas! I no longer believe.

I should meditate more.

Psssst.... Relaaaaax.

2010-05-20T22:52:00.004-05:00

When I was a kid I always fell asleep thinking of how wonderful it would be to one day fall asleep with someone. "Naive" doesn't even begin to describe my perception of sex back then--I just genuinely wanted to fall asleep with a person. I was lonely in a big, empty way. Current life events have gotten away with me so I haven't spent any time working out what I was missing or from whom, but I'm guessing the answer will be fairly cliche when I finally do. With absolute certainty I can say that the yearning for touch got me into the most trouble in my life.

Tonight as I relaxed into my husband's warm embrace on the couch, I realized how I finally have what I wanted--needed--for so long. I don't have to fantasize about being held. Every night that he is home we fall asleep all wrapped up together. It is better than anything I ever imagined. It is far better than all the empty pursuits that led to so many bad things over the last 12 years. Being with him is calm, it is peace, it is home.

I look back and see all of my struggle, failure, and heartache as I searched for this. It seems like I did an awful lot of flailing back in those days.

As I sank onto the couch tonight I thought, "I wish I could just go back and tell myself to relax. Enjoy what you have, and one day you'll get what you need." I spent several minutes considering how my life would be different, and whether I would have ended up with him if it were different, and wishing I had relaxed and enjoyed everything instead of fighting so damn hard all those years.

That's when I felt the big ole brick to the brain and said, "Oh."

Zen has a nasty little habit of knocking the shit out of you when you least expect it. Since I don't have a DeLorean, I probably won't get to travel back in time to give myself the little "relax" lesson. That doesn't mean I can't learn it and apply it now at 31.

These little Zen lessons always make me feel stupid because the concepts are so maddeningly simple but my mind is completely blown and I come off sounding all, "Duuuuuude... that is deeeeeep, maaaaan."

So, first step: Relax. Next step? No clue. Maybe I'll figure that out while I'm relaxing.

Drowning in Concrete

2010-05-19T08:41:00.003-05:00

It is always there. It underlines every thought, action, word. It makes every breath take effort. It makes simple things feel like herculean tasks. It complicates every relationship, every conversation, every interaction.... every thing.

The longer I'm away from him the more I feel like I'm drowning and there's a million pounds sitting on my chest until I am literally, physically, gasping for air because it is so fucking hard to breathe.

Usually I keep it under wraps. I'm able to do my normal life stuff and enjoy things and be some sort of ok. I manage it well. Then sometimes something small puts a chink in that big ole dam and it all comes flooding through and FUCK why does it have to hurt so fucking bad? The cap I put on that hurt so I can function serves to numb me in other ways, too. I'm not as good of a mother as I can be when he is gone. It feels unfair to him and to the little ones here. Like I'm betraying him or me or us or our whole family and I know that's not true but I can't stop feeling like I'm betraying him by giving them so much while he gets so little. There's this veil between me and life when he is gone and it's lifted the second I see him, touch him, hear him again. Being numb is such a natural state that I don't even really notice it any more until something gets through and that well of hurt explodes.

I keep trying to tell myself that I don't deserve to grieve this way. He's not dead. I will see him in a few weeks. I get to talk to him every day. I know there are parents who will never have that luxury and I try to be grateful but really I am in a constant state of mourning.

I have to knock this shit off. My mother mourned for all of us kids. She still does, even my surviving brother and me. She looks at us and cries and I swore I would never, ever, do this to my kids and here I am sobbing with Sprout handing me tissues.

I realized last night that I was talking about HD being away from me like it's normal. Like it's the way things are, like it's just the accepted way of life and something in me screamed at that realization that NO this is NOT MY NORMAL and I WILL NOT FUCKING ACCEPT THIS and a whole slew of cursing that no one should be exposed to. But I also chose somewhere yesterday evening to read the custody order to make sure that my memory hasn't screwed up my visitation schedule and reading that thing makes me insane. And makes me feel powerless and like a failure and like I have absolutely no hope of changing anything and that yes, this is my normal and I have to accept it or I will be in a state of rage and sadness that will never end and it will hurt my family even more than I already have.

And so here I am, in a little puddle on the ground, slowly drowning in concrete, and gasping for air.

It will be ok. I will pull it together, find some healthy perspective, and move forward.

Maybe I should clean something.

This, That, and the Other Thing

2010-05-10T22:48:00.007-05:00

Mother's Day was a blast. SB was in the field so a few wives and I got together and pampered ourselves. It was fabulous.

I haven't spent mother's day with Heavy Duty in 5 years. This year, at least, OF allowed him to call me. That's a step up, I guess. My heart hurts without him and I am in a constant state of near depression when he is gone.

I got a fun picture of a raccoon near my trash can tonight.

The results from my LEEP showed that I have CIN-3 which exceeded the margins of the biopsy. My doctor says things are "probably ok" because he "burned off the margins anyway." I am not satisfied with "probably" when we are dealing with cancer. It's not like this shit is going to go away on its own and CIN-3 is one baby step away from carcinoma. "Probably" doesn't work for me so I am going to pursue a second opinion from someone who isn't gauging my health on their own ego.

The drama in my husband's FRG has reached epic proportions. If it's this bad with the husbands home, I cannot fucking wait until they deploy again. That's when the real crazy begins.
I'm waiting until July to find out if he will actually be deploying with this unit again or if we will be making another cross country move and a major MOS change. The not knowing is getting a little old.A few weeks ago was the anniversary of that fateful ringing of the doorbell. I still have problems with it. We were able to visit with Web's family recently and I just wanted to scoop the hurt off of them for a little bit. I can still see his eyes over the fence, hear his voice, damn near smell his breath after a couple of beers and a cigarette.

Crush loves mud.

Life is still pretty low key, but I am definitely feeling the stress of uncertainty. The thought of another deployment makes me absofuckinglutely insane but the thought of moving away from my close friends here and starting all over again just a year after we got here makes me a little insane, too. Not to mention prepping for a DITY that may not happen.

Sprout is adamant and fiery and wildly intelligent and will not ever fucking shut up. I crave quiet, so I stay up too late. By the end of the day, every noise feels like someone is stomping on my spine.

My dog smells.

Birch is moving past the "relief" stage of being away from her dysfunctional family to another stage that I'm not sure what to call. She is less agreeable, makes up memories about her other family, and seems to think that she might live there again one day. Quite simply, it is beyond "not safe" and she will not be returning to them. We have offered to pay for her mother to travel here to visit her, but her mother is disinterested. This woman has not bothered to call Birch ONE SINGLE FUCKING TIME in nearly a year. My heart hurts for her. I do what I can, but I will never replace her mom, no matter how fucked up she is or how badly she hurts Birch.

That's about it for the roundup. I need to schedule blogging into my day, because I really miss this place.

"I need my Daddy home."

2010-05-03T17:01:00.000-05:00

Good feelings gone!

I miss him. I don't care that he's within 30 minutes of home, that no one is shooting at him, and that he will be here in a couple of days.

It might be worse because this is just a tiny little reminder of the suck involved in the next deployment. I'm used to him being here, dammit. It feels good to be together, to live under one roof, to play and laugh and bicker and do all the things that old married people do.

I honestly haven't let myself think about the next one because I am still processing the last one. I don't want to do this again, to let him go, to be apart, to comfort my little girls in the middle of the night when they miss their Daddy, to worry about whether I will ever see him again, whether he will come home physically and mentally whole.

I do not want to go through another deployment.

And holy shit has living together made me soft. It's a 4 day field problem. Suck it up, yo.

Reintegration: Isn't there a field somewhere that needs you?

2010-05-02T22:01:00.000-05:00

Part of the Reintegration series.

I love my husband. Like, really, really love him. That's why I keep him around even when he's crawling all up under my skin.

We've had a few issues lately, to be honest. I like to think of them as growing pains. Part of it is that we have crisis mitigation down to a science. Lately we don't have any immediate crises (woot!). We are just living and working and parenting and doing. It's fabulous, but it has been so long since either of us have had this sort of down time that we get nitpicky with each other. We have somewhat impossible expectations of each other, sometimes behave like children rather than practicing effective communication, and we have somewhat different ideas about what we think daily life should look like. I'm not sure how much of this is reintegration, and how much is initial integration. This is the longest the Army has ever allowed us to live in one time zone, much less under one roof. Our four year anniversary is in November and I feel like a newlywed.

After we each have our respective hissy fit (I whine and he stomps... I wonder where our children get it.), we sit down and work out solutions like adults. We both feel that working through all of this makes us stronger in the end. Our marriage is not in trouble, we are just learning how to live together.

One of the things that makes our relationship work, as much as I hate to admit it, is missing each other sometimes. It's not that I think overseas deployments are healthy, but a few days in the field can be very beneficial. We forget the little annoyances and remember what we love about each other. We appreciate each other more--he appreciates that I create a warm home with yummy, nutritious food, and I appreciate that he takes out the trash and removes dead animals and liberates insects to the outside world. I feel bad for him for sleeping and working out in the woods in a monsoon and he misses the comfort of our bed. I really think a lot of civilian marriage problems could be resolved if couples spent some forced time apart.

Anyway, he hasn't been away in a really long time for more than one night. I am ashamed to say this, but on multiple occasions lately I have found myself looking at him thinking, "Don't you have a field exercise to go to? Training? School? Something!?" I know that's horrible, because he is actually scheduled for 2 schools that will take him away from us for a total of 7 weeks over the next couple of months. Both of them are in preparation for the next deployment which is coming up faster than I care to acknowledge. I know I will regret every angry thought or word I've had while he was home. I know I will wish we had more time together.

For the moment, though, I am ok with him being out in the field for the next few days. I got used to not having to check in, to hanging out with my friends whenever I wanted, with not having to account for every moment of my day. When he comes home in a few days it will be a relief to have him here. I already miss him and am sad that he is muddy and wet. When he gets here I will be super glad to check in about everything I do. I will have had my fill of me time and be lonely for him again.

I love him lots.

Reintegration: Where My Girls At?

2010-05-02T13:21:00.003-05:00

Part of the Reintegration series.

I know it's been a while since my last reintegration post, but I got a little busy. I also know that we are closer to our next deployment than we are to the last. My favorite therapist used to say it takes twice as long together as it did apart for a family to function naturally again. As military families during wars with a demanding OPTEMPO, we are constantly in a state of reintegration.

During Soldier Boy's last deployment, I developed some strong, fun, supportive relationships with other wives from the unit. We spent several days a week together, with barbecues, shopping, eating out, etc. Last minute get-togethers were not uncommon. It was the first time in my adult life that I had a group of friends and the flexibility to hang out wherever and whenever we wanted.

We did the hard stuff together, like the memorial services. We did fun things together like having Mother's Day brunch. We laughed and cried and shared the burden. Sometimes we would descend on one another with tweezers to pluck errant eyebrow hairs. (Or in my case, to rid me of my Bert unibrow.)

When it was time for the boys to come home (we are an infantry unit so I'm not being un-PC by saying "boys"), we collectively lost our minds a little bit. The anxiety amped up as we wanted to be excited about their return, but the fear for their safety remained high. We were each nervous about our reunion--some newlyweds, some new parents, some lost weight or gained weight or changed in a million other ways. What if they weren't attracted to us? What if we were both so different that we had nothing more in common? What if they didn't like our new, strong, independent selves? We planned welcome home surprises together, helped each other pick out outfits, and painted signs.

The bonds we forged through the deployment are unlike any other. They are completely indescribable unless you have experienced them. Our friendships were bigger than our political, religious, and ideological differences. We survived our homefront trenches together.

Our guys came home on different flights at different times on different days. Still, my girls went together. We held hands, we danced like freaks to the music the DJ played in the gym, and took pictures of each other crying because we're cruel like that. We stood there trembling, with tears streaming, when the soldiers came running into the gym. We stayed until the families were reunited and then we walked away.

After the guys came home, we no longer had time for each other. The boys had light duty days and then 30 days leave, and then we all PCSed to different places. We no longer had time to spend together, couldn't drop what we were doing to go to the craft store, couldn't have impromptu barbecues. We were busy remaking our families and we knew that we shouldn't infringe on each other at that critical time.

I really miss my girls. Thankfully, a few of them are here with me at the new post. Lately we have been getting together at least once a week, and that is really nice. Learning how to have a healthy family and have time for friends at the same time is a little difficult. It requires more planning. My girls and I are learning how to support each other here during post/pre-deployment time and my life is becoming much more full and enjoyable.

Several of my girls are spread out around the world, now, though. I miss them terribly, but I am VERY grateful for Facebook. It is an uncomfortable truth that sometimes you lose a little something when they come home from deployment. Having him home safe is worth it, but I still find myself wondering from time to time... Where my girls at?

How to do a DITY: Part One "Foundation"

2010-04-23T08:44:00.005-05:00

Series: Introduction

You might not have orders yet. Heck, you might not know where you're going yet, or if you're even going. Even if you just sense a disturbance in the force and interpret it to mean that you will soon be flung to the far end of the continent, you should start getting ready. You can get your structure in place and be ready to fill in details on the fly. That's right--because moves are always done on the fly. Especially our kind of moves.

MOVING NOTEBOOK

Materials: 2-3" Binder, Tabs, Sheet Protectors, Zippered Envelope to fasten in the notebook, Notebook paper.

In the front, put your plain paper so you can scribble notes when you need to and then move them to the appropriate tab.

Tabs:

Calendar
Print a calendar off your computer with a monthly view from the current date through your move dates, plus a few weeks. Your calendar will be the most important tool in getting everything accomplished. This is not for dentist appointments, it is for your master moving plan. If you know specific dates for your PCS, fill them in. (In pencil.)

Orders
When the PCS gods shine on you, make five copies of the orders and place them in a sheet protector in your binder.

Current Housing
If you are on post or renting, you need your rental agreement. You need a list of things you must do to clear housing. Find out how much notice you must give for vacating the property, and mark the appropriate date on your calendar, if possible. If you own your house, you need a whole other notebook for your paperwork. In this one, though, you could make a list of things you need to do for the PCS move, so you can at least track it in relation to the DITY. Or you could skip this tab if it doesn't work for you.

Trip Plan
Once you know where you are going, you need a map marking the route from your current location to your destination. Yes, you may have a GPS and a phone and all the wonderful dohickeys of modern technology. But most likely you will be driving through unknown territory where those gadgets may or may not work. Roadtrip gremlins are nearly as notorious as deployment gremlins. Do your future self a favor and print off a map with written instructions on how to get where you're going. Here you will also include hotel location and contact information for your planned stops.

Rental Truck and Other Services
If you are renting a truck for your DITY move, you need to keep all of your information, starting with your reservations online. Then you will keep your rental agreement here as well as emergency contact information for your rental service. If you hire folks to load the truck or pack your belongings, include that here. If you rent a POD, keep all related information in page protectors in this tab.

DITY Brief
Most posts require you to attend a DITY brief before you are authorized to be reimbursed for moving your own things. I attended with my husband to make sure we got all relevant information. It was at this brief that we were told the rate at which we would be paid, the exact protocol for weighing our belongings, and an assortment of helpful information. I am not including DITY brief information in this series. You need to get that from the people who will be paying you. I am just offering practical advice for the move itself. As soon as you think you might want to do this, contact your Transportation office and set up a time to attend the DITY briefing. I cannot stress this enough--YOU WILL NOT GET PAID IF YOU DO NOT GO TO A DITY BRIEFING. You must go to it first, before you spend a single dollar towards moving expenses. In any event, turn up to your DITY Brief with your shiny moving notebook and the instructor will love you. You will have the perfect place to put your DITY brief paperwork, since you already have a tab and page protector waiting for it. Don't forget to write your brief date on your calendar.

Receipts and Weigh Tickets
There is nothing as important to doing a DITY as keeping track of your receipts and truck weight tickets. If you do not do this perfectly, you will not get paid and all of your hard work and out-of-pocket expense will be lost. Put your zippered envelope here for regular receipts, and several empty page protectors for the other receipts and weigh tickets. You may not use all the ones that you save, but that is way better than not having all the ones you need to use.

Future Housing
Whether you are renting on post or off, or planning to buy, you have probably accrued some paperwork about the housing at your destination. Put that information here, so that it is at your fingertips when you get there. At the very least you will need the contact information for on post housing. They can provide a wealth of information even if you choose not to live on post.

**These are all the tabs I can think of at the moment. If I come up with more, I will come back and edit this post and make note in my current post to come back and check here for more information**

I Love Me Book

Soldiers have these, we need them, too. Even if you aren't planning to do a DITY, you need an I Love Me Book. Grab another notebook with sheet protectors and put all of your important documents in it--birth certificates, social security cards, diplomas, marriage licenses, divorce and child custody orders, etc. All of your children's important documents need to be in the book as well. This book must be kept in a safe location at all times (preferably a fireproof safe, if you have one), and must never be packed. I labeled mine in big letters "DO NOT PACK" so if anyone else decided to throw a few things in boxes (which they didn't, but I digress), they would pause before chucking it in with the rest.

Medical Records

This one is probably too big to put in one notebook. You will need a file folder with the name of each dependent in your family. You will also need one of those big accordion file thingamabbobers with the elastic band like attorneys use to store all the file folders. You won't be filling these up until right before the move, but you need to have it ready to go because near the end you're going to be a wreck. Your future DITY moving diva self will thank you.

School Records

Just like the Medical Records file--a folder for each child, an accordion file to store them.

And there you have it--the foundation for a successful DITY move. If I have left anything out of this part, or if you have specific questions, feel free to leave them in the comments. I will be expounding on the components of each of the tabs in the Moving Notebook. This post is about paperwork organization. The next post will be about planning. Eventually we will move on to the "doing" part.

Ring Around the Rosies

2010-04-22T21:23:00.004-05:00

I remember people from my childhood, when they were still fresh and ignorant. I remember them as they were then, before the chaos and difficulty of real life struck, when they were full of dreams and hope and stupid ideas.

Like my friend Jules... I remember when her hair touched her butt and we walked through the hallways of our dingy junior high, discussing how she grew it out real long and then chopped it all off for fun. The time before her brother died, while her family was still whole and her big concerns were nail polish and which hairspray held up her teased bangs. I have held those moments in my mind all these years, wishing that I could give them back to her for just a little while to relieve her from the torment of believing that she was responsible for her brother's death. Neither of us would have imagined the end of her story, or that it would have come so soon.

Somehow, if I could have just envisioned them clearly enough, I would have given her back to that carefree moment.

Now my cousin, who is four years younger than me... the one who played with me at Nanny and Aunt Pearl's house... the one who taught me what "C-section" means to my extreme disbelief, who also taught me the phrase "shacked up" which I didn't understand for many years thereafter... She was the very first baby I ever fed a bottle to, which I can remember as clear as day as she laid in her bassinet and I stretched up on tippy toe to hold it for her.

Her baby boy is diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia and he is getting his third dose of chemotherapy today.

I haven't seen her in years, since we both became too cool to hang out with each other. I was a nerd and she was some other cliquish sort. We would acknowledge each other at family picnics out by the river when she came down from Virginia, but our friendship was in the early years before either of us knew any better.

I wish that somehow I could give her some respite in my memory, where she was an obnoxious little girl at TCBY or the Nature Center or Nanny's back yard or down at the river. It would be nice if she could go back and be that "before" little girl who didn't have a clue about the pain in her future. I wish I could lift her burden for just a short while so that she didn't have to bear it alone.

My heart is heavy and a bit clumsy to tote around today. I would like to break it open and let all the giggling little girlies spill out to play.

"Mama? Is the human going to bring us pizza?"

2010-04-08T21:48:00.000-05:00

No, honey, some mythical creature from your land of origin will be delivering it tonight.

Where the heck does she get things like "human"?

In other news, I had my LEEP earlier this week. They put me under in that twilighty way that they do stuff and then they burned off a good chunk of my cervix. Woohoo! Hopefully we will have lab results soonish so we will know what the next step may be. I'm feeling a bit craptastic and will be glad to be not feeling craptastic sometime soon.

Remember a year ago when my body revolted against me and I felt like shit and nobody knew why? Nobody knows why now, either. But I'm feeling mainly better (except for post-LEEP craptastrophe) and have been exercising again. Swimming, biking... One day I might pretend to run. It feels good. It makes me happy. and the babies love the bike trailer.

My computer gave up the ghost a few weeks ago. You know what's nice about that? It is a 5 year old Gateway desktop that I bought off the shelf. It waited until we got tax returns and have enough to purchase a new computer. I am just waiting for it to be delivered. Oh, and I'm able to start it in Safe Mode so I was able to move all of my data onto an external hard drive. Isn't that nice? Living without it has not been so nice but being able to buy another one is quite nice so we will focus on that part.

The other nice thing is that I just now figured out how to post to blogger from my phone. Isn't that swell? I could hjave been doing this all along, which is a little frustrating to know. But we will be focusing on the swell part and forgetting the frustrating part. Right?

Yes, I did take Vicodin tonight. Why do you ask? I may or may not have pushed myself entirely too hard for the last two days and I may or may not have been in a decent amount of pain. The non-illicit drug may or may not be contributing to the understandability of this post.

That is all. I shall await the arrival of the pizza-bearing human now. (Not really, I think bed is the best option at this time.)

How to Do a DITY: Introduction

2010-03-18T11:56:00.004-05:00

Did you vote yet today? (It's ok, this will still be here when you get back.)

So you're thinking of doing a DITY move. Is it worth it? Are you going to kill each other? Why on earth would you want to consider something so insane?

For us, it was worth it. They pay 95% of what they would pay a contractor. The extra money paid for the attorney to get custody of Birch. And new tires and front end work on the van. And Christmas. We didn't even use our entire weight allowance.

We also didn't kill each other. We kept waiting for the horror to begin, for the breakdowns, the broken stuff, the Springer fights in the Wally World parking lot. None of that. I will say that I was stressed out and did most of the work until the day we drove away, though. That was not cool. We drove over 1,000 miles with a 24' UHAUL pulling a car trailer with our small car on it. I drove behind in the Mystery Machine (an old-ass "luxury" conversion van) with three of the children and no DVD player. Stella (the cat) rode along with Soldier Boy. We pulled it off with about 4 weeks notice.

We will be doing it again. Maybe soon. Like, July or August. For fucking real. And we'll be driving further. With a puppy. At least this time I have a few months to think about this, and prepare for the possible move. Right?

Here are some pros and cons to consider when wondering whether this is the right insane decision for you:

Pros:

1. If you plan well, you can make some decent bank. The military pays according to mileage (between locations, not the actual distance you drive) and weight. As I mentioned previously, you make 95% of what a professional contractor would make.

2. You get control of your stuff. It gets packed and labeled just the way you like. You can find the stuff you want when you get there. The chances of losing a box or piece of furniture are cut down when you're the only one touching them.

3. If you get stuck without housing at your destination, you can store your belongings in a location where you have access to them. This was a lifesaver for us this time around.

Cons:

1. If you plan poorly, it can cost you a pretty penny and make your effort not worth it.

2. It is a lot of work.

3. You and your spouse need to work together extremely well to make it happen. Patience, forgiveness, and kindness are necessary during your most stressful moments.

4. You don't get a leisurely PCS. The intricacies of the hauling and towing don't allow for sightseeing or non-direct travel. You're too tired to want to see anything other than a clean pillow, anyway.

If you folks are lucky, I might post a "Step One" one day in the future. Wouldn't that be wonderfie?

"I will call you 'Oh Barren One'."

2010-03-18T11:55:00.000-05:00

No removal of wombs just yet. I will have a LEEP on the 6th of April, which will let us know whether this really is cancer. Maybe it's only almost cancer! The LEEP will let them know what it is and if they got all of it. The doctor agreed that if we don't get it all, or if I have HSIL again, then we will move forward on removing the whole kit n' kaboodle.

Isn't that just so exciting!?

Pimpaliscious

2010-03-12T22:17:00.003-05:00

Howdy there, ya'll.

You may (or may not) have noticed the handy new widget right above my new posts. It's going to stay there until the end of the month. What is it, you ask? Here's a quick rundown:

Pepsi is giving away lots of money to charities. Aren't they great?

The money goes to the charity ideas that get the most votes. Some of my very dear friends are volunteers at an organization in Northern Virginia called SERVE. They have applied for a $50,000 grant from Pepsi and they need to be in the top 10 charities to get the money. Right now they are #8. They won't stay there long if good people like you and me don't vote every day. Their plan for the funds is very specific--their food storage equipment is severely outdated. They desperately need a new freezer unit and a compressor to repair an existing one.

Here's what they do:

Want to help feed hungry families, but don't have the means? Want to keep government handouts at a minimum? Lending a helping hand has never, ever, been so easy.

Go to this site. Click the "Vote now" button. Then you have a choice to sign up for it or use Facebook to vote. Choose your path. Make sure if the button for voting still says "Vote now," that you click it again. Your vote doesn't count until you see the big "Thanks!" where the voting button once was. Do it today. Do it tomorrow. Do it every day until the end of the month.

A few clicks can give $50,000 to help feed hungry families. It takes less time than reading this post. For realz, yo!

If you really want to lend your support, promote this on your Facebook and/or add the widget to your blog.

Clickety clickety feeds the masses.

Go go gadget!

"Stop eating the deer skat!!!"

2010-03-09T22:21:00.003-05:00

Followed closely by, "Mama? What's skat?"

At least my directive was aimed at the puppy and not one of the children, although I wouldn't put it past Crush to pull the same trick.

Oh, yeah. We got a puppy. Her name is Wednesday Rose. All we needed was another baby. She's an adorable pain in my ass. (I'm glad we got her and she is great for Birch. I do like her a lot. I'm just a raging bitch at the mo'.)

That's not the point of my third post of the night.

I find out Thursday if they think I have cervical cancer. We've been down this road many times before. I'm ready for it to be done now. If it is cancer, I will request a hysterectomy. If it is not cancer, I might request one anyway. I've already come to terms with losing something I consider to be my womanhood. I have no breasts, I have no hips... I have a womb that carried my three amazing children. And I might have them cut the sucker out because it could be trying to kill me. I have two friends who have had this and opted for hysterectomies. It keeps us from having to continue this cycle for the next however many decades before it finally DOES turn into cancer. I have the strain of HPV that causes it. I have had severe dysplasia for years. I have had many scrapings and cuttings and biopsies. I want it over with. I am done having children. Let's be done with wondering if my cervix is trying to eat me from the inside out.

We will see soon whether I've collected that "Cancer Card" I wrote about several years ago.

Yet another reason to limit your sexual partners that does not involve a "thou shalt not."

In other, but related news, I'm doing the Relay for Life. If you'd like to make a donation, drop me an email and I'll send you a link. Since it has my real name and other identifying information, I'm not posting it on my blog. If you'd like to donate and you're not a regular commenter, you can send it to my Paypal account and I will put it towards the Relay. I'm going to be writing the names of folks who have battled cancer on my t-shirt, so if you make a donation, feel free to include the name of a person if you are doing it in their honor.

Adeeebedeeebedeeee... that's all folks!

"We don't touch our potty parts in the kitchen!"

2010-03-09T22:09:00.004-05:00

Sometimes I might seem to have a better handle on things than I actually have on most occasions. I try to have good attitude. I try to remember the perspective I have gained through the difficult circumstances in my life. I try to appreciate what I have and not worry about what I don't have. I try to be Zen and be present. I try to see the upside of situations.

Call me Pollyfuckinganna.

And sometimes I am overwhelmed by the tininess of my house and the loudness of my children and the things that get FREAKING SPILLED ALL THE FREAKING TIME and the husband who is here but not present and the puppy that nips everybody's pants and the mess, the constant mess, no matter how constantly I work to get it clean and get the appointments scheduled and get everything everyone needs for every occasion and be in charge of everything ALL THE FREAKING TIME and I want to run away.

Seriously, I should be grateful. They are all under my roof and not scattered to the four corners of the earth with people shooting at them and/or trying to burn down the house they live in and/or taking them on drunken motorcycle excursions.

Seriously. I should be grateful.

But some days? I want to run away and be myself for 5 minutes without someone calling my name or spilling something on me or peeing on something that was not intended for being peed on.

You might have already guessed, but today? Today is one of those days.

"Mama! This is the BEST day of my life!!!"

2010-03-09T21:40:00.005-05:00

I spent the day with HD at school last week. That was his reaction.

It only lasted until we met up with OF, who flipped his fucking lid and called me names in front of the children.

Did you know that I'm an "ego freak" because I signed HD's report card?

No shit. Ego freak. For fucking real.

I often forget how awful things were with that man, and the horror of the years that he tortured me after I left. Although I still suffer because HD is not with me, I no longer am under the thumb of that megolomaniacal ass. I somehow manage to forget the amount of crazy he brings to the table until I am around him again for... oh... say... 5 minutes. My friend (who has had a million different names on this blog but none that have ever stuck), to whom we shall now refer as "Gordon" (as in Gordon Freeman, because he looks just like him), gave me a mantra 5 years ago in the midst of the OF insanity. "He is crazy and evil and he's never going to change."

It is true. The man is batshit crazy and evil. But also intelligent and charming, when he wants to be. Which is what makes him one dangerous sonofabitch and why he still has a gaggle of girlfriends hanging around all the time.

I am stronger than I used to be, though. I stood my ground. I did not allow my children to see me being bullied, although they did see him call me names. I didn't defer, apologize, or placate the maniac.

I was crushed, though, that HD's "best day of his life" was turned into something so ugly. We talked about it briefly afterward. I apologized for arguing with his dad. He said it was silly that anyone would be angry about the things that angered his father. My heart is broken for my little boy and there is absolutely nothing I can do that will make it better. I cannot make his dad uncrazy. I cannot make him reasonable. I cannot make him put HD first. All I can do is be a good Mommy, but even that is hard with the OF trying to intercept me at every pass.

Dear people who are thinking about having a baby with someone who you are not 100% certain you want to be attached for the rest of your life: DON'T FUCKING DO IT. It is not fair to either of you and it borders on cruelty to the child you bring into the world. STOP NOW. In fact, if you are just fucking someone that you're not sure you want to have children with, stop that, too. It is not worth the risk. Not for you, not for them, not for the child you might create.

And that, my friends, is coming from an atheist.

Here is photographic evidence of my serious infraction on the supreme authority of his Royal Majesty OF. See how heinous I am? I let HD's sister come to school to visit him and I sat in on the class and took pictures!

Somebody call CPS.

Hi.

2010-02-25T09:09:00.009-05:00

Yeah, that's not a life quote. It's just me, saying hi.

Things here are hectic and wonderful and totally boring to write about. A few things, though:

A new blog from a recently wounded warrior's spouse. She is sharing her journey into her family's new life. Talk about perspective.

I have had to enable comment moderation because some spammers are getting past the word verification. Sorry, ya'll. I will post all the comments that are from non-spammers, even if they are from anon assholes.

I'll give you a few pictures to tide you over until the next time I decide to write.

If we ever record an album, this could be the cover.

Birch took a few fun pictures of us. It was the first sun and warmth we saw in months, please pardon the crazy manic look in my eye.

Birch is all abuot the Raiders. And climbing. She's doing awesome here.

Sprout is wild and as adamant as ever.

Crush. (No explanation necessary)

"In the event you one day have the opportunity to come home without legs...."

2010-02-09T10:18:00.004-05:00

I wonder if normal families have conversations that start out like that.

Today is Julie's birthday. I think. Unless it's tomorrow. I met her when we were 12 and I still can't, for the life of me, remember if her birthday is today or tomorrow. Cat will probably clear this up for me in comments, because her birthday is either tomorrow or the next day.

I am such an awesome friend.

A couple of weeks ago I found a ziploc baggie that was put away in a strange spot. I opened it up and found Jules' old hair scrunchies that we took from her house after the fire. I pulled out the purple one I remember the best and pressed it to my face. Suddenly, she was right there with me, her familiar scent filling me up and sending hot daggers right through my heart. I never even noticed how she smelled when she was alive, but that hair band brought her so close I could have hugged her. Although my life has gone on, and I don't think of her as much as I once did, and I don't lay awake at night wracked with grief... I still have guilt and anger and sorrow grip me when I think of how her life ended. It makes me want to punch someone, to scream at a God I don't believe in.

This isn't what I sat down to write. I don't really remember what that was going to be. I saw the date and everything else skedaddled from my foggy brain.

I'm sitting at the big window in our dining/living/office/music area (tiny room, lots of uses), watching the snow fall. The woods are summoning me, as usual. In that place is my understanding of life and the relationship between all its elements--hope, beauty, tragedy, loss, pain. It is there that I see the tenacity of life and the purpose of death. It is there that I find peace in the midst of despair.

My holy place beckons. Maybe there I will find some understanding of the loss of my friend's life and the loss of a stranger's limbs in a place far away.

"Nothing says I love you like...."

2010-01-25T21:28:00.004-05:00

"....taking your girlfriend to the discount peep show on a Saturday night!" --collaborative statement by Soldier Boy and me, after seeing the "Couple's discount" sign on the local hut de peepiness.

For most of my life, people have called me creative. I played the piano beginning at three, developed my sketching ability in junior high school, began stretching my writing muscles in high school and college. I disagree with being called creative. I am a mimeograph, at best. I can reconstruct other people's music based on the blueprints they put to paper. I can replicate things that I see in photographs by drawing them. I can write about my real life. What I cannot do is come up with a single original idea. I cannot improvise piano, cannot draw pictures in my head, cannot make up a fiction story to save my freaking life.

I'm a copycat. Call me Xerox.

Sometime in my early adulthood, I realized that there seemed to be a wall between me and inspired creativity. I could sense its presence within me somewhere, but I couldn't figure out how to get through or over or under or around the wall. So I waited. I honed my skills (I do not object to being called "skilled") in the hopes that one day I would find my way to the other side and be able to mix skill with creativity to make new and wonderful things.

I think I'm almost there. There's this creative energy that is volleying around in chaos in my head (and heart and body, it seems). It feels like the dam broke or pandora's box opened or somebody tore down that wall. All that energy feels unleashed, and I am currently trying to figure out how to harness it. Everywhere--and I do mean everywhere--I look, I see something I want to create. Photography, drawing, woodwork, music, computer design, painting, crafting... I'm spinning in circles with so many options and I've been under so many time hacks lately that I haven't been able to really capture it.

To some degree, I have focused it into Christmas presents and Birch's birthday party. Most of those projects were from somebody else's blueprints, but I was able to tweak them and add some of my own personal spin.

This is all so fucking exciting I can hardly contain myself. My heart is welling up and gonna explode and it's absofuckinglutely glorious. GLORIOUS. I have waited for this my whole life and the opportunities are ENDless. I have to focus some of this adult ADD though and pour the energy into some specific tasks. First I need to finish a couple of projects that have some loose ends. But every day I have been letting myself delve into crafty creative artsy or otherwise inspired goodness, if just for a little bit. It's my own personal Renaissance, and I hope this era lasts for a good long while.

You know what has slowly eroded over the years to allow this to happen? My expectations. I am no longer attached to expected outcomes. I am open to possibility. I have an idea of where I want to go, but if I get diverted, it's ok. I can enjoy that place and find beauty there, too. It really is damn near everywhere. Zen, baby.

This actually ties in, very closely, with my last couple of posts. Here are the things I now know about myself, nearly 13 years after I began college: I am Skilled. Strong. Creative. Capable. Experienced.

I want to help people. I have always wanted to help people, from the time I was a tiny child. It is what I do best, what fills up my heart. It is my second purpose in life (the first to raise independent and good-natured adults from the midgets with whom I have been entrusted.)

The big question was HOW? I have had more than one therapist and many friends suggest that I would make a good counselor. In college I considered pursuing an MSW and working with homeless people, but an extra few years of school seemed like FOREVER. (Funny how time perspective changes as we age and poop out midgets.) I toyed with the idea recently, but I do not think my calling involves sitting in a room being paid to listen to people. It just doesn't work for me. I left my mind open, though.... and I kept pursuing my creative interests.... and I considered the groups of people I want to help..... and I looked at the availability of services for that group of people.... and eventually, the shadow of a plan began to form in my head.

The plan has grown. I am ready to go back to school. I want to complete my current degree and then pursue a Master's. By the time my schooling is complete, my children will all be in school and I will be able to work. I need to research the GI Bill more, but I think that I will qualify for my husband to transfer the benefits to me. There are also other scholarship and grant options to pay tuition. There is a degree program at a local university and also one at the university at our next expected station.

With all respect to the whims of the Universe and the knowledge that no plan survives intact, I know what I want to be when I grow up.

I want to be an art/music therapist, helping veterans and military families cope with trauma, PTSD, and other war related stress. I think that various artistic outlets allow for a more direct route into a person's psyche than just talking. My healing comes from creating, my mind processes pain and trauma and it flows out into whatever I am making. Even cooking becomes an outlet sometimes. I don't have a clear view of the end of this journey, but I have a pretty good idea about the beginning.

The Road goes ever on and on....

"Pssst...Pssst...Mama! I really like dead birds!"

2010-01-09T11:49:00.003-05:00

This week has been busy, so I've left you all to ponder my raging jealousy. That was not my intent, but there ya have it.

When you have a moment of realization like that, you can't just leave it hanging out there. You have to decide what you're going to do with it. Choices range from "Hell yes, I should be jealous! He's a lucky motherfucker!" to "My life is so horrible I want to crawl in a hole and die!" to ignoring it (which is a combination thereof) to "I need to do something about this." The resolution I have finally reached is that I am responsible for my own life. I cannot sit around waiting for the perfect circumstance in which he is home and able to help and the kids are older and not so needy and we live in one place for longer than 18 months and I get custody of HD and we have enough money to pay for preschool or regular babysitting so I get time to myself and the sky matches whatever color is my favorite for the day....... I have to work with what is now. I am responsible for me. I am responsible for my own happiness and fate. It is up to me to decide what I want, what my goals are, and to work to achieve them. Here is the process I am using to determine my path:

I looked hard at my jealousy of Soldier Boy. Do I really want to deploy for 12 months, leave the family, sit in a tent with a bunch of other people I may or may not like, and get shot at on a regular basis? Um.... no. For a brief moment I fantasized about enlisting. I let myself forget about what I want for my kids, and I thought through BCT, AIT, what MOS I would choose (of course I would be a pogue), and what day to day life as a soldier would be. I thought longingly of the perfect bun they apparently teach you to put your hair in (I am such a dork), of contributing to our family income, of being the old woman in the midst of a bunch of teenage girls and earning their respect. It wasn't long before reality sunk in about early AM formations, political bullshit at work, being a low person on the totem pole, and having to keep my mouth shut in the face of no end of red tape stupidity. So, in a world where I wasn't putting my kids' interests first, would I want to enlist as an E-0 in the Army at 30? Not hardly.

So, I'm really not jealous of his being a soldier.

What I am left with is career. As a young girl I would have told you that by 30 I would have be an architect or college professor or video game programmer. (My interests were varied, what can I say?) I not only have no career, I have no career for the foreseeable future, no goal, no "one day." There is no plan or hope or even a wild dream of what I will do when this stage of my life is complete. I want a career. I know it isn't possible right now, but I want to work toward that.

A lot of time has been spent thinking about what I want to be when I (and the kids) grow up.

What goes hand in hand with career? Education. I am jealous that Soldier Boy was able to complete his degree in computer science (one that I pursued in my early higher educated life), even with family and working. He did this before we met, but I haven't been able to finish mine. Rather, I haven't made finishing my degree a priority, and therefore have not done so. (This personal responsibility shit sucks.) I started out studying computer science, and then took a complete 180 and studied English instead. Then I "took time off" in order to "decide what I want to do with my life" so I don't "waste more money" on my education... and never went back. Advice to anyone thinking of taking time off when you are young and unattached: Do it now. It is incredibly difficult when you have to work it around marriage and children and jobs. Four years is not a very long time, even though it seems like an eternity right now.

Secondary to career and education, and more easily remedied, is time for myself and exercise. Those go hand in hand. Soldier Boy will be promoted (hopefully on 1 Feb), and we will have a little extra money in the budget. I plan to use some of it for babysitting 3 mornings a week so that I can work out. I might even enroll Sprout in a morning preschool those days, since she is begging to go to school. The exercise will help my overall energy level and mood, and it will get me some much needed time alone. I will feel smokin' hawt, which will be nice. Win/win/win/winnity/win. In the short term, I need to get up a little early and do my yoga like I used to do. I don't have to go to a gym to exercise. It would just be nice. Right?

Lastly, I have examined my life the way that it is right now. Things are good. Really good. I am so fortunate to get to pour so much into our kids, and I truly, truly, believe that it makes a difference. Our kids are amazing. They love to read, enjoy learning to cook, are mostly kind, generous, and caring. They are resilient and strong and wildly intelligent. They love to make music and create things with their hands. Their imaginations entertain me daily. Although I get frustrated often with the constant demands and having no time to think, for the most part, I enjoy my time with them. By raising them to be thoughtful, conscientious citizens, I am helping to shape the world. I'm cool with that.

My task is to strike a balance between taking care of them and taking care of myself. If we continue down the path that we have been going down for a few years, it is going to hurt the whole family. The next installment will be the loose plan that is forming to satisfy my yearnings for education and career.

The redhead ran up to me while I was on the phone, and "pssssst'd" until I paid attention. She gleefully announced her love of dead birds and then ran off. I was concerned about what I would find in the living room, since the cats had been in and out all morning. Turns out Birch put temporary tattoos on her arm, one of which was a punkish dead bird with x's on its eyes. Sprout lurves her some dead birds. I'm just glad there weren't fresh feathers all over the couch.

FAIL Blog: FAIL

2010-01-05T18:17:00.003-05:00

I love Failblog. I've followed it for a long time and am very amused by most of their postings. I'm a little upset at one on their main page at the moment. Take a look, and if you feel so inclined, ask them to remove it.

Someone has never heard of the concept of "leave", so they posted a picture of a very pregnant belly that has "Welcome Home Daddy" written on it. It looks like a screenshot from a news show. The caption from the show says that the woman (and a very ecstatic boy beside her) are welcoming home her husband from a year long tour in Iraq. The title of the post is "Paternity Fail".

I find this deeply offensive and ignorant. I posted a comment requesting that they remove the picture out of respect for this family and their sacrifices. If you agree, would you do the same? Thanks!

"Do my elbows look old?"

2010-01-03T22:34:00.003-05:00

Seriously? I thought I had until 40 before my body started showing age. But my elbows are apparently already on the way out. Remember this, young readers.

So I had a scary self-realization moment recently, in which I discovered something rather ugly about myself. Rather than cover it all up and write as though I have an unfailingly excellent perspective on life regardless of circumstance, I'm going to describe for you exactly what I figured out.

I am jealous. Green with envy, jealous so much my teeth hurt and I want to punch him in the face.

JEALOUS.

I am jealous that he gets to go to work every day, that he gets to be a hero, that he gets time alone (even if it's just in the car to and from work), that he gets to go out and do big things, that he gets to shoot big guns, that he gets to exercise, that he gets to pursue a career and be someone and earn other people's respect while I sit here and change shit diapers and wash more loads of laundry than I can count and the most exhilarating part of my life is clipping coupons to see how much money I can save each week at the commissary.

I am jealous that he is front and center while I am support crew.

I am jealous that he can go do all of these things and know that the family is taken care of because I am doing it.

I am jealous beyond measure that he gets to go all over the world and be a part of things outside the scope of anything I will ever do or be.

I am jealous of his relationship with his comrades.

Jealous, jealous, jealous.

I am jealous that he can pursue anything he wants in life and is completely unburdened by the fact that he has a family, whereas most days I have to fight and finagle and hope just to get a shower. I am jealous that he has an opportunity to switch careers midstream, jealous that he gets to go back to school and be paid for it.

Yes.

The green eyed monster thrives in me.

I'm working on kicking that ugly bastard (the monster, not my husband) to the curb. If I foster him long enough, it will turn into anger and then resentment and our marriage will suffer in a big, bad way.

Tomorrow's post (or the one that occurs whenever I get around to it) will be about what I'm doing to shrug off the envy beast and get on with life. Self-reflection is worthless without action.

Greasy Elbows, out.

"Press 'Play' in a Military Fashion"

2010-01-02T15:21:00.003-05:00

Well, hello, there!

Happy 2010! And happy new decade! (I know there is some contention about when the new decade starts, and I'm not up for that debate. It doesn't make any sense to me for the decade to begin in 2011 and end in 2020, however non-mathgeek that makes me.)

My writer's mindset seems to be sneaking back in, ever so delicately sidling up beside the Facebook status mindset that has beset me for far too long. Although I take status message creation quite seriously, limiting myself to however many words that thing allows does not fully express everything that needs to be expressed. Besides, I've developed the annoying habit of talking about myself in my head in 3rd person. Eek.

For now I think I might title each of my posts with the family quote of the day. The title may or may not have to do with the post, and I may or may not explain it. These are the things that amuse me.

I am greatly looking forward to getting back to a normal schedule. The holidays last far, far, far too long. Perhaps we should start a petition to have Thanksgiving in July or some other month that is not within a few weeks of Christmas. Really, this year it seemed like Halloween rolled straight into Thanksgiving, which rolled into Christmas and the New Year. Could everyone please go back to school and work now? Thank you.

Sidenote: How cool is it that my family has been up in my grits long enough that I'm ready for them to go away for a little while (just a few short, safe, close hours!)??

The New Year is chugging right along the path to Birch's birthday party, which is a mere 3 weeks away. At first she was inviting 2 girls. Now she is inviting 8. Holy freaking crap.

Speaking of Birch (and Sprout, HD, Soldier Boy, Crush, and me)... One of the problems with my writing recently is that for the first time ever, I feel hindered by our pseudonyms. We have real names and I like those names and it is becoming hard not to type those names. I have to erase them every time I write, and my inbrain post constructor hangs up when I put in our fake names. At one point I felt more "real" with our blog names, but at this point I feel that we have outgrown them and they belong to a different time.

That is not to say that I am ready to put our real names, even just our first names, on the internets. Just sharing a recently developed thought process.

Today's quote of the day was brought to you by none other than the US Army. (Whoda thunk?) Soldier Boy had a funeral detail on Christmas Eve for a Korean war veteran. My dear husband had to press "play" in a military manner to play Taps on a portable boombox which was carefully hidden behind a tree near the grave. Yes, all of this was perfectly described in the mission instructions and demonstrated in a video he had to watch before performing his duty.

That's all for today. Monday we return to a normal schedule, and hopefully, a normal broadcasting schedule as well. Merry 2010!

Christmas Merries

2009-12-22T14:53:00.003-05:00

It's been a while, pals! But that's because I've been productive. I've also been enjoying my whole family being under one roof. Soaking it up, reveling in it, hanging on to each second. Well, most of them. There's been some whining and arguing that have been a detraction, but for the most part, it's been good.

We celebrated Christmas last Saturday since HD has to go back to the OF on Thursday. I managed to complete the bean bags, most of the kitchen (enough to give it to her and finish details later) and none of the toolbench. We are still going to make a toolbench, it just didn't get done for Christmas.

I haven't finished ANY of the prezzies for other folks, but they will get them eventually. Part of the issue is that there are no essential oils in this corner of the earth, and the shipping fees are ridiculous for ordering them online.

I did mail Christmas cards for the first time in my life, though. Yesterday. They might actually get to their destinations by Christmas!

Merry Christmas, my internet darlings! May you embrace your loved ones who are within reach and cherish each moment you have together. May your far-flung loved ones make their ways home soon and safe. And may your lost loved ones be close to your heart and near you in spirit.

Pig Meets Shit

2009-12-05T22:42:00.003-05:00

There are lots of excuses for my lack of writing lately, but the primary reason is that things here are really quite great. The problems are of the normal variety--insignificant squabbles with Soldier Boy, regular mischief from the midgets, run-of-the-mill illnesses. I had the most pleasant visit of my entire life with my hometown family last week. I have good friends who are experiencing mostly good things.

During this quiet time I'm processing the wild events of the past few years. Sometimes that leaves me feeling a bit ouchy and morose. I cry spontaneously when I'm hit with particularly vivid recollections of some of those events.

Life will never be the same after the day they came to the door. I will forever be haunted by the alternate reality that was created that day, like a split in a choose your own adventure, and the Sis B that is writing this VB in this part is the lucky one who got to keep her husband. The survivor's guilt, though no longer overwhelming, may never completely fade away.

My body still acts funky and nobody really knows what's wrong with it. It's mostly better--I am fully functional. But I have strange sensations in my left leg and arm, have frequent migraines, and am more susceptible to illness than ever before. I think of my vulnerability during that illness and I want to throw up. I never, ever, want to be that helpless again.

Crush's early arrival, our displacement, my parents' behavior, the strangers who helped, the friends who cared... all of that seems like a story I've read about someone else's life. I once enjoyed pregnancy and birth, but now I am terrified at the possibility that it could ever occur again. Not that we would try for another--we have our hands sufficiently full and our wallets sufficiently emptied--but until a permanent solution is agreed upon, there's always the posibility. As Cat says, I could walk by a bar of soap he touched and get preggers. If it's true, I don't want to find out.

The deployment is still a nightmare in my head. I feel like I woke up from a hellish dream. It doesn't seem really real until he starts talking about his experiences over there. I want him to talk, to process, to share these things with me. At the same time, I want to put my hands over my ears and run away screaming, because his stories mean it wasn't all in my head, that it was real, that we lived through it, and that we might have to do it again. Oh, how I do not want to do that again. I look at the girls I know who have gone through this 2, 3, 4 times... looking at their 5th year-long deployment sometime next year, and I cannot fucking comprehend it. The mention of another one gives me the shakes.

For about a month I get to have all of us under one roof. It is so incredibly wonderfully nice to not have my heart stretched any further than the bounds of this post. It's a small post, too, so even when he's at work and she's at school, we're never more than a few miles apart. Our tiny house is a source of neverending frustration for me, but at the same time, I enjoy that we all sleep in three rooms that touch each other. That I can hear the kids through the walls. That we are all there in one tidy little corner. HD goes back on Christmas Eve, so we have lots of fun things planned to do all together. Today I cried no less than 4 times at the beauty of it all.

Yes, they get on my nerves and my patience is shorter than it should be and I could stand to loosen up. But I'll be damned if I don't fully grasp the beauty of being all in one place.

Today we put up the Christmas tree. I remember blogging about my first Christmas after leaving OF, and how Soldier Boy encouraged me to put up a real tree, and took me to buy ornaments, and strung up so many lights that you could see the glow from a few blocks over. (We borrowed Sonny's ladder for that endeavor.) Soldier Boy encouraged me to take my power back, to make my own traditions, to make magic for my little boy. He started me in the way of the Christmas ninja. This year, above all others, I am excited about Christmas. Giddy, damn near. I watched our three biggest ones putting ornaments on the tree today, and all I could think was how freaking lucky I am to have those kids, and a loving husband, and so much peace and joy here at home.

Five years ago I was being called stupid by OF for trying to put Christmas lights on the scrawny ass tree he dug up out of the woods on our property. My self-worth was at an all time low and I was about to undertake some of the worst decisions of my life for the next 6 months. Now I am loved and appreciated. I know that I am worth making good decisions. I am proud of myself, my husband, my children, and our family as a whole.

Now excuse me while I go cry, since apparently I am only able to do that when things are wonderful. God forbid I shed a tear when my world is falling apart. Someone might think I'm weak.

*snort*

Hopefully there are enough links in this post to keep ya'll busy until the next time I find a few minutes of quiet to spend here in this space.

Nighty night, yo.

Christmas is here.

2009-11-19T16:37:00.000-05:00

The lack of posting is due to being completely overwhelmed with the events of the next few weeks/months.

I am making one of these for Sprout for Christmas. Out of the Crayon Box is one of my new favoritest blogs, so give her a visit.

I am making a toolbench for Crush that will be about the same size, using similar materials.

I am making beanbags for the oldest two children.

I am tracking down an old used piano for a couple of hundred dollars to be the main gift for the family for Christmas.

I am making some mystery gifts for a few other folks.

I am attempting to send Christmas cards for the first time ever.

I am still knitting those godforsaken scarves (although, to be honest, the first one went so quickly I put the project aside for more pressing projects).

This week we are visiting my hometown and I get to see my brother for the first time in 2.5 years. From there, I will be driving to pick up HD and bringing him home for nearly a month. During the time he is home, we are doing Thanksgiving, Sprout's birthday party, and Christmas.

Part of my time has been helping Soldier Boy prepare for his promotion board. Part of my time I've been sick, or taking care of other sick people. Part of my time I've been helping set up the FRG for the new unit (yeah, I know, I told some of you to shoot me if I ever did this again. You probably should, but please refrain.)

Life is good. And dare I say, boring. I'm cooking and cleaning and mommying and making things. I try to soak up every last minute, although I fail at that sometimes. It's ok. I make up for it other times.

I would write more, but I'm being summoned.

These are the days....

2009-11-09T15:39:00.003-05:00

Our usual afternoon conversation involves the standard questions of, "How was your day? Do you have any homework? Did anything exciting happen?"

The last time something exciting happened it was Jazmine "going with" Blake and what that means in a fourth grade world. It included the proclamation that, "I've never dealt with anything like this before!" Apparently, fourth grade is far more socially advanced than third grade as far as romantic interests go.

Today's answer for the excitement inquiry began as usual, "No, not really." I was about to move on to a different subject when her bored monotone changed and she exclaimed "Oh, wait! We had lockdown practice today!"

My heart jumped immediately to my throat and tears stung my eyes as I forced myself to respond with an even-voiced, "Oh really? What was that like?"

"Well, Anna and Tori go with me in a corner under a table. Some kids have to lay down flat on the floor and we all have our own place we are supposed to go." She spoke matter-of-factly, as though this practice is no different from your average fire or tornado drill.

Swallowing hard, I answered, "So basically you have places to hide all over the classroom if you get locked down?"

"Yeah! Oh, and I have a state project to do. It's on Oklahoma. I wanted to choose Colorado, but Anna already took that one, so I was going to choose Minnesota, but that one was taken too so I ended up with Oklahoma because it was the only cool state left!"

I guess I shouldn't be surprised by her nonchalance, given that her childhood includes giving her dad up for years at a time to be shot at by bad guys and her friend's father not making it home. She doesn't remember a world where people didn't fly airplanes into buildings. This is her normal.

I would have liked to protect her from the events of last Thursday, but she was with me when I took the phone call, when I cried out in disbelief and horror, when the tears spilled over. She was there as we tried to make contact with friends and while we tried to find out as much information as possible about what was going on. She handled it with stoic indifference, as she handles most difficult things other than getting shots.

Most civilian kids probably don't know what happened at Ft. Hood last week and most likely don't know anyone who was affected by it. They probably won't have any lockdown drills or even know that you get locked down when someone starts shooting other people nearby.

Sometimes I wonder what the hell we are doing to our children. Sometimes I wish they could hold on to innocence longer, that they never heard of a country called Afghanistan or Iraq and that the most exciting thing that happened at school today was the curious relationship between Blake and Jazmine.

A Jumbled Mess of Thoughts and Emotions.......

2009-11-07T15:37:00.004-05:00

In my head, Ft Hood is still my home. This place feels foreign and that one so familiar that I have to keep reminding myself that we most likely will never live there again. Although I now live across the country, I feel like the events that occurred there this week were in my back yard, and that Home is no longer a safe and comfortable place to be.

It was clear Thursday that the news folks didn't know what the fuck they were talking about. My friends and I argued with the television as they showed maps and highlighted the wrong buildings, talked about the Oveta Culp Soldier Readiness Center (which doesn't exist), and constantly referred to Ft Hood as an "Army base." It's a post, people. Do a little homework.

It was as though reporters stormed into my house, pointed to the kitchen sink and said, with all seriousness, "This basin is where this family of 3 stores its precious antiques." Huh?

Still, we were glued to the reports because it was the only information we had about our friends and loved ones. We frantically tried to contact the people who were there, although cell signals were jammed. One friend was able to access Facebook, and our hearts were with her as she described hiding in her hallway with her 2 year old, wondering when/if her husband would be home, scared by the stories that gunmen were loose in the community.

All soldiers on Ft Hood have a reason to visit those facilities at one time or another. My husband has been there on multiple occasions, and never, never, would I have worried about him going to SRP. It's just one of those pre-deployment things that they do. The worry hasn't started yet. Saying goodbye that morning would be a normal affair, and I would expect him home for lunch. The horror those families are experiencing is unfathomable.

The way to deal with deployment is to have worry times and safe times. Before they leave is a non-worry time. Traveling is always troublesome, but even during the deployments there are times when you can worry less than others. He's talking to you on IM at the super-FOB? Not so worrisome. Haven't heard from him in a few days? Must be on a mission. Worry time. You just can't maintain that level of fear for such an extended period of time, so you break it up into manageable chunks.

Although I have always been aware that he can easily be killed in a car accident or other random event, I never before worried about someone shooting him in garrison. For the last few days sending him to work has been excruciating. I have to find some way to cope with this new level of fear, or I will go (even more) crazy.

On Thursday some of my friends were trapped off-post while their children were in daycare on post. They couldn't get to their kids and they believed men were all over post randomly killing people. Again, unfathomable.

Part of me hopes that this incident will make the nation care more, but I don't think it will. I think it's a fad like MJ's death or Brit's shaved head. People will talk about it until the Next Big Thing. The people who already cared will care more, and the people who didn't give a shit will move on quickly.

Most of me feels like this is a family problem, and I want to shut the door to the rest of the world while we find some way to cope and overcome. One of us turned against our own in a huge, unthinkable, violent, atrocious way. We are raw, exposed, frightened, angry, and confused. It feels very strange to be the center of the media's opportunistic attention at the same time.

Just as the world can be categorized as pre or post-9/11, for me there will always be a pre and post-11/5. I am guessing that most of my military family will feel the same way.

This changes absolutely everything.

Moneys and Mouths

2009-11-05T23:07:00.004-05:00

I've been meaning to post about my little sidebar widget over there for some time. Now seems pretty damned appropriate.

There's a great project called Valour-IT which supplies wounded troops with voice-activated laptops. It aids in recovery in many ways, allows them to maintain some sense of normalcy, helps them heal.

I know many of you want to know what you can do to help the situation at Ft. Hood. With 31 wounded, I'm sure a few laptops will be needed. Soldier's Angels is a great organization, and Valour-IT is a wonderful project. Click here to learn more and donate.

Oh, My Heart

2009-11-05T15:41:00.002-05:00

Shootings at Hood.

Can't think. Can hardly breathe. Shaking. Hurting for my friends, the families, my Army family.

Fuck.

We Don't Need No Stinkin' Excitement

2009-11-05T12:54:00.004-05:00

You know those people who sit around and wonder why things never happen to them?

I'm not one of those people, although I vaguely recall being one at some point in my distant past.

Life here at the new station has been, so far, very boring. I'm establishing routines, getting people dressed, washed, fed, delivered on a consistent basis. It has been glorious. Glor. I. Ous. Apparently Sprout is not as enthused about our new lowkey lifestyle.

On Tuesday morning I was going about finishing my morning routine when Sprout asked for her Littlest Pet Shops. They had been left in the Mystery Machine the night before. Walking quickly, with great purpose, I headed out the kitchen door to the van which is quite literally three steps from the house. Sprout was supposed to be on my heels.

That's when I heard the SLAM!

My darling Sprout did not, indeed, follow me outside. She stood in the house and shut the door behind me. The locked door. In Texas, it was impossible to lock yourself out of the house. But here in this wonderful new place, we have door handle locks and sticky doors that are impossible for an almost 3-year old to open.

At first, panic did not take hold. Crush was crawling in the kitchen floor, Sprout was desperately trying to open the door. I yelled to her through the door, telling her to turn the button on the knob so that it goes "up and down! UP AND DOWN!!!!" She responded by squatting and jumping up, squatting and jumping up. "THE BUTTON!!! NOT YOU!!! THE BUTTON!!! UP AND DOWN!!!" She giggled as she jumped some more.

At that moment is when I saw Crush climbing up on the dining table. That kid refuses to walk, but can climb like nobody's business. Luckily, there were no breakable dishes for him to throw on the ground. Unluckily, he doesn't know how to get down once he gets up.

Soldier Boy didn't answer his phone any of the times that I tried calling previously. I considered breaking the window, but with Sprout's face right there it was a bad idea. I was certainly not graced with the presence of mind to go break a different window. (Duh.) The protocol here on post is to call the MPs or the housing maintenance office to come let you in your house. Take a guess at how many of those phone numbers were stored in my cell phone. Yeah. That many.

So I did the next best thing. You want the police at your house? Call 911.

At first I calmly described the situation to the dispatcher, but quickly broke into hysterics when Crush fell off the table. He said people were already on their way. Clear across post I could hear the sirens start wailing. Then Crush popped up and started climbing again. At this point I started narrating his actions for the dispatcher.

"He's pushing buttons on the computer. How did he turn it off? OH MY GOD SPROUT GO GET THAT FROM HIM!! GO GET IT!!! HURRY!!! HE HAS THE CANNED AIR OH MY GOD HE'S POINTING IT AT HIS FACE GO GET IT!!!! Ok, he threw it on the ground. Oh shit he has my pocket knife. HE HAS MY KNIFE!! NO!!!! PUT IT DOWN!!! NO!!!! Ok, he threw it. NOT THE SCISSORS!!! NOT THE SCISSORS!!!!"

That's when the first fire truck showed up. I could still hear the sirens coming, though. The dispatcher hung up and the suits took over. They pulled out all sorts of gadgets to pop the door, but when Crush fell a second time, I ran to another window, called Sprout, and they broke the glass and ran in to get him.

He never cried. Not once. He was completely undeterred and pissed that we stopped him from climbing. Seriously? I'm entirely uncertain how a kid can fall from 3.5 feet onto tile covered concrete and not have a single mark, but that's what he did. Twice.

Two fire trucks, an ambulance, a first responder and a police car later, we were in the house, the kids were fine and I felt like a dumbass. I immediately tried to call Soldier Boy again, since he was on his way home for breakfast and knew he would be worried. When it connected I realized he was standing right next to me. Poor boy drove up to the house, saw all that shit out front and nobody told him we were ok until he got in to see us with his own eyes. He was a little pale and didn't talk much for a while.

Since Crush was his usual rambunctious self and showed no sign of injury, we declined an ambulance ride. I took him to see his doctor later in the afternoon, who pronounced him "lucky." He said that those kinds of falls can easily cause skull fractures. Awesome. And since Crush tried climbing everything in the office while we were there, the doctor said we should expect him to get lots of scrapes/bruises/injuries. Especially since he wasn't actually hurt this time, it would only encourage him to climb more.

Awesome. He was supposed to be the easy one.

My friend Shay got licensed as a family childcare provider in her home, and one of the things she had to do was put all of her knives and scissors in a high cabinet. At the time we both thought it was a little strange and unnecessary. At the time I didn't know what the heck I was talking about. All of my sharps are now in a top kitchen cabinet--scissors, knives, box cutters, etc. I'm considering putting a child lock on them, too.

I'm beginning to wonder if my family members have a running bet on who can jack up my heart rate the highest. They certainly seem to have fun doing it.

Right This Minute

2009-10-30T12:01:00.002-05:00

She is outside playing while the dry leaves swirl around her. Trip-trapping from one area of the yard to the next, she holds a steady conversation with Not Our Cat who follows her everywhere she goes. The trees with their weird little berries are her friends, as well as the long grass and all available dirt.

The toys receive her verbal wrath when they misbehave. Shunned, they lay where she flings them as she moves on to something more agreeable.

She is her own brand of perfection and I often wonder how I got so freaking lucky.

I don't know what to say.

2009-10-29T16:43:00.003-05:00

My husband got blown up while he was in Afghanistan. Luckily, he was riding in a nifty vehicle meant to protect you from that sort of thing. It worked pretty well. He was awarded his Combat Infantry Badge for that.

I wonder if the people who planted that were like the ones in Pakistan who bombed that marketplace in order to "send a message" to Hillary Clinton. I think perhaps they should consider other methods of communication, such as writing letters or sending email or utilizing the lost art of smoke signals. Smoke signals might be desirable for them because they still get the pyro fun of playing with fire.

I don't know what should happen in Afghanistan or whether the fight is worth it or whether it is winnable or what the longterm solution should be. I do know that what we are doing right now is not working and more of our people are being killed and it needs to fucking stop. They either need to bring them home or send enough of our guys over there that they stand a chance against those sneaky, gutless, baby-shield wearing motherfuckers. At this point I don't care about winning. I just want the dying to stop.

A very hard, bitter, angry part of me says that if they want to blow each other up and abuse their own people and none of them have the guts to stand the fuck up for themselves, then we should back out and let them do whatever it is they're going to do. Natural selection, baby. Population control. If they haven't evolved past the point of doing that stupid shit, then they aren't supposed to be around anymore.

I don't let that hard, bitter, angry part talk very often. But there you have it.

Another part of me thinks that we should blow the fucking doors off of Pakistan, go after all the strong parts of Al Qaeda and stomp the shit out of that chickenshit organization that blows up women to "send a message."

Part of me believes we should be over there to provide stability and protection for the people who want change, who want peace. For the women who are beaten, raped, sold, as a matter of culture.

Part of me thinks those women need to stand the fuck up and stop taking that shit.

I'm glad that Obama was sobered by welcoming the bodies of our fallen back at Dover. Then again, what was the alternative? Throw a fucking party? You're goddamn right it's sobering.

I shouldn't write when I'm angry. I say fuck almost as much as my husband.

I want to believe that my family's sacrifices make the nation safer and that it makes the world my children will inherit a little bit better. But I really don't know. I know that that is my husband's intent. I know that that goal is shared by the majority of servicemembers I know.

The news this week has been hard. Excruciatingly hard. I cannot imagine the struggle of the families whose soldiers (Marines, airmen, etc.) are still over there or are on the way over there. When Soldier Boy first deployed, an outpost manned by a different unit was overrun in an eastern province and the death toll was in the teens. Our first casualty was 2 weeks after our unit's arrival.

It was too much then, it is too much now. The thought of another deployment makes me crazy. Thankfully, we don't have one on the schedule yet.

I know I am too close to any of these things to have an objective opinion. I'm not trying to talk politics or change the state of affairs or influence decisions.

All I ask is that these sacrifices be worth it. That sending him into harm's way means something. That they're not left in a clusterfuck because there's not a politically correct way to solve this fucking mess--it would be political suicide to increase the troops but also it would be political suicide to bring them home so we will just let them sit there and be slaughtered because no matter what we do we look bad.

Please. Please. Please. Forget about re-election and party line politics and all that shit for just a little while and figure out what the fuck we are doing there, what it will take to accomplish whatever the fuck we are trying to do, and get it done in the safest and most expedient way possible.

Please. And thank you.

Pain.

2009-10-26T10:06:00.003-05:00

I had other things to say today, but none of them seem important at the moment.

To the families who lost a loved one today, my heart is broken for you.

To the families who still have a loved one in that godforsaken hellhole of a country, my heart is frozen for you.

To the President, shit or get off the pot.

It is a dark day today.

On Death, Dying, and the Voices in my Head

2009-10-22T20:59:00.003-05:00

My Granny was an amazing little woman who lived in a cabin on top of a hill in the Appalachian mountains. She took up every inch of her 4 foot frame, and grown men were afraid of her steely gaze. She birthed and raised 4 children in her little 3 room house; she survived several husbands; she roofed a house when she was 6 months pregnant; she killed garden pests with her hoe when she was well into her 80s.

She was my great-grandmother on my father's side. I was her favorite. She kept sugar stick candy just for me, and prepared my requested "half-cooked eggs" every time I came to visit. While others would be admonished for eating at any place other than her kitchen table, she prepared picnics for me on the living room floor.

Granny died when I was 5. It is my first memory of death. I remember being confused about why everyone was sad, since I wholly believed in God and Heaven and knew that she was there, like in the Family Circus comics, looking down on us. (In fact, I am still somewhat confused by grieving Christians, but that is a subject for another day).

Over the years my graveyard expanded to include my piano teacher and favorite babysitter Linda, Julie's little brother Dean, Ash's little brother Brent, my grandmother, my own brother, my friend Carol, a youth leader and friend's father Roger, my grandfather, my best friend Julie, Brainhell, three great-aunts, my friend Web, and now Sonny. In the midst of all this, I have somehow become a counselor for other grieving friends. I have held children, parents, spouses, siblings, and friends as they shook with wracking sobs over their loss. I generally keep my own sobs behind closed doors, but there are a select few who have experienced that ugliness firsthand.

Every loss is different. Maybe I'm a monster, but I didn't shed a single tear when any of my grandparents died. It was, and is, the natural order of things. Yes, it was sad and I missed them, but it didn't take me to my knees. I feel a sharp pain at the loss of my great-aunts, but it is nothing to the devastation I feel when I think of Jules or Web or Sonny.

And nothing, nothing, compares with touching the body of a child. That changes you forever.

***************************

Most of what I remember about my brother is his death and my grief. His voice, his smell, his mannerisms, have all faded from my memory. What is left are a paltry few stories that I know mainly because I have repeated them so many times, and the devastation at the end. My clearest memories are of his body rotting away from him that last month and the placement of his hands in his coffin. I no longer have a mental picture of his looks except from the photos I have kept all these years. I remember him more for dying than for living.

Over the years I have grieved the loss of those memories, just as I grieved the loss of him in the beginning. This is probably the reason that at night, when it is quiet, or on the few occasions when I am alone, the voices start talking in my head. I call them up, one by one, so that I do not lose them. Carol's voice, which was always a little hoarse and throaty. My Nanny's shaky little voice, Euva's nasal mountain tones, Julie's southern, sort of wispy drawl and cackle of a laugh and the way she moved, Web's eyes over the fence and the way he held his kids, Sonny's deep voice and beard and slightly too long hair. I replay specific phrases and interactions. I allow the ghosts to haunt me until I can take it no longer and I shove them back into the boxes that permit me to go about my daily life.

***********************************

Death is always on my mind. I've seen how quickly, unexpectedly, cruelly, it can rip away the people we love. Horrible death scenes play through my head every single fucking day, as I watch Sprout play outside, or say goodbye to HD in the airport, or when Crush has slept too long or gotten too quiet, or I send Birch into school, or watch Soldier Boy get into the car. I wonder every single time I say goodbye whether it will be the last. I see horror stories everywhere I look, from people going crazy and shooting to swine flu to a car careening out of control to a million unforeseen things like house fires and motorcycle accidents and ALS and terrorist attacks and SIDs... I worry about my own death, and think of my children and wonder who will raise them and whether they will remember me or just my death and whether anything I have taught them so far will matter when they are 20.

It is a constant struggle for me to choose life over death. To remember that the value of life is not in its permanence but in its experience. That I do not get to control our deaths, no matter what precautions I might take, and that I have to let go and live. And so, when I sit here watching Sprout in the back yard and the thought of coyotes comes flittering into my head and for a brief moment I see nothing but horror, I wrench myself back to the present and enjoy the sun shining in her hair and her purposeful actions in every corner she is allowed to explore. Because, by God, if she goes before me, I will remember her life.

**************************************

I laugh at funerals. Well, not so true. I laugh at the funerals of people I know best and who have made the biggest imprint on my soul. The further removed the deceased is from me, the more somber and "appropriate" I feel.

My loved ones are generally very funny people. They laugh at themselves, at me, at life, at irony. Jules would have seen the humor in the rain pouring down as we trouped out to her graveside. Carol would have snorted when the preacher said she was a good kid who never caused her parents any trouble. Sonny would have guffawed at me calling him "son of a bitch" in a Spanish accent.

There are times that I laugh as the tears pour down my face and my stomach churns with the emptiness of devastating loss.

And that's ok.

Grief is for the living. The dead don't care.

************************************

In the event of my untimely demise, grieve as you see fit. But if my input has anything to do with it, please, for crying out loud, skip the funeral. Throw a party with loud music and lots of chocolate. Bring embarrassing pictures of me and you. Trade stories about my geniusness (Because being smart is very important to me. I don't care if you agree that I am, we can make up that part for posterity.), and my awkwardness, and my ability to dream up and start many great projects but rarely finish any of them. If I die doing something stupid, laugh at my dumb ass. Remember me for all the good and bad things I've done and said and have been. Remember that whatever my faults, I have a heart as big as all out doors.

Death is pretty sad and almost always unfunny.

Life, however, is a fucking riot.

Remember my life.

It's Been a While

2009-10-20T17:18:00.003-05:00

And in the interest of posting things that make me happy:

Ding

2009-10-19T16:00:00.002-05:00

Here at home we have a little bell Soldier Boy brought back from Korea. We ring it to clear the air when someone has a poor attitude or there has been an argument.

So, although it is taking every ounce of self-control I possess to not open up a hailstorm of fury, I'm gonna ring the bell. And the air shall be clear.

In that spirit, I shall share something glorious about today, and hope you all will do so as well.

The weather here at the new duty station is colder than I have experienced in many years, but it is beautiful all the same. Today the sky is blue, the leaves on the trees are changing to fiery shades of red, orange, and yellow, and the air is crisp. Autumn has always been my favorite season, and this is the first I have been able to experience in many years.

Glorious!

Seriously?

2009-10-16T11:39:00.003-05:00

I mean, really?

In a post where I have dropped all of my walls and opened up a huge, gaping wound, baring it for the internets, you're going to nitpick one thing I said that wasn't entirely PC?

Really?

I'm not apologizing, but I will explain a little further. Only because I feel like it, and only because this is a part of Sonny's character that would be nice to see in the greater population.

Most of our conversations devolved at some point into political discussions. Some of them started that way, like last November when I called him up and demanded (without a greeting) that he say two little words. Sounding slightly confused, he asked what they were.

"President. Obama."

He busted up laughing for several minutes until he finally choked out the words. Did he immediately get pissed and start telling me to load up on ammo and get ready for the certain end of the world? No. He joked about it. Eventually (after I had gloated enough), we got down to brass tacks and talked about our concerns for the new administration and Congress, the future of our nation, the wars we are fighting, the military, gay rights, gun rights, government's responsibility in morality, the Supreme Court, the need for Senate term limits, true conservativism, compassion, and who knows what else.

And here, my friends, I'll let you in on a little secret. We agreed on lots of things. I know, right? Me, an intellectual, bleeding heart liberal agreeing with an ignorant, small government conservative.

You get the joke yet?

We made fun of each other. We made fun of ourselves.

And we were able to find some common ground.

When I was writing the other day, I was remembering him, our conversations, our manner of communication. Before I knew it, the Republican comment slipped by the PC filter. Not wanting to edit my memory of him, I added a little "wink" to the audience, to let you know I caught what I said and not to take it too seriously.

One of the good things about Sonny was that he believed, as I believe, that change starts at home, with your neighbors, and in your business dealings. He believed in right and wrong, and generally chose to the the hard right over the easy wrong.

If more people could follow his example (as well as learn to take a damned joke) many of the nation's problems would be self-resolving and the political climate would change to reflect the values of its citizens, rather than the citizens being forced to adopt the values of its government.

Sonny, you son of a bitch. (Get it? Get it? Hahahahaha! Why didn't I ever think to call you that when you were alive? Hahaha!) Maybe we needed more government regulations about old dudes on motorcycles, and then you might still be alive. In fact, I think I'll contact my senators and ask them to initiate the Sonny Act in your honor. I can hear you laughing about that one from here, but that's just cause you think I'm not serious. Congress, here we come!

MUHAHAHAHAHA!

Sonny with a Chance of Beer

2009-10-09T19:52:00.003-05:00

My friend Sonny is dead.

I've referenced him here once or twice, when I was writing about OF's neighbor. He testified at the custody trial for me. He told the things he had seen. The things OF had said to him, like calling HD a "pussy magnet." He testified at great personal expense, since his wife did not want to be involved and cause bad blood with a neighbor. Not to mention that OF owed him a very large sum of money, which he never paid. But Sonny believed in doing the right thing, no matter how hard, no matter how great the cost. He cared about HD, thought of him as a grandson, and went to court to try to protect him. Obviously his efforts were in vain, but he tried.

He promised, from the time I moved away, all the way up until the end, to keep an eye on HD for me. Often he would call just to let me know he saw him, and that he looked happy. Sometimes he would call and let me know that things seemed a little off at OF's house and I should call to see what was up.

When I first met Soldier Boy, I didn't trust myself or my judgment. I had a pretty good idea that he was a good man, but I needed confirmation. My own parents aren't exactly suited for the whole "character judgment" thing, so I called Sonny and asked him to meet Soldier Boy. I didn't tell SB at the time, but it was a test. He passed with flying colors. Sonny liked SB from the start, not least because he was a soldier. Sonny retired from the Air Force a couple of years before OF and I built our house across the street from him.

We had 11 acres in the middle of hundreds of acres of undeveloped land, and Sonny owned the 100+ acres across the street. We were pretty much the only people out there on our dirt road. Some of my happiest memories of that time period were when our families would get together. We spent several holiday meals together... Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's.

I'm pretty sure Sonny was one of the reddest rednecks I've ever met. He had good humor about it, though, and I could always make him laugh by making fun of his peculiar wardrobe (comprised mostly of RealTree camo gear). He is one of the very few Republicans I could talk with about politics and not end up wanting to strangle them for their ignorance. (No offense, Republican friends. Teehee.) The first time I ate venison, he cooked it. The shining moment of redneckery in my memory was the New Year's when I was pregnant with HD, which we spent on the porch of their trailer. At midnight they all started shooting. I was pretty glad nobody died, and turned down the opportunity to swig champagne from the bottle that was being passed around. Other moments in redneckery involve riding the gas powered all-terrain golf carts around the property, looking for wildlife, drinking cheap beer, trading exaggerated stories.

Sonny saw HD the day we brought him home. He saw me at my lowest points, heard me screaming into the trees when OF would drive me to the brink of my sanity. He encouraged my leaving him, offered all the support he could muster, cheered when I stood up on my own.

Sonny had plenty of faults. We all do, really, but the faults don't write off the fact that he was a good man. The world lost a force for the better last weekend. It's always strange when it doesn't pause to take notice.

One of his favorite things to do was to come up with words/phrases/idioms and seeing if he could get people to pick them up and pass them along until they would eventually come back to him from a different direction. He came up with a few things while he was enlisted, but my favorite, by far, was the Rule of One. His claim was that in every group of three of more people, there is one asshole. If you can't point him out, then you're it. That still makes me laugh. I think it's very true.

Over the past few years, I would talk with Sonny about once a month. He considered me one of his best friends, and usually only called me when he needed to talk through things. That's ok, I usually only called him when I was driving a long distance and had no one else to call. We laughed about that, too. Our conversations were always full of laughter, even when we talked about sad things. One of the last times we talked, he called because he was upset about his favorite hunting dog getting killed. (Toldja he was a redneck). We talked about Lil' Bit for a good long time, about what a great little beagle she was, about how it was a miracle she lived as long as she did. Lil Bit had a nose for trouble and had to be stitched up quite a few times. He was devastated at the loss of his dog. If that ain't good people, I don't know what is.

My heart hurts. And as with Jules, I feel like a part of me has died, too. He was the only other person who really understood what was going on in OF's house. All the other people who were there were OF's family members. There was great comfort for me in knowing that there was someone else who saw what happened there. Of course, I never appreciated that comfort until it was gone. I also never realized that he carried such a big hunk of me until now. And that part of me is lost.

It's cool, though. I mean, he took part of me with him, but I will carry part of him with me. I will think of him when I see certain types of trees, or when I see deer, or when I shoot guns off the front porch on New Year's. (That one might be rare). I'll always look for the asshole in every group, just to see if I'm it.

Sonny, Sonny, Sonny. At some point I'll stop being pissed at you for dying on a fucking motorcycle. I mean, really, after the dirt bike incident, you'd think your stubborn happy ass would have learned something. But no.

I wasn't done with you yet. I always thought you and SB would go hunting together some day. And now who am I supposed to call when I'm driving and bored? What the fuck, over?

For the record, you were always the asshole. Except when OF was there, of course. But having him around is totally cheating.

Thank you for all you did. Thanks for being my friend. And thanks for okaying my husband. I reckon good men can recognize their own.

Sleep well, my friend.

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

2009-10-05T16:18:00.004-05:00

Mr. President:

Please make up your damned mind. Commit or get out. But your hemming and hawing and maybe's and whatnots and field trips are putting our troops in more danger. 10 families got the doorbell ring this weekend. That's enough. Give them more support or get them the fuck out of there.

Please and thank you.

--Sis

Children:

Boredom is not a condition to which I am required to attend. Please act accordingly by being appreciative when I do things that are fun for you and staying out of my hair when fun is your own responsibility.

Thank you.

--Mom

OF:

You are completely transparent and though you made a very attractive bribe of a hand-me-down tricycle I will have to decline, given that your "terms" are that we "work together" which means that I have to agree with everything you do.

Thank you.

--Archnemesis

Sonny:

Why the fuck did you have to go and wreck your motorcycle and die? I mean, seriously. You were who I called for Dadvice, although I never told you that. Maybe I should have. I'm sorry I didn't call you last week when I was thinking of you. I hope it was instant and painless and you didn't have time to say, "Oh shit!"

--Sis

OF:

PS: Quit putting my baby in the fucking motorcycle and then telling me you have his best interests in mind. Fuck you, asshole.

Former Neighbors:

This is a bad year for former neighbors of mine. Two of them have perished in the last 8 months. Maybe you should just say your goodbyes now. Sorry you had to live by me.

--Your Former Neighbor

Adults Who Behave Like Children:

Grow the fuck up. Seriously. Forgive, forget, move on. You don't have to be my friend. But really? That kind of behavior is childish and I hope that your reluctance to speak with me is because you are embarrassed by your earlier behavior.

--Sis

Army:

When you decide to move whole units around and place them at new posts, it would be nice if you would do a little research to determine small things like, "Is there enough housing?" Because you didn't, and there isn't, and families are suffering because of it. I would love to be part of the AAR of this FUBARed BRAC experience.

Thanks.

--Annoyed Sargie's Wife

Universe:

Please lay off my friends. One nearly died giving premature birth. One nearly died in a house fire. One did die in a motorcycle accident. Don't you have something more fun to do, like making kittens frolic under rainbows? Give it some thought.

--A Humble, Non-Snarky, Non-Challenging Sis

Blog Readers:

I will get back to writing daily. One day.

Teehee.

--Me

Fifteen Months Later

2009-09-27T21:10:00.003-05:00

One of my dear blog friends has given birth to her baby a wee bit earlier than she expected. As in, at 31 weeks rather than the nice round 40 for which we usually shoot. Baby and Mama are doing pretty well from what I can gather. She said she would be reading my archives to refresh her memory on what went on last summer, but I'm not sure I wrote and processed everything I was feeling then. Today I will share what I remember, in the hopes that it may help her and any others who are dealing with the complicated emotions that come with having a baby prematurely.

When I realized I was really in labor, it was completely surreal. Granted, I had just said goodbye to Soldier Boy for his first deployment and then sent Birch back to her other home, so I was already feeling out of sorts. I was also visiting my parents, which is a mindbending experience on a good day. Being in labor so early almost seemed normal in that alternate universe. For whatever reason, I do not remember being worried by it. At first I thought the contractions would go away, or that they were Braxton Hicks, like I had with Sprout for the whole pregnancy.

Even after the doctor told me that the baby would be born that day, it did not register that I should be worried about him. In my head, the birth would go much like the other two, and when he was born he would cry and I would take him to my breast and he would nurse immediately and we would be forever bonded and it would be wonderful. It wasn't until I looked into my friend Tima's eyes and saw her fear that I realized that things might not be ok. (She did great with her words and tone of voice, but couldn't hide her feelings behind her eyes). Then there was blood... lots and lots of blood... and the words "C-section", and my screaming and begging to be put under anesthesia, and being rolled through a hallway and having a million hands on me, and hearing the word scalpel just before I went under...

I woke up alone and didn't know for 10 minutes or so whether my baby was alive or dead. The drugs were good enough to take the panic out of my question, so that wondering about him felt emotionally equivalent to wondering whether it would rain that day. When they finally wheeled me up to see him before taking me to my room, he looked so foreign, in so many ways.

He was being cared for by people other than me. My first babies never left my side, were never cared for by nurses. Other people touched him, saw him, cleaned him, cared for him, before I ever knew if he made it. He was hooked up to all sorts of machines, wires hanging off everywhere. He was red like a tomato, and his skin was crinkly. His limbs were skinny and his diaper so very huge. They had him in a heated bed, so he was naked except for the diaper, which looked horribly wrong. I was afraid to touch him. They could have pointed to any baby in the room and told me it was mine, and I would have had to believe them. Another woman picked him up carefully, lovingly even, and held him close so I could reach him. She put his forehead to my lips and whispered, "Kiss him, Mama," which, to this moment, makes me cry.

In my room was an empty plastic crib. I was still drug addled, but my mom and an old friend stayed with me for a short time. Sprout was with my dad and I worried about her more than I worried about Crush. I wanted her so badly, but I had been cut open, had lost a ton of blood, and was afraid that she would hurt me. When she came to visit a few days later, she climbed carefully into my bed and let me cuddle her and feed her awful hospital food. She was gentle, even though she was a 20-month-old klutz. She had no idea that she had a baby brother, and she wasn't allowed into the NICU. I couldn't figure out how to explain to her what was going on. She left willingly with my mother an hour or so later. I cried when she took her away.

As a mother, I felt completely out of control. I felt like a failure--I wasn't capable of caring for my infant and I couldn't be there for my daughter. I was incapacitated. My entire identity was thrown into question, as I had to rely on the good will of family, friends, and strangers, just to get through that time.

None of my natural instincts for my baby applied. They had to teach me everything brand new, like I was a first time mom and/or an imbecile. He couldn't handle the stimulation of being held, rocked, looked at, and sung to at the same time. I could only choose one, but not rocking because that's bad for a preemie. Kangaroo care made me feel slightly more bonded to him, except for the nurses that meted out my time with him sparingly, due to his need to be under the heating lamp. Putting lotion on his dry skin could have burned him because of the lamps.

The emotion I didn't want to admit to anyone was the overwhelming sense of grief that I felt. I tried to squash it down, because I felt like I had no right to grieve a mostly healthy baby. Looking back, I think it was normal to experience that sense of loss, even though he was ok. A pregnancy ending early is a traumatic thing. Your mind and body are prepared for a very different experience than the one that you have. You lose all the warm, nice things about having a newborn. You lose time to prepare, your idea of how the birth should be, early bonding time, normal breastfeeding. It's all stripped away and you're left with a scare little alien creature in a box with a bunch of wires and tubes hanging off of him. It takes some getting used to. And I think it was ok to grieve.

Sprout didn't lay down by herself for a week after she was born. We held her constantly. She slept with us. Only in the carseat was she out of bodily contact with one of us. Crush spent the first 6 weeks of his life laying in a crib, except for a couple of hours spread out over the course of a day. His complaints were minimal, and he seemed to take no comfort in my embrace. In fact, most of the time he seemed to like being alone better than being with me.

I didn't think I was very attached to him, but when I would leave the hospital for a few hours for a break, I would have an all-consuming desire to return. I would be ok for about 45 minutes, but after that I needed to come back and check on my baby. I couldn't do much for him except for sit in the room with him, but that was enough.

The days of limbo, which felt like they would never pass, gave each of us enough time to grow strong and heal. It wasn't until we left the hospital that I truly felt that Crush was my child and was able to accept him fully. He became less alien in the days after his release. Eventually I regained my confidence as Mommy. Sprout quickly forgave my absence and my inability to pick her up, which so confused her in the beginning.

I've been revisiting last summer in my head since my visit to my parents' houses a few weeks ago. The thought I have been left with repeatedly is, "I never ever want to be that vulnerable again." The weakness, the helplessness, the complete dependence on other people to do my job... it was horrible. Wondering if he would have any lasting problems, wondering if I caused the early delivery, wondering whether he would live to meet his father... devastating.

I honestly couldn't have made it through without my friends and without many of you reading this blog. Your outpouring of support was incredible--in words, gifts, cards. I generally do not think of the bad emotions from last summer, because I am still overcome with gratitude for the kindness of so many folks.

I share these feelings today in the hopes that my friend will feel less alone. Luckily, her husband just returned from deployment and was able to be here for this birth, unlike the birth of their first child. If you would like to leave encouraging words for her in the comments to this post, please feel free. If you would like to send her a gift of some sort, please email me and I will set up a way to make that happen.

Thank you all for being here for me during that incredibly difficult time!

Eureka!

2009-09-27T11:11:00.003-05:00

It took a while, but I finally got to the source of my discontent. For the longest time I just couldn't understand why HD leaving this time was so much harder than the rest, and why my mood has been so low ever since.

You would think (ok, maybe you wouldn't think, but I thought) that since for the longest time ever five out of six of us have been residing under one roof, that I would feel fantastic. And it absolutely is wonderful. Things are coming together, routines are falling into place, we are enjoying one another's company, working together as a team pretty well.

That is the problem.

We are strengthening our base unit and he's not here. He's not involved in the routines or daily tasks or discipline or any of it. I feel like as we stabilize, we are somehow circling the wagons, and he is on the outside.

Blending families is hard work, especially to do it well. A lot of times I feel like Sprout and I are the only ones who think of HD as a part of us. Birch and Soldier Boy seem to forget him when he's gone, and have trouble adjusting to him when he is here. Birch is visually glad to see him leave again.

I've spoken with Soldier Boy about this some, but not to a deep extent. He's not good with how wordy I can be, so I tried to say what I felt in as few words as possible. He picked up on it quickly and, as always, is trying to make things better. On a side note, can I just say how wonderful it is to have a husband who acknowledges when I'm upset and immediately tries to make things better? It's like a loving marriage or something. Holy cow.

Anyway, now that I know the problem, I can try to figure out a way to make it easier. For a long time when HD was not with me, I could hardly function. When he was here it made running the house, cooking, cleaning, shopping... everything became easier. In his absence just taking a shower was an obstacle. I've gotten better with time, but I'm not awesome yet. I think it will always be a struggle to make things happen when he's not here.

He doesn't have to be an outsider, though, even if our family grows stronger and closer while he is gone. I just have to figure out how to include him when he's not here. Maybe we need to take more pictures, send a weekly package from everyone... I don't know. We will work it out. I already feel better, just knowing what has been keeping me so down.

It's Aliiiiive!

2009-09-23T14:05:00.004-05:00

A few weeks ago, my Facebook status read: "[Sis B] wonders why the onions are jumping ship."

It was written off the cuff, while I was cooking dinner. For a moment, I was aware enough of my inner dialogue to eke out one pure, perfect thought. It is the best example of what goes on in my head most of the time that I am not forced to engage in conversation with other people.

I swear to you, those onions were jumping ship. It started when I was chopping them up. For whatever reason, they outright refused to stay on the cutting board. Then, when I picked up the board and moved to put them in the hot pan, half of them fell into the floor.

Their obvious resistance to becoming stir fry opened up a bevy of uncomfortable questions for me.

Did they know they were going to be cooked? Why didn't they object when I chopped them up? Were they begging for mercy when I lopped off the top and bottom of the onion and peeled back the skin? Did I just not notice their agony in time? Was there something I could have done to ease the journey? And if this particular onion had knowledge of what I was doing to it, do they all? Am I an onion mass murderer? Or did this onion have a message it was trying to convey, and I wasn't paying close enough attention? Why did the onion prefer to land in the nasty trash rather than the yummy stir fry? Wouldn't the stir fry help it fulfill its destiny?

I know that the obvious question to ask here would be, "Why am I dropping the onions?" That's just a little too taupe for me.

After the revealing Facebook status post, I started paying more attention to my thoughts. I do this with damn near everything. Everything around me is, if not alive, at least cognizant. It all has a purpose. Some of my belongings are happy to fulfill the purpose for which they were created. Some have other ideas, like the brass apple that used to be a bell but seems happier now that Crush ripped out its dinglehopper.

Some of the things around me don't want to be here. Like my pie plate that committed harakiri, trying to take out one or both of the babies at the same time. (I suppose it was actually failed kamikaze, if the mission was, indeed, to take the kids out, too). Apparently, the prospect of living in this new house was too much for it to handle, so it jumped right off the wall and landed between the babies who were playing on the floor underneath it. My silly husband asked me what went wrong when I hung it.

Now that I'm more aware of my ~~neurosis~~ creative mental environment, I find myself getting into deep conversations with the items I am using. "Ok, knife, you feel like cutting up some apples today?" or "Chicken breasts, I was planning to incorporate you into a nice tortilla soup tonight. Would that bring honor to your previous life and your current death?" or "Toys, do you mind being put away for the evening?" or "Was I just insensitive to the toothpaste? Should I go back and make sure it's doing alright?"

In any event, I would like my belongings to know that they have alternatives to suicide. It makes me a wee bit sad to think I might have had a hand in pushing some of them over the edge.

And there you have it. The ultimate proof that I must be insane.

Showers

2009-09-21T20:11:00.002-05:00

I drank a beer.

In that spirit, I need to tap the keg. Figuratively speaking, of course. When I write frequently, words flow on demand from the tap. Right now it's like the frothy sludge at the bottom of the keg that tastes like shit and takes forever to flow into the damn mug.

I lost the tap in the move.

Bad analogies aside, I feel like shit. Not physically this time, though. That's good.

HD's departure today was one of the hardest. Maybe it's because everyone else is here. There is nothing huger with which to distract myself. Soldier Boy isn't being shot at, Birch lives here now, my health is good, we are not in a state of DITY moving hell. Things are calm and nice and when he was here it just felt right.

And now he's gone and his bed is empty and I only get out 2 small plates instead of 3 small plates for dinner and I don't have to pep talk anyone to eat or break up too many spats.

And the worst parts of me are jealous and resentful that Birch is here and he is not here and today, just today, I didn't want her near me. I didn't want to talk to her or take care of her. That makes me a horrible person. Or it would, if I actually didn't talk to her and take care of her and be near her. But I did. I cuddled with her and babied her sore tooth and all those things I always do because she deserves it and she didn't create this mess or ask to be a part of any of it and she has had such a shitty life in so many ways and I am, truly, deeply, glad that she is here.

It's just so hard to send him away, to see the tears in his eyes and he turns away from us and walks away, with him knowing that we are all together now and he doesn't get to be here for all the Sunday Family Fun Days. And knowing that he wants to be here more time than there, and listening to the conversation between him and his dad about how he's sad about going back and wants to stay here longer and that he doesn't have anyone to play with there. And knowing that instead of doing kid things he hangs out in bars and business meetings and is slapped in the sidefuckingcar of a fucking motorgoddamncycle and driven around the countryside.

I want to scream and throw things and go apeshit.

I have cried for two days.

Like I said, this is worse than usual. Everything falls into place when he is here and the rest of the time I feel like I'm flailing around, trying to keep up, trying to be a real Mom, whereas a real Mom couldn't have lost her kid so thoroughly, couldn't have been so stupid, couldn't have let the child that she nursed for a year and kept attached to her hip for two years and to whom she is connected in an inexplicable mental way... couldn't have let him go.

I'm a farce. Playing Mommy. Playing house. Making rules and enforcing them arbitrarily and making sure everybody eats and wears clothes.

I know. I'm more than that and tomorrow, when I'm done with my pity party, I will get up and get back into the swing of things and find a way to be happy and fight depression and give everyone what they need and deserve from me.

Right before he leaves he starts wetting the bed at night. And his behavior becomes disorganized, with huge tantrums and inexplicable rage. He had words for it this time. He told me he was sad and wanted to stay with me longer. That it wasn't fair that he couldn't be with me all the time.

I failed the higher road test and said that if he wanted a longer visit with me next time he would have to ask daddy. I can't even express why I think my answer was the wrong one but I have a bad feeling about it and I've learned to trust my bad feelings. It was not a good answer.

I know, I know. Beating myself up, blah blah blah. I fucking lost my child because I was stupid and made some bad decisions. He's sad and stressed out because of it. I can handle my own suffering but seeing him upset tears me into a million screaming pieces.

Tomorrow, as always, I will forge ahead and find perspective and joy and all that sunshine I shine out my ass.

Tonight, though, I'm going to wallow. Fuck it.

Things I've Learned

2009-09-16T20:52:00.002-05:00

Or at least a few of them:

You never have all your shit together at one time. Ever.

It is better to be on a losing team with a coach who teaches rather than on a winning team with a coach who yells.

My husband loves me a lot.

Be careful with whom you choose to ally yourself in the military.

Having a child in school is far more inconvenient than having diaper wearing babies.

I wish I could do as much for HD as I do for Birch, and I am going to work very hard to come up with ways to do better.

Never laugh at live dragons (courtesy of Bilbo Baggins).

I need to run more often. And further.

Running the dishwasher twice a day in a household of 6 is not enough.

Living in a neighborhood which is overrun with people from your unit feels slightly incestuous.

There are functionalish units in the Army. At least this one seems to be so far.

I need to stop thinking in Facebook statusese and restart thinking in terms of blogging.

I've learned other things, but I have a warm husband waiting for me on the couch. The end.

Rusty

2009-09-14T20:14:00.002-05:00

My writing skills need a stretch and a good long run. Unfortunately, exhaustion and daily life are currently preventing that. So ya'll get one of the random posts instead.

Today I installed a shelf over the toilet in the full bath, and it makes me feel better about the entire house.

I applied for a job yesterday that I hope I get. It's a full time position, well compensated, doing something I am passionate about. The job may even have the potential for me to work from home part of the time. It's almost too perfect. I'm nervous, but ready.

I've seen too many couples from our unit disintegrate during and after the deployment. It makes me very sad.

Soldier Boy and I have been a little off for a few days, but we seem to be getting back on track. The combination of my hormones being out of whack (no, I am NOT the "p" word) and his head being up his butt has led to some hurt feelings. Hoping we are past that now. He loves me lots.

Our house is so small that I am having trouble unpacking all our stuff. I have yet to find my toenail polish and remover, and my toes look skank. I may have finally unearthed the right box, though.

On HD's last visit, I taught him how to swim. On this visit, we are finishing learning how to ride his bike. It's awful, but I really enjoy being able to teach HD things in a couple of weeks that his dad has been trying to teach him for months. Your methods don't work, Old Man!

Speaking of other parents, Birch's mother is really fucking pissing me off. Birch has been here since the 3rd of June, and her mother has not initiated contact with her once. Not fucking once. And three out of three telephone numbers that Birch has for her have been out of service for several days now. The disappointment in her face after trying every night makes me want to strangle somebody.

My jeans are riding down and my butt crack is showing.

I started the first scarf two days ago and have about 8 inches. It is incredibly easy. The hardest part is counting rows. It is knitted in the round and the only stitch you do is knit. Easy easy. If I get to November and don't have a significant number of scarves completed, I will take you girls up on your offers to help. I really appreciate it. It's going to be a blast.

Soldier Boy brought me home a bell from Korea. I keep it on a high shelf and yesterday instituted a new family tradition of ringing the bell to get rid of bad attitude or grumpy words. So far it has worked, mainly because SB teased me when I brought it up and I sashay to the bell in a grand manner and dramatically strike it with the little bell dingelhopper thingie. Everyone busts into giggles and we are good to go. I wonder how long it will last.

Birch's first football game is Wednesday. We are very excited. She is apparently the only girl who plays football in all age groups. And it bothers her not one itty bitty little bit. I hope she kicks ass on Wednesday, even though I know this is supposed to be playing for fun.

Knittery is calling me. And a snory husband. I really just wrote tonight to reform the habit. I hope I get struck with real inspiration again soon.

There is no crying in baseball!

2009-09-11T23:05:00.003-05:00

Or, for me, during deployments.

I did cry when the greensuiters showed up. And there were times, when out of nowhere, a sob would rise up from within me and I would gasp out loud at the effort it took to push it back down again. Somehow, for survival, I couldn't let that shit to the surface. It felt like if I ever let the floodgate open, I wouldn't be able to stop until he got home.

But now that he has been here for a few months and I am finally able to trust that he will be here for a while, all those tears make their way to the surface, at the strangest of times. You know when someone actually dies, and you have dreams about them being alive, and then you wake up and have to face the horror of them dying all over again? That's what I feel like. Like any moment I will wake up from this dream and he will be really dead. I cannot express how deeply and completely I knew, to my core, that he was gone, when I saw those two men on my doorstep. We condition ourselves to prepare for those men. We know what they mean. They don't come for any other reason. But he is home and alive and vibrant and healthy and we are doing wonderfully. You would think I would be over it by now. There are times when I look at him and burst into tears because I just can't believe he is here. Sometimes after he goes to sleep, I lay snuggled into him and tears pour down my cheeks because I never thought it would happen again. Ever.

He. Was. Gone.

Today we were talking about his discussions with the young privates about marriage. He talked to them about deployments, and what they do to those of us who are left behind. As he repeated what he told the boys about us being here, in the dark, with the news and our imaginations convincing us that we will never hear from them again, and how we deal with the kids on our own, with little to no relief... I couldn't control the tears. And right now, it's all I can do to keep them from spilling over my cheeks.

It is very hard for me when he talks about being in Afghanistan. In a way, I want to hear it. I want to support him, I want to listen to him, I want to share the experience in whatever small way I can. And in other ways, I can't handle the conversation at all. There are times when I have to ask him to stop and wait for another day. I can take it in small doses. Too much and I get all panicky.

I was prepared for the difficulties of reintegration. I was prepared for having to change in various ways. I was not prepared for the emotional effects of the deployment to last beyond his safe return. This was a surprise, although I am fairly sure it is part of processing the events of the past year. At the time, I could not slow down to deal with them because it took too much energy just to stay upright. Now we are safe, happy and together, so I suppose it is as good a time as any to face a few demons.

Now I shall go snuggle in beside him, sleep peacefully and wake up with him in the morning. We are fortunate, indeed.

September

2009-09-10T22:09:00.003-05:00

Staff Sgt. Todd W. Selge, 25, of Burnsville, Minn.;

Spc. Jordan M. Shay, 22, of Salisbury, Mass;

Petty Officer 3rd Class Benjamin P. Castiglione, 21, of Howell, Mich.;

Lance Cpl. Christopher S. Baltazar Jr., 19, of San Antonio, Texas;

2nd Lt. Darryn D. Andrews, 34, of Dallas, Texas;

Sgt. Randy M. Haney, 27, of Orlando, Fla.;

Staff Sgt. Michael C. Murphrey, 25, of Snyder, Texas;

1st Lt. Joseph D. Helton, 24, of Monroe Ga.;

Capt. Joshua S. Meadows, 30, of Bastrop, Texas,

Petty Officer 3rd Class James R. Layton, 22, of Riverbank, Calif.,

Gunnery Sgt. Edwin W. Johnson Jr., 31, of Columbus, Ga;

1st Lt. Michael E. Johnson, 25, of Virginia Beach, Va;

Staff Sgt. Aaron M. Kenefick, 30, of Roswell, Ga;

Sgt. Youvert Loney, 28, of Pohnpei, Micronesia;

Pfc. Thomas F. Lyons, 20, of Fernley, Nev;

Pfc. Zachary T. Myers, 21, of Delaware, Ohio;

Staff Sgt. Shannon M. Smith, 31, of Marion, Ohio.

Eight Years

2009-09-10T12:10:00.000-05:00

A few years ago I had the honor of celebrating the life of Kenneth Marcus Caldwell, who lost his life in the 9/11/01 attacks. This is a repost of my original remembrance for the 2,996 project.

Some people can only be remembered by what they have done, but not for who they are. These people are a sum total of their accomplishments--where they went to college, how many degrees they have, what their job was and what echelon of society they fit into.

Other people touch our lives so significantly that we never forget them. It's as though they gave us a little piece of themselves that lives on forever. These are the people who encourage us to thrive, to laugh, to be more kind, to love fully and to live without regret. They help us be better people, they inspire us and they truly make the world a better place, one life at a time. These folks are Earth Angels.

Kenny Caldwell was an Earth Angel, without a doubt. He has touched my life, even 5 years after his premature death, through the testimonies of the people who knew him. I feel fortunate to have been assigned this man for the 2,996 project and I hope to share his life in a way that he deserves.

In Loving Memory:

Kenneth Marcus Caldwell

2/8/71-9/11/01

Kenny's love for people started early. His mother, Elsie Caldwell, recalls the following from his childhood:

"My neighbors used to tease me about him when he was growing up. They'd say other kids collect stray cats and dogs, but your Kenny collects stray people."

This love for the "stray" people of the world never left him, and so many tributes left for him were from self-proclaimed strays to whom he reached out.

He attended Penn Charter High School in Philadelphia. High school is a trying time for all teenagers, with the pressure to identify with a group and set yourself apart. According to his friend Chris Odell, however, "Kenny made a point of being friends with everyone in class." Not only that, but he also played the school mascot and dressed up in a "ridiculous Quaker outfit for every football game." Kenny exuded confidence and made people laugh at an age when most kids are unsure of themselves. He was a leader from the beginning.

Kenny played basketball and was apparently quite good at it. Although this seems to have been a major part of his life, few of the tributes I could find went into much detail about his love of the game or his abilities. I have no idea what position he played, although I believe he both attended basketball camps and then returned later to be a counselor at them. There are those who mention the basketball in passing as they point out his character and the incredible impact his energy had on their lives. This is yet another example of a man who was not defined by what he did, but rather by who he was. The most direct information I could find about his basketball hobby was from Lou DiGiovanni: "Kenny and Coach G taught me the fundamentals of learning the game of basketball and how to become and outgoing caring person. (sic)"

His skills on the court were nothing compared to his skills with the people around him.

In college at Hofstra University, Kenny took up stand-up comedy. This seems only natural for a man who so many can't speak of without mentioning his infectious laughter. He loved to make people smile and laugh, and did so with ease. His broad smile could brighten the worst of days, and when that didn't work, he'd drag you out for Dunkin' Donuts (according to a story related by Laura Hnetow) .

Kenny's colleague and mentor, Marie F. Joseph, says the following: "(Kenny) became one of my dearest friends, substituted as my kid brother, joined me as a neighbor and ended up being one who would mentor me in life long lessons of faith, forgiveness, kindness and love." He couldn't help but teach, even as he was supposed to be learning.

Although I know that Kenny was a technology salesman at Alliance Consulting Group, I can't find any specific information about what he did there. His coworkers echo what every other person in his life remembers--his smile, his laugh, his kindness.

Kenny was the founder of the great International Kicknic Contest, a reunion of sorts for his growing circle of family and friends. Each August they would gather in Prospect Park in Brooklyn to play kickball and spend time together. I hope this tradition is still in effect, although Kenny is no longer here to organize the event.

Everyone remembers their encounters with Kenny, from the woman he met on the Amtrak coming into New York, to his teachers, his friends, his co-workers. Each and every one of them remember his ability to make them laugh. They recall his caring, kindness and generosity. These are the things he is remembered by.

The best way to honor this beautiful soul, and to thereby let him live on, is to take lessons from his life and live them for ourselves. In his apartment several notes were found which offer insight into his approach to life:

"Remember what got me here."
"Always treat people like you want to be treated."
"Show respect and consideration for everyone."

These are such simple lessons, and yet they are so easy to forget. Take some time right now to remember what got you where you are, wherever that may be. The next time you have a choice about how to treat someone, remember Kenny and be sure to show respect and consideration, and treat the people around you the way you would like to be treated. The world was better because of the way Kenny lived, and we can make it better still if we honor his memory by applying his principles.

As his friend Chris Odell from high school puts it:

"Kenny loved nothing more than bringing people together. That he was killed by men whose purpose was to drive nations apart was probably predictable, because people like Kenny are their greatest obstacle. All we can do is try to be more like Kenny, and less like them. "

Today, remember Kenny Caldwell and celebrate, knowing that you have been touched, ever so lightly, by an Earth Angel.

If you would like to read more about Kenneth Marcus Caldwell, you can visit here, here or here.

To Kenny's family and friends: I hope that I have done well in my tribute to him today. He was such a beautiful person that it was difficult for me to capture all that he was. If I have missed something or written anything in error, please feel free to let me know. If you would like me to add anything, I will be happy to do so. I regret that I never got to know him while he was living, but I feel fortunate in getting to know him now. I hope that you are able to feel his presence in yourselves and in one another. May you find peace and comfort even in the midst of your loss. I'm certain that wherever he is, he is trying to make each and every one of you laugh through your grief and tears. I hope he finds a way to do it today, and every day hereafter.

Taking Birthdays Back

2009-09-10T07:46:00.003-05:00

Birch's seventh birthday included some traumatic events, which I will not delve into on this very public blog. Suffice it to say, however, that those events were part of the reason that my husband was granted temporary emergency custody and the reason she has not gone back to her mother's home since coming for summer visitation in June. She is 8 now, but we did not know the extent of the situation until this summer when she opened up to us and we were able to get information from other sources as well.

We're taking birthdays back.

In January, we are having a Harry Potter birthday bash to end all Harry Potter birthday bashes. We started planning it about a month ago. Her one major desire for the party is to (get this) make scarves for every guest as a party favor. And me, in my angst to make this a joyful event, said yes. Please, someone, tell me what I was smoking at that time so that I never touch the stuff again.

She wants to make Gryffindor scarves for everyone. I'm not sure how many guests we'll be having, but we will only be making scarves for the kids. I found a righteous pattern yesterday, but it calls for the damn things to be nearly 8 feet long. Ours will be 4 feet or less, I am certain. Luckily, it's knitted in the round so I don't have to worry about purling or complicated stitches of any sort. Just mindnumbing knitting for months of my life. Teehee. They're really cool, though, because they are double layered and really quite beautiful.

We are also going to turn her room into the Gryffindor common room with some bean bag chairs and making an area for a fake fireplace. I've been checking out the Gryffindor coat of arms and think I can paint a reasonable representation of it, and we will have a fat lady portrait on her bedroom door that you have to speak the password in order to enter. I will probably label some root beer bottles as "butterbeer" and am working on a way to play Quidditch in the back yard (in January, in a cold state, maybe a bad idea). I will be making a Marauder's Map and might come up with a surprise treasure hunt type thing as well. It will be a blast.

Birch and I are also planning Sprout's birthday party which will be in November. Not a lot of details on that except for making large paper mache (sp?) animals for a wild animal theme. Little Miss Doolittle will love it. Since OF didn't have a party for HD last year, I'm planning his as well. He won't be visiting during that time, but we will do it a month later. He wants an Army theme. OF is going to freak. Teehee!

So, um, back to the scarves. If any of my knitting friends would like to make a scarf for the partay, I would be glad to send you the yarn and pattern. I'm shooting for 10, but I'm really not sure. I ordered the yarn for the first one and will test it all out to determine how long each one will take, how long the scarf itself should be, etc. One lady wrote a review of the original scarf pattern and said that it took her 20 hours over 2 weeks to finish it, and she's not a particularly fast knitter. And hers was the full 8 feet, so I'm guessing that as a particularly slow knitter, I can do 4 feet of scarf in 20 hours, but I'm not sure I can find that much knitting time every 2 weeks. We'll see.

We will not be held captive by our past negative experiences. We are taking birthdays back!

Holy Cow Crap

2009-09-08T20:23:00.002-05:00

I seriously didn't realize that the titles of my last two posts were so similar. I'm guessing the content was, as well, but I didn't spend any time going back to read.

Anywho.

I hate that word. Anywho.

I have been composing blog posts in my head for months (has it really been that long?) and here I am, sitting in my new house, at my hooked up computer, with children in bed and nightly chores complete, and I can't think of a damn thing to say besides, "Anywho."

I'm not the same person I was since I took my unwilling blog hiatus. My body is strong again, getting stronger every day, and that is beyond all of my wildest dreams earlier this year. I am still having more frequent migraines, which completely lay me out and cause my left side to go haywire, but for the most part I am back to 100%.

My mindset is different, too. I feel more capable than ever before. Part of it is the completion of the deployment... I look back at the things that happen last year and I think, "Holy shit! How did that girl do that!?" and then I realize it was me and I had no choice but to do that. Strength comes when you need it. Part of that able feeling I have is the sheer amount of work I have accomplished since he got home. I packed up our entire house, finished an online class, donated or sold hundreds of pounds of things we no longer needed, took care of all four children, finished my FRG leadership duties. That was in the first 4 weeks or so. Then I moved my entire household across the country (with help from Soldier Boy), managed to snag all of the things we would need as they were downloading our things into storage, created a home in a fricking camper for two weeks and then in a nasty temporary home in need of serious renovations. During that time I managed to light a huge fucking fire by alerting certain folks to the devastating housing shortage at this post via an email which was eventually forwarded to the division commander. After that, we got our home and I have unpacked the entire damn thing and made everything fit and then went on a 3 day road trip to retrieve HD.

Oh, and I told OF "no" to something he's been trying to butter me up for for several weeks. Ha!

So I hope that soon the house will be totally unpacked so that I can turn this newfound git 'er dun energy can be turned to more fun and creative projects. Because seriously, if I can do everything that's been done the past couple of months, I can do anything I want. Day to day housekeeping used to kick my ass. No longer. I finally get the FlyLady, after all these years.

Speaking of OF, he's been freaking me out for a few weeks because he was being nice again. I have said it before and I will say it many more times but I cannot handle it when he is nice. It always proceeds him asking for something outrageous and then getting pissed if I turn him down. I swear to god in whom I do not believe that he is really a 5 year old masquerading as a sixty-one year old. Yeah, I said it. Sixtyfuckingone.

Excuse me while I puke. (No offense to my generationally advanced readers.)

We interrupt this broadcast to say how fucking cool it is to be typing on a computer, with an internet connection, in my own home. Righteous.

And with that, I leave you again. Feeling a little spastic now that I have my old friend back. I promise all my entries aren't going to be as muddled as this one.

I hope.

Holy Crap.

2009-09-08T15:03:00.003-05:00

I have innernets again.

We got a home and cable internet a couple of weeks ago, but my lovely ancient desktop didn't start when I tried to hook it up. So one new power source, a week, and $100 later, we're back in business. Except everything is running slow as molasses and my husband needs to wipe my hard drive and reinstall it all. You know, in his free time.

Not complaining. WAY better than the Blackberry.

So we finally have a home. It happened about 5 weeks after we arrived. It's tiny and I'm having a hard time making things fit, but the neighborhood is nice and there are lots of kids for our brood to play with. It's actually the neighborhood I always wanted when I was growing up.

I still have lots of unpacking and organizing to do. Just wanted to poke my head in and let ya'll know I'm alive and reasonably happy. I have a lot to write about, including, but not limited to:

1. Obtaining custody of Birch and the well of emotions that stirred up about my own disastrous court fiasco.
2. The continuation of the reintegration saga.
3. My recent roadtrip to pick up HD, which included a stop at my mother's and father's houses.
4. The needs of a friend who is uninsured and needs chemotherapy.
5. Figuring out my role as Birch's stepmother.
6. Learning a new post and town and state.

Soon, the floodgates shall open. I have greatly missed my scriptotherapy and all the comments from my faithful readers.

Back to being productive Mommy for a bit. Then back to the opiate of writing. Woohoo!

Blackberry Blogging is a Blast

2009-08-13T16:40:00.000-05:00

Ok, maybe not so much, but I'm a fool for alliteration.

So we are here at our new post and are still waiting for housing. The housing company moved us in to temporary quarters (after spending 2 weeks in the RV) and we will stay here until a house comes available. There are some major issues with housing on this post due to a number of political, military and civilian problems. It is about to get twice as bad as it currently is, and I am working with the company, the garrison commander and our unit commander to try to resoplve the issues. There my be a time when Congress and/or the media is necessary to make things happen. I do not want to blog the details because it may compromise my anonymity, but if you are a known reader/friend here at VB and care about lower enlisted families, please drop me an email. In the event that greater measures become necessary, I will drop you a line with the details.

In other news, we launched a battle for custody of Birch this summer. We won the first major battle yesterday and she now resides with us. She started school recently and is doing well. I was glad that we had the money from the DITY to pay for this, since her other home has become dangerous in a variety of ways. The entire process has dredged up a lot of old emotions from my own custody war and I will need to type that out soon on a real computer. Overall, though, I am relieved that she is now safe.

My cell signal is hit and miss. The most reliable application on my phone has been Facebook, oddly enough. Every now and then I have been able to log in to blogger, but that is rare.

I have a million things to write and I hope we have a place to call home soon. I miss writing and I miss reading blogs. I probably have thousands of items in my reader.

Until the satellites align again...

Camp Deluge

2009-07-30T21:33:00.001-05:00

We're here! And I don't want to speak too soon but I think I may be able to post from my Blackberry. That would be cool, except I'm still not really adept at the whole miniscule key mashing thing. This device makes me feel a little old, but I'm glad I got it with my whole re-up ye olde cell contract thing cause it's my only way to assuage my innernets addiction at the moment.

But ya'll don't care about that. You wanna hear the good stuff.

The DITY was a wild success. At least so far. Yes, it was a lot of work, yes, I nearly bit my husband's head off multiple times during the two days before we cleared, but no, it wasn't that bad.

We decided that the worst part for us would be to load and unload the truck, so we decided to hire professionals to do that part. They were well worth the money and did not take away that much of our profit. I'm fairly certain I would have killed my husband if we had done that part ourselves, so I'm glad we weren't too greedy to pay those guys.

The fun part was when we pulled away from our former home with Soldier Boy driving the 26 foot Uhaul, towing a car carrier with our car on top and the kayak strapped to that, with our cat Stella and her litter box riding with him in the cab. I followed that craziness with the Mystery Machine and 3 children. I'm not sure who had the rawer end of that deal.

For some bizarre reason we thought we would make the 14 hour trip in a day and a half of driving. Yeah, not so much. Try 3 1/2 days. It wasn't bad, though, with DLA we didn't have to worry about hotel expenses. I still tried to economi7e by using Hotwire.com. It was weird and I'm still not sure I liked it, but it did land us in the Nashville Sheraton one night. We were the fricking Clampetts coming to the big city that night. They let us park our convoy "where the tour buses usually park" and Birch had fun looking for Miley Cyrus, since she has stayed there before. That night cost only $10 more than the shitty Days Inn we stayed at in Texas, so it was extry cool.

We didn't get to spend any time in Memphis, but I can't wait to visit there again some time. My children need more exposure to live music. Real music.

We are ecstatic about the new state we call home. It is gorgeous, has reasonable temperatures, and it actually rains here! There are live plants everywhere and you can't set a foot out the front door without stumbling onto a new state park or historical attraction. We are very happy here.

Not so happy with the hosuing situation, however. That's a post for another day, though. My thumbs are tired. For the moment, though, we are "vacationing" in a rented RV at a lake. Its ok, but I'm ready for a home again. All in all, things are wonderfie. There could have been many disasters, but there weren't.

Like when I left my purse in a Ft Hood shoppette restroom and didn't discover it until we were checking in to our hotel in Waco and I drove back to pick it up, and found that no one had stolen the cash I had left in it from closing out our local bank account.

Yeah. Like that. A few puking/pooping/peeing incidents were nothing compared to the disaster that could have been.

Holy Cow.

2009-07-23T04:27:00.004-05:00

That's all I can think to say after 4 hours of sleep and then getting up to spend the next 5 hours on finishing packing before the people we hired to load the truck get here. It was all supposed to be done yesterday afternoon--and could have been--except we got hijacked by Finance who dilly-dallied on paying our DITY and DLA advances. Now our "advances" are going to be issued... AFTER WE FRICKING GET THERE.

So 6 hours of visiting offices that have assured my husband for several weeks that everything was in order, only to find out that we were not going to have the money we needed to pay the deposit on the 26-ft U-Haul +trailer combo, as well as gas for 2 hoggish vehicles, as well as hotels and meals for the next 5 days, we walked out with an AER for a fraction of what the advance was supposed to be.

Luckily, it is enough, we have what we need, and hopefully the "advance" will come sooner rather than later so we can pay back the AER loan.

Ugh.

The biggest inconvenience was that it robbed us of 6 hours of production. So we are doing them during the night instead. At midnight, I could move no more, so I laid down to sleep for a few hours. Soldier Boy is taking his turn now, and then leaving to get the truck in a couple of hours. The loaders will be here in 5 hours.

So.

If you're preparing for a DITY, schedule to be completely packed 2-3 days earlier than you have to be. Yeah, probably common knowledge, but I am not all that common, darnit.

I'm not sure if I can post from my Blackberry, so this may be the only post for a couple of weeks. We will be taking our crazy caravan northeast on Friday. Housing won't be available for a few weeks and we are spending at least the first one in an RV by the lake. I hope that's not a stupid call, but it just seems glorious to be out there near the water. When I have 3 children (and the non-allowed cat) crawled up my behind in the trailer, it probably won't seem so glorious.

Ok. Moving along now. (Literally).

Yes I Would Walk 1200 Kilometers

2009-07-20T08:25:00.001-05:00

Yes I would walk 1200 more...

Ok, maybe I wouldn't. But my husband's company did about 2400 km of foot patrols in Afghanistan during their last deployment. That's a lot of walking, carrying 60-100 pounds, in heat that you can't imagine. In 6 months, Soldier Boy burned the soles off of 3 pairs of boots. No joke. I've seen them. The tread is gone.

While he was over there, I sent him care packages almost every 2 weeks. They had snacks, entertainment, and whatever he needed that he couldn't get out at the COP. You know what his favorite packages were? The ones that had socks. Good socks. Expensive socks. We're talking Thorlos, Fox Rivers, and UnderArmour. He needed the ones that would wick sweat away from his feet, while still providing a decent cushion. We tried a lot of them before we found the ones that were just right for him.

What's my point?

Would you like to send some socks to some troops, but don't know how? Soldiers' Angels Germany is supporting a platoon in eastern Afghanistan (the spot where things are very hot at the moment). Go here to learn more about how you can help.

If socks aren't your thing, Soldiers' Angels has a website that has lots of options for helping our servicemembers. They're a great organization and I highly recommend being involved with their good work. Soldier Boy says that SA was greatly appreciated during his deployment and a lot of the boys wore SA pins on their body armor.

Have a great week, ya'll. I am in DITY moving hell for a few more days. The road trip starts Friday!

*Thanks to AWTM for sharing this.

Guide to DITY moves.

2009-07-17T10:07:00.003-05:00

1. Plan, plan, plan.

2. Sort and Organize.

3. Get snippy when others don't follow the plan.

4. Apologize.

5. Plan some more.

6. Procure moving equipment.

7. Get pissed off when significant other does not offer any input on dates of moving until after moving equipment is reserved.

8. Apologize again.

9. Wash the tops of the cabinets in the kitchen because everyone knows how freaking bad the checkout people are here.

10. Freak out completely because significant other looks at you like you're crazy and may or may not compare you to a rabid squirrel.

11. Accept his apology graciously.

12. Start boxing up nonessentials.

13. Take some breaks to do fun things with the kids and try not to freak out because you're not being productive.

14. Yell at your significant other for freaking out because you want him to take a break from being productive.

15. Kindly accept his apology for you yelling at him.

16. Rinse.

17. Repeat.

Teehee.

Actually, it's not all that bad. Yes, we're being snippy, but yes, we're quick to say I'm sorry and move forward. If we are successful in this, I will post a "how to" guide at the end. I would rather live-blog the experience, but I'm too busy. I still have lots of thoughts on reintegration, too, so we'll get back to that at some point when things are calmer. Like in 2029.

Now if you will excuse me, this rabid squirrel needs to get back to work.

Lest You Think I'm a Topnotch Mother

2009-07-15T16:28:00.004-05:00

Just before typing the last post I took an important phone call at my desk, where the baby monitor also happens to reside. Crush had just woken up and was making lots of "Come get me!" sounds, so I turned down the volume while I was finishing the IPC (important phone call). I fully planned to go pick him up immediately after the IPC ended.

I did not remember, however, that my short term memory is completely fried (ha!) and so when the IPC ended I thought, "Wow! He must have gone back to sleep! I have a little more time!"

So I sat down and typed out the post below, surfed the 'net for a little bit, got some dinner or lunch or snack or some such tomfoolery going. After about an hour I thought, "This isn't right! He shouldn't have slept that much longer!" so I went upstairs to check on him.

He had been awake the. entire. time.

Good mother? Ha! I just get lucky sometimes.

"Remember the Ocean?"

2009-07-13T11:44:00.003-05:00

When HD was still here a few weeks ago, we went down to visit FlyGirl and go to the beach. Fun times were had by all; however, Little Mister Heavy Duty had a complete and total breakdown during our beach day.

Many factors came into play that day, including late nights, early mornings, close quarters and the fact that he was going back to the OF (creatively nicknamed Ole Dusty Balls by my girlfriends here). The sun was beating down on us and, truth be told, we were all tired and marginally cranky. All the kiddos were playing with sand toys, but HD decided he wanted the bucket in order to catch minnows. The others wouldn't relinquish it for his plan and he started getting whiny.

As is my usual custom, I ignored him. As is his usual custom, he amped up the drama in order to get my attention. Soon FlyGirl and I were being splashed by an angry 6 year old. To make things even more difficult for him, we laughed and thanked him for cooling us off. Ruh-roh.

He eventually became more aggressive, so I decided to throw him for a loop and see if I couldn't bust him out of his funk by playfully scooping him up, walking him into the water, and plunking him down (it was a foot deep at most). I figured that would make him laugh, we would giggle and splash and play and be done with the bad attitude.

I'm not always right (just most of the time).

He immediately started screaming, crying, and thrashing. He was so violent that people all around us stopped to look (probably to see if I was trying to drown him). He kicked and punched the water, splashed me, took a few swings at me, and screamed with unfettered rage and fury. I stood there, letting him vent.

Eventually he sat down in the water and cried. I sat down next to him. The waves would come up and splash on his back, but we weren't close to deep enough for it to come over his head. He screamed louder every time a wave hit him. At some point I pulled him into my lap and let him sit there as the water rolled around us and he sobbed. Every so often I would ask if he was done so we could talk, but that seemed to make things worse, so I just sat with him in the water. After about 10 minutes of this, FlyGirl came out to talk with him. I told him I was going to go sit in a beach chair under an umbrella, and he was welcome to join me.

That's when the drama really kicked in and he screamed, "I CAN'T WALK!!!" After examining his legs and finding them without injury and fully functional, I offered to hold his hand, but he wanted to be carried. I told him no and walked to the chair and sat down. FlyGirl stayed with him a few more minutes and then joined me.

We watched as the screaming boy quite literally dragged himself across the sand towards us. Part of it wasn't so bad, because it was wet. The other part was hot and fluffy, the kind you really don't want to drag yourself across. He was not, however, giving either of us the satisfaction of seeing him walk. When he finally reached me, I slid him onto my lap. He began screaming about ouchies on his ribs. In the 10 feet of hot, fluffy sand, he managed to chafe the skin on his ribcage.

"That was a pretty bad idea, huh?"

He agreed and we chatted for a few minutes about needing to make good decisions even when we're angry. We talked about how he didn't hurt anyone but himself by crawling through the sand. He seemed to get it, just a little bit. Then I asked him if he knew how much I loved him. He recited, "More than there's sand on the beach, more than there's water in the ocean, more than there's stars in the sky." I pointed to one little grain of sand on his tummy and told him there were thousands of miles of beaches on the planet, covered with sand just like this. His eyes got big as he tried to imagine it all. (Teehee!) A few minutes later we got up and rejoined the fun. We went out deeper in the water and he bodysurfed, as well as played with one of the boogie boards. His attitude was mostly good for the rest of the day, with some intermittent whining.

The next day HD and I flew to NC for him to return to OF. After breaking all the rules and eating peanut M&Ms for breakfast (our flight tradition), I brought up the subject of his outburst. We talked about how it's ok to be angry, and how we need to find a safe way to let it out. I told him it was fine to punch and kick the ocean, because we can't hurt it that way. I confessed that I, too, had stood in the surf and screamed and cried before. He was amused by that. That's when I pulled out the heavy mom-teaching artillery.

"So when you were sitting in the water and you were upset, it made you angry when the waves hit you, right?"

"Yeah!"

"But when we were playing in the waves, you thought they were fun, right?"

"Yeah, I like bodysurfing!"

"So did the waves change from when you were sitting to when you were playing?"

"...........no......."

"What changed, Bubba?"

And a little, teeny, tiny voice snuck out, saying, "My attitude?"

He got it! He knew the difference, and although I led him there, he figured it out himself. I was so proud of him and me I could hardly stand myself. I smothered him with too much praise and then said, "Baby, all of life is just like that. The waves are gonna come, no matter what. It's our choice what to do with them. You get to decide whether to sit there and pout, or get up and play. One of them is definitely more fun than the other."

I could tell he was pondering it, so I let there be quiet for a few minutes. Then I said, "So, honey, next time you seem to have bad attitude, I'm just going to remind you to remember the ocean, alright?" He liked that idea. I've used it once since he has been gone, and although it didn't have an immediate positive response, it definitely changed the course of his attitude.

I'm fairly certain I learned more than I was able to teach that day. There have been many times over the last several weeks when I wanted to sit down and scream, but I think I'm going to try and surf instead.

One option is definitely more fun than the other.

Afterthought

2009-07-09T10:43:00.004-05:00

No, Crush isn't the afterthought. Posting pictures for you all is the afterthought.

And also, if anyone knows where I was linked from on Monday, please let me know. I had twice as many fresh hits as usual, but I can't figure out where they came from. Haven't been reading many blogs lately--mainly skimming--so if one of you linked me and I missed it, I'm sorry! Curiosity is killing me here. My statcounter log only hold 500 hits, and that doesn't go back to Monday (July 6).

And now, without further ado:

He wasn't quite sure about all the brown stuff at first, but the plastic yoda ring was the mad bomb, yo. Teh cute is almost too much to take. (Notice Sprout making off with the balloons while he's not looking).

This would be why Soldier Boy is not allowed to go in public with Crush by himself. Way too much handsome/cute/awwwwwwwww going on, and quite frankly I'm too busy to go around clawing out eyes at the moment.

Do not disturb Sprout while she is eating chocolate unless you want to incur her wrath.

Speaking of wrath, this was taken when I was saying "DON'T YOU DARE!" and trying to pinch my husband's balls because he was holding me from behind.

And this would be after they dared. Yes, that is cupcake smushed all over my face and neck. Why, oh why, must I have a husband and best friend who are the same fucking person? WHY?

On the Run.

2009-07-09T09:55:00.004-05:00

Yeah, so, let me tell you how fun it is to go from having yourself and two relatively quiet babies in a house all by yourself for months on end to suddenly getting your entire family back in one blow and then sending one member off again (HD) after you finally get a system down that works and then deciding that Hey! We should move in 3 weeks! And let's do it ourselves!!! Righteous!

Yeah.

Something must have happened to my brain during the mystery illness, and we can definitely build a case for TBI on Soldier Boy's behalf. Getting blown up, even in a super cool badass state of the art vehicle that keeps all your limbs intact, can affect your head. That's what I keep telling him, anyway, when I say something smart and he doesn't listen. Or when I lose something and try to blame him for it. Dammit.

So I'm running around here like a crazy person. My calendar has a list of daily tasks that must be complete in order for us to move ourselves. We pack the truck 2 weeks from today and drive away from Tayhoss 2 weeks from tomorrow. We will have about 700 sf and one bedroom less, because they do not have housing available that meets our needs and we had to downgrade. So far I have been unable to find housing on the economy, so into the old ass 3 bedroom houses we go. But they have updated kitchens!!!1!1

In the meantime, I'm finishing my class which the kind lady at the school gave me an extension for when I was up against the deadline last time.

I am also closing down the FRG since our entire unit is making this move.

I'm also trying to provide some fun for the kids since most of the time right now it's parents working all the time while the kids watch movies and play video games. I hate that.

The mystery illness has completely abated. I have self-diagnosed myself (since none of the experts have any ideas) with having a post-viral illness, because the entire episode began about 4 days after a particularly nasty virus seemed to clear up. The mystery illness began to really clear up after Grammy C was here, probably because I was finally able to truly rest for the first time in a few months. The tingling/numb sensation in my left side was secondary to the illness, probably brought on by all the laying around, trying to get better. I went to my PCM the other day, who is a D.O. and able to do spinal manipulations. He adjusted my spine, hips, and neck. At first I still had the sensations on the left side, but within a couple of days my arm and leg felt normal again. I have also been swimming and doing yoga as low-impact ways to build muscle and core strength again. My energy level has held up. At this point I would say I am better than 95%, I just have a long way to go before regaining my strength and stamina for exercise. Yesterday I ran. It was fantastic. It was only a few blocks, but I fucking ran.

Ok, off to do my daily tasks.

We are out of our fucking minds for doing a DITY. Seriously. I hope there's some bank to be made from this or I am going to be Sad Panda on the other side.

One Years Old

2009-07-03T08:54:00.005-05:00

Today my teeny Crush turns ONE. I went into labor on the 2nd of July, 3 days after Soldier Boy left for Afghanistan. I was playing with the kids in my mom's back yard. I noticed the contractions, but wrote them off as Braxton-Hicks and continued to do what I normally do...

I can't believe how much Sprout has matured since this picture. She's a big girl now.

Yeah, I was poppin' squats all morning as I took pictures of the kiddos. Labor be damned.

This was the first picture I saw of Crush. I was still in recovery from the surgery and I sent my mom to take a picture of him with my shitty camera phone. The nurses took some pictures with a digital camera and printed them for her to bring to me. I was glad he was alive, but this picture was very scary.

This is the first time I held him. We fed him with the oral syringe that is laying there. His first meal was 4 ccs of breastmilk. Look how teensy his head is!

He had jaundice pretty badly, so he spent a lot of time under the lamps wearing his shades. His preemie diaper looks HUGE on him.

Here's the original post from Heather, announcing his arrival. And here's my description of the events surrounding his exciting entry into the breathing world.

He's not so furry anymore. He's got a huge head, broad shoulders, and chunky thighs. He weighs about 22 pounds (whereas Sprout weighs about 27). He loves his daddy, thinks napping is a serious sport, and terrorizes the cat as much as possible. He is All. Boy.

Currently he is staring out the back door, alternating between growling at whatever he sees out there and smushing his face against the glass. I will post current pictures of him later today.

I can't believe my baby is ONE today!