Homecoming

So I got an email on a Sunday a couple of weeks ago which read: "At Ft. Campbell, arriving at airport tomorrow. Pick me up." Which left me completely stunned. He was home. He was in the U.S.! He was going to be HERE tomorrow! SIX MONTHS EARLY! My thoughts raced from, 'oh crap this house is a mess' to 'oh crap, I need to lose twenty pounds before tomorrow!' (weight loss had been my goal for this year-long deployment-- sigh) And then...how am I going to keep this secret from my kids? And then, should I call the local news and have the big reunion televised?! So many things to think about and decide in the next twelve hours!

I quickly canceled their impending Dentist appointments for the next morning, feeling guilty since it had been six months. But my sister pointed out (she was here when I got the surprise email) that it was OKAY to cancel for this reason. My sister is, quite frequently, a voice of reason for my cluttered, unreasonable head. I then had to make the decision: Do I bring them to the airport or bring them to school and surprise them at school? After mulling that over and remembering that my oldest would be quite suspicious if I took him out of school for a little jaunt to the airport, I decided on option B. Surprise them at school. But still....do I call the press? Should I?

So the next day, I dropped them off, ran to the store, got balloons, ran home, threw up a sign (which my sister and I had luckily found in our basement -- a sign that has been used at least twice before) that welcomed Daddy home, and tried to look my best as I drove to the airport...wishing like hell I had at least lost five pounds. Damn you muffins from the commissary! Traitors!

I was nervous. I hadn't seen him in person in five months. We've gone longer before, but the nerves just come anyway. Finally, after waiting and waiting and looking very anxious (I noticed a few security guards glancing my way a few times -- I was pacing around and getting up and down) his plane arrived! I am not kidding when I say to you he was the LAST one off the plane. Seriously. And the first thing he says to me after not seeing me for five months? "Where are the kids?!" Ok. Then he hugged me and asked why I was crying. What?! I felt like asking, 'Why aren't you?!' But I didn't. He gets nervous with PDA....especially in uniform. 

I guess I should have brought a sign and some balloons to the airport so it made sense to people watching....but come on. He's in a uniform, I'm crying and hugging him hard. What else would it be? But no one said anything to us, and we did get a lot of strange looks. I guess people didn't know he was deployed. I assumed everyone did. (wink)

We ate a quick lunch sitting across from each other. I kept looking at him and feeling like he had never left. That the last few months didn't happen. How funny that time does that. How marriage does that. I was so excited to bring him to the school, I just wanted lunch to end. I kept looking at him, reminding my brain that this was real. 

We got to the school and decided to surprise my little girl first. So we had her called up from Music class. Hubby hid while I stood at the top of the stairs waiting for her. She came up and I started filming....then she saw her Daddy. "DADDY!" she yelled and ran to him. He picked her up and she said, "Wow, you're really high!" They hugged and kissed and she kept staring at ME. Finally she asked, "Can I go back to Music now?" Ummmm....okay? So, off she went. Not the reaction I was expecting. Good thing I didn't call the news crew for that tear-jerker.

Okay, on to oldest son. He came around the corner while I was filming and he said, "What are you doing?" I said, "I'm filming your teeth!" (he had just lost one of his teeth) when he turned the corner and saw his Daddy. He ran up to Daddy and jumped into his arms. He didn't say a word. Just squeezed his eyes shut and held on for dear life. (Should have called the news for this one) My husband was trying to hold it together, so he put my eight year old down and asked, "Were you good for Mommy while I was gone?" (HA! Ummm...not so much) My son looked at me and said, "Was I Mommy?" End scene. Let's keep this on a happy note everyone! (I did respond with a quick, "Yes! Of course!" -- ahem)

So then we all drove over to the preschool (I went down and got my daughter out of Music class) to surprise my littlest guy. He was outside so we had to do a covert mission. We ducked, parked and walked the long way into his classroom. His reaction was precious. He saw Daddy...yelled, "Daddy!" ran and jumped into his arms. When he stopped hugging Daddy, he wiped his eyes with his whole arm and said, "I cwying" then (best part) leaned towards me for a Mommy hug. Made. My. Year. (Someone call the news RIGHT NOW!)

From there it was a blur. We showed Daddy our new scars, our new toys, the sign "we" put up for him, our Tai Kwon Do moves, our gymnastics moves, and generally caught him up with our lives. Daddy decided to take us out to dinner. The kids voted unanimously for IHop. Pancakes for everyone! It's reunion time! 

That is where the day was made complete. We were all enjoying ourselves, getting tired from the long day of surprises, when the waitress put the receipt on the table. We thanked her and then a few minutes later she came back and said, "Umm...someone ended up taking care of this for you." We were shocked. This has never happened to us before. We've gone out to dinner with Hubby in his uniform before, but since we live in a military community, it isn't like people are jumping at the chance to pay for our meals. We aren't "special" here like we might be outside of a military community.

Then the paranoia set in. Who paid? Were they watching us? Did we order too much? TELL US WHO PAID!!!! It ended up being a family that was sitting close to us. After dinner, we got up and went over to thank them. They said they just wanted to thank us for our service.  (I was thrilled when they said "our service"-- because I do think the kids and I serve too) I let them know that Hubby had just gotten back that morning from a deployment and they were thrilled. They had no idea. They just paid because they wanted to thank us. What a great ending to an amazing day. But wait...it got better. 

As I was finishing my conversation with this generous family, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Who was it? My daughter's Music teacher. Full circle I tell you! She was laughing and said, "I didn't think she was supposed to stay in class once she told me that Daddy came home, but she was in such shock, she just sat down and started singing!" I think that made my husband feel better...knowing that his six year old daughter didn't love music more than him, it was just the shock of it all.  

That night at the IHop, everyone was welcoming him home, congratulating the kids and I. Making us feel so very special. I thought that would happen at the airport or at the school. The way I had planned it ( or, more precisely, imagined it) But it didn't. It happened at the IHop, an unplanned, spur of the moment decision that ended up flooding our family with well wishes and heart- felt thank you's from strangers. 

I guess I should have alerted the press to meet us at IHop. 

Spin

This weekend was hard. It was a three day weekend; one that is given to military families on our Post to enjoy together. Well, when your family isn't "together" like ours is -- it makes for a really long weekend with lots of voids to fill. 

I decided to treat the kids to a movie. The movie I took them to? "A Dolphin's Tale" -- which would have been great except there was (spoiler alert!) a soldier who comes home from "a war" injured. Well, that got my littlest one going. My oldest two were like, "Oh, we know that won't happen to Daddy, he's just working in an office." Which is what we told them before he left. Did we do the right thing by painting this picture of Daddy sitting behind a desk to quell their fears? I don't know. And that is one of the biggest problems with deployments-- never knowing if what you are telling the kids is the right thing or not. I know my husband has "fudged the truth" to me in past deployments, to keep me from worrying, so I suppose doing the same for the kids is okay.

After the movie, I brought them to watch trains pass by, waving at the conductor and listening to the whistles. I could see on their faces how they wanted to just jump on that train and feel the wind rush on their faces -- to have it take them far away from this life we were living on this long weekend (or, maybe that was just me.) So, instead of throwing everyone on a speeding locomotive, I did the next best thing. I took them to the Carousel Museum across the street. 

They had a blast, listening to the blaring carnival music, riding the horses, bunnies and tea cups. I wandered around while they rode (my almost forty year old stomach cannot withstand the joy of this carousel anymore.) I am always drawn to this one particular horse at the museum. It is wooden, known to be one of the oldest of its kind -- pre-Civil War era. I stared at it, thinking of how many wars this horse has seen. How many soldier's kids have ridden on its back - and out of those countless kids, how many of their Daddies made it back home.

Later that night, my oldest asked me why Daddy had to do a job that didn't make us rich. I tried to explain the difference between a calling and a job. And that Daddy's particular calling doesn't exactly make big bucks. I tried to explain why being a soldier for nearly 26 years is something honorable, courageous and worthy. But to an 8 year old whose life dream right now is to own a DS, honor and courage don't mean much. I hope someday he realizes that my husband's job meant more to our family- our country- than a lot of other jobs that pay a lot more. I hope someday he realizes that honor doesn't buy you DS's, but it does fill one with pride and self worth. 

I suppose someday he will come to realize that being a military kid of a deployed Daddy is also is a job of honor and pride. Because while everyone else is on a trip as a "whole family" and we are "just" watching dolphins try to swim with no tail, trains ride by with no seats for us, and carousels spin with antique horses who have seen many wars through wooden eyes -- we are making our way through this deployment with courage.

Just no DS.  

Getting Prickly

We passed the 100 day mark, and I thought it would be a day of celebration. Hooray! 100 days! Whoo hoo! But, like a lot of things I expect out of my kids, it turned into the exact opposite. Instead of cheers, I got tears. I really thought they would be excited that we were (almost) a third of the way "there." My son, however, quickly did the math and realized that 100 days only meant that we still had 265 days left. Wah wah wah....disappointing to say the least. I still brought them to McD's for a celebration dinner. (More for me, so I didn't have to cook)

I've been trying my best to go with the flow, to let things be, to not get angry over the little things, to not stress over the news, to just take it hour by hour, day by day. Yeah....not going so well. 

We've had flooding. We've had precious loss of life. We've had knock out, drag down fights (kids vs. kids). We've had illness. We've had schedules that would make your head spin. We've had visitors cancel. We've had car troubles. We've had nightmares. We've had many, many tears. (mostly mine) And still, I'm trying. I just keep going. Because, really, what choice do I have? I keep joking with my husband (when I hear from him) that even divorced people have every other weekend off -- that this is just ridiculous! I know. Not the nicest thing to say to a deployed spouse, but he caught me on the day that "nobody" stopped up the toilets (again) and "nobody" spilled a container of orange juice all over the floor. 

And then came yesterday. After dropping off my daughter at a lovely birthday party, I took the boys home and -- after giving them sufficient amount of time to 'relax' (why at 8 and 4 they need to 'relax' is beyond me - but hey) -- I told them to clean up the family room. You know, the room the kids destroy on a daily basis. I told my 8 year old to vacuum. (I had read somewhere that he is, indeed, old enough to handle this job so I felt quite comfortable telling him to do this without the guilt of child labor hanging over my head) Well, 8 year old looked at me, sat down on a chair, folded his arms and said, "I am not going to clean." Huh? Whuh? "Excuse me?" I said. "I am not going to clean." he replied. I sat there, quite calmly, while on the inside I was seething. Thinking of all the instruments in my reach of which I could spank his tush with. "You aren't going to clean?" I asked instead. "Nope." again he replied. 


So I vacuumed. I vacuumed like this child's face was the carpet. I know, I know. I am sounding very unlike the previous paragraph where I was "going with the flow" and all of that bull. But really, who can "go with the flow, take it easy"  when you've got attitude like that being hurled at you at the speed of -- oh I don't know-- an 8 year old? I was ready to scream. I was ready to punch a wall. Instead, I vacuumed. 


And then, it was time to go pick up my daughter. In the car, I informed my 8 year old that he wasn't going to the movie night party a friend had invited him to. "BUT WHY?!" he cried. Please. Really? You can't figure this out? You, who could stomp on my 100 day parade with your lightning fast math skills? You can't figure out why? "Because you didn't do what I told you to do, therefore you don't get to go to the party." Ha. That's what I felt like adding. Ha. ha. ha. Can't beat me at this kid. 


And then I felt the first blow to my head. (as I was driving mind you). He had thrown something at me from the back seat. He was screaming. He was exorcising a demon, really. To look at him, he could be cast in any horror movie. Writhing, squirming, squealing. And then I said, "And now you won't be going to Cub Scouts." So there. Nanny nanny boo boo. 


Fast forward to me, going to bed last night. I find a note on my pillow. A kids video camera next to it. The note says, "Mommy, please watch video #41" So I did. And it is my 8 year old via "The Blair Witch Project" filming himself, begging for mercy. Promising to make his bed, promising to clean up, promising his 8 year old world and everything in it. And at the end he said, "And if you still don't let me go, I guess I'll just think of Abbie." Abbie is our sweet 8 year old friend who lost her life last week. 


And I went to bed thinking that I must be doing something right. Because if an 8 year old, who was a demon for the day, could reflect on his behavior and come out in the end thinking of a little girl who would love to do anything, let alone vacuum, for one more day....then the next 100 days wouldn't be so bad.

Bunkers

After a long week of hot weather and camps my kids decided to sleep in the hallway upstairs, side by side, surrounded by stuffed animals and blankets. I stumbled upon them while heading to bed, not bothering to move them back to their rooms...let sleeping children sleep (as long as they aren't in my bed) is my motto! However, when I asked my 7 year old why they decided to do this his reply was "Oh, we wanted to be like the soldiers in WWII...you know sleeping in bunkers." and then he walked away. Huh? Then came his questions.

At 7:10AM I am stumbling around my bathroom trying to brush my teeth, pluck stray hairs and generally trying to be awake when I get: "Mommy, where do babies come from?" Huh? I was a blithering idiot at first, "Well, where YOU think they come from?" and so on. I pretty much told him most of facts, but he got very pale and said he didn't want to hear anymore after I got to the Mommy having to push the baby out of her private parts-- he reminded me a lot of my husband at that moment. (When I told my husband, nearly 9 years ago that I was pregnant, he went white as a ghost, leaned over a chair and said, "We have to call the cops.") Obviously, the men in this family don't take to bodily functions of the female variety very well. Now, start talking about poop and such, they are all over it. Moving on. 

Another question: "Mommy what does MIA mean?" This was a day or so before the WWII bunker in my hallway, so I was beginning to wonder where this was all coming from. I explained to him what it means to be MIA at war but that he didn't have to worry about Daddy (I'll do all the worrying here kid!) He didn't let it go at that. I heard him talking about it to his sister who doesn't like talking about Daddy. She replied, "Ummm...do you want to play superstar?" The women in this family apparently have avoidance issues as well.

I came to find out later that at his summer camp they played the movie "Nanny McPhee Returns" (or whatever the title is.) I can't get over the fact they played this movie for a bunch of military kids, some of whom have fathers and mothers deployed right now! If you don't know about this movie, it is about a father who goes to war, during WWII I presume, and is MIA! Nice summer camp....nice. Needless to say, I will be having a discussion with the camp's director. I'm not angry really. The movie fueled some questions for my 7 year old, and that is fine. But then I got this letter on my desk last night (without editing):

Dear Mommy,
I miss daddy so much do you? I feel lik thare is a part of life that is not there. Do you? Well I do. From _____

Oh, it killed me to read that. Why should a 7 year old feel like there is a part of life not there? His life should be right in front of him in all of the glorious kid-like ways! There shouldn't be "parts missing", it should be filled with curiosities of nature, making new friends, feeling the sun on your back, trying to ride your bike with no hands, laughter!  Instead he is focused on war, being missing in action and sleeping in bunkers (and somehow having babies fits into this mindset -- though I haven't figured that part out-- did someone have a baby in the movie?)

So how does one explain to a child that MIA won't happen to Daddy when in his eyes, MIA is happening right here at home. Daddy is MIA! Daddy isn't here! I tried to fill his absence before my husband left by providing the pictures, the daddy dolls, the recordable books. But I know nothing fills that part of my son's little seven year old heart that is missing his Daddy. But deployments are just that: a void. One that lasts too long and one that can sometimes be put to the side during a good day, but never forgotten. A looming question mark that punctuates our daily routine. What if? When? How much longer? If I can't grasp it at times, how do I expect my little ones to understand?

And I thought explaining the birds and the bees was going to be hard.

Itch

So lately I've been itching. A lot. I can't explain it. Last week it was just my ears, now it's my arms, legs, back...even my trainer asked what was up with all the scratches on my legs. I told him, "I'm just so itchy!" Got a weird look from him. While I've been trying to figure out what is causing the itchiness, (are you getting itchy just reading this?) ruling out changes in soap, detergent, sunscreen, etc., I've begun to think that it is psychosomatic. We are, after all, half way through month two of the deployment and if memory serves correct, that is one of the harder months. 

Other signs of wearing down: My hair is falling out. I brush it, and clumps of it remain on the brush. I wash it and out it comes. It's really gross. One of my biggest pet peeves is wet hair-- ugh...can't stand it. I've read that stress can cause hair to fall out. I should be bald by now.

My face looks like I'm a fourteen year old going through puberty. I can honestly say I never really suffered from acne. A few pimples here and there, yes. But until I met my husband and joined with his merry men (the Army), I never had skin problems like I have now. My four year old keeps poking my face and asking, "What's that Mommy?" I tell him they are dots that appear when he doesn't stay in bed at night. Got a weird look from that as well -- and he's still getting out of his bed.

Then there are my nails. Or should I say, stubs where there should be nails. Now this has always been a problem my entire life. I bite my nails. I have tried to kick the habit, but it just never works. I'm really trying not to, especially since my kids will likely pick up this habit if they see me constantly gnawing at my fingertips, but I don't even know I'm doing it most of the time. During this deployment, I know I'm doing it...and doing it a lot. I've tried everything like putting that disgusting tasting oil on my nails -- ate right through that. I've gotten manicures with pretty colors painted on -- ate right through that. In fact, I probably have enough lead in my system from all the nail polish and disgusting oils to set off the alarms at the airport screening lines.

Don't get me started on the lines that are appearing on my face. I guess I can't blame the deployment on those, as lines usually come with age...and I am aging. But I have to wonder, would those lines have appeared later in my life had I not married a soldier? Someone needs to develop a military spouse lotion that takes off a year for every deployment or separation. They would be rich and I would look ten years younger. It's a win/win for everyone. 


So, my body is falling apart and is so itchy, I can't stand it! Maybe it has nothing to do with the deployment. Maybe it's just the heat of summer, the age I have become and the fact that I worry about every detail of my life. Or maybe, like many things in life, it's unexplainable. 

I just wish my hubby were here to scratch my back. 

Left Behind

I've come to realize lately how "out of it" I have become. Meaning, I don't keep up with the trends. I don't watch the latest, greatest things on TV and I certainly don't keep up with the music scene like I used to. In fact, to further corroborate this,  there is the realization that I'm beginning to like television shows that people were "into" a couple of years ago, or even several years ago. The reason? Boredom and the fact that I am a milspouse.

Yes, my kids are driving me nuts when they are here. Yes, I am running around like a crazy woman trying to get them from swimming lessons to summer camp, from playdates to library days; however, when they are at said places, I am bored. I flip on the TV -- mostly to avoid any sort of housework. I see that old reruns of "Sex in the City" are on and I think, I remember people talking about this, I'll give it a try. And many episodes later, I am wondering where the heck was I in the late 90's and early 2000's? Ummm... working. A lot. 

I was working at five different breweries on the east coast, marketing them and their beer and food. And then I was swept into the the arms of a soldier, and it all came to a screeching (well, not really screeching, more like a sputtering -- we dated long distance for a year) halt. We married, moved. Got pregnant. Moved. Birthed baby. Moved to a second world country. Got pregnant, (not much else to do there) moved. Unless it was on Armed Forced Network, I wasn't watching. And there wasn't a lot on AFN...unless you wanted to learn the benefits of eating healthy from some lady who commanded the International Commissary Battalion, or where ever she was from. (I remember she had a mushroom-type haircut which my husband and I mercilessly made fun of).

I do remember my parents mailing me VHS tapes of "The Apprentice," a show that I so enjoyed-- reminding me of the crazy part of America that I missed so much. I looked forward to those packages filled with VHS tapes, mac and cheese, peanut butter and formula for my baby. Things I just couldn't get in Slovakia (or at least I couldn't recognize on the shelves in Slovakia.) In fact, one promising package from a certain drugstore online closed the US Embassy down due to the fact that the formula they sent exploded in shipment, sending white residue all over the postal area. This was in 2004, when white powder in a mail room was cause for huge concern. (probably still is) I'll never forget the call, "Mrs _____, we've received a package addressed to you, white powder everywhere, blah blah blah, evacuation, blah blah blah, come down immediately, blah blah blah" you get the idea. Totally embarrassing. If I didn't say it enough at the time, it wasn't anthrax! It was baby formula! And I'm sorry US Embassy workers in Slovakia!

Then came the first of many deployments.


And there I was with a 12 month old and a big old pregnant belly. Not so much time for TV watching. Then came the baby. Four months later, another deployment. So, a new baby and a toddler equaled no television pleasure for me. Unless you count endless hours of Thomas the Tank Engine being pleasurable. Which I do not. 

Years pass and though I enjoy and appreciate PBS, that is all I got to watch, or in my case hear, since I couldn't stand to stomach watching the endless "Cliffords," "Caillous" (quite possibly the most annoying character on TV) and "Barneys" (second most annoying character on TV).  


Years pass again and now I find myself battling for position with older children. Children who want to watch "iCarly" (no), "Wizards of Waverly Place" (uh- no) and "Big Time Rush" (mm-mm). I know, I know...everyone is watching those shows (or are they?)...and I am probably setting the kids up for culture-failure when they go to school and everyone is talking about the big ta-do on whatever show they aren't allowed to watch. But I've survived without "Sex and the City" for the last decade, and now, after a gift from my sister, a year's worth of "Glee" is sitting on my desk waiting to be watched. Yes, I admit, I have not watched "Glee" -- am I the only one? So, I figure my kids can be denied whatever "in" television program is on. Get outside! Play! Let me watch Carrie and Aidan! (yes, I am a hypocrite!)


So boredom has taken over going into the second month of deployment. And I think I've gotten the gist of "Sex in the City." I'm kinda over it...they make me feel even less trendy even though twelve years have past! Maybe I'll pop in the "Glee" dvds and see what I've been missing. Or, maybe for old time's sake, I'll flip on over to PBS and see what Clifford has been up to. Something tells me, nothing much has changed on Birdwell Island.

Which, in some ways, is very comforting.

Whine

Yesterday was a tiresome day. The kids were pushing every button I had, and ones I didn't know I had. Everyone was whining and fighting. I was ready to walk out. After telling them we were going to have movie night, they finally calmed down. Then I let the "other shoe drop"...movie night was going to take place after we went to church. Well, you can imagine the response I got for that. Three kids under the age of seven and Church on a Saturday night don't mix even on the best of days (as in, when Daddy is home.)

  And so I told them: No church, no movie. What I should have said was, "Best behavior at church, or no movie." Everyone complained as they got ready. Why do I have to wear a shirt with a collar? Why do you have to brush my hair? Why can't I bring my Leapster? Why why why??? I was so DONE with the three of them by the time we got to Church, but I figured...we can just blend into the crowd and then the kids will understand what is important: church, then movie. I just wanted an hour where I could listen to another adult, perhaps even watch other kids misbehave (rather than mine) and just be a part of an audience. 


But, no. The Church had other plans. The three kids and I walked in, grabbed our books and were about to douse ourselves in Holy Water (I felt like dumping the thing over my eldest's head for being so rotten that day) when I hear, "Ma'am...would your family like to present the gifts for this evenings Mass?" Oh dear God. No...no, no,no. PLEASE don't be talking to me. I even tried to move away from the man who was asking me but he asked again, "Ma'am, would you like to --" I cut him off, "Ummm...I don't think we're ready for that, I mean he's only 4, she's 6 and I'm alon--" By then my kids were literally jumping up and down yelling, "YES YES YES!!! WE WANT TO!!!" Oy vey. 

So. We were the gift presenters. And for those of you who aren't Catholic, that means we have to bring a basket of money, a jug of wine and the Communion Wafers up the aisle of the church, in front of everyone, to the priest -- without dropping anything or making total idiots out of ourselves. After the day I'd had...I didn't think this was possible. These little children, who had been complete monsters to me all day...caring for wine, money and Jesus's body?!! Seriously????  I worried the entire first half of Mass. I just knew my four year old would take off with the money. My six year old would see someone she knew and drop the wine. My seven year old would trip and communion wafers would fly everywhere. Why us??? Why now???? Why couldn't they have asked us to do this when my husband was here?! 


So the time came. The kids RAN to the back of the church to gather the items. Everything went smoothly as we walked down the aisle. I carried the wine (thinking, I could use a shot of this right now) and the little ones carried the basket full of money. The eldest carried the wafers. He was such a little man, grasping so tightly so as to not drop it. We handed everything to the priest and then we were supposed to bow. Well I bowed, the oldest child bowed, the youngest kind of did a squat, and the middle, being a dramatic girl....gave the biggest curtsy -- aaalll the way to the floor. Even the priest was giggling. But it was over. I had to just herd them back to their seats and I could breath again. 

They ran back to our seats. They all started chattering at once how well they did and how they loved doing it...I hushed them up thinking, "OK. We did it! There was no major snafus and I didn't look like a total nut job single mom!" And then it was time to stand up and pray. I stood up, feeling proud, feeling a little less like I wanted to sell my kids to the gypsies for the day. 


And then... I realized my fly was down...and probably had been during our walk and presentation in front of the congregation. 


I should have grabbed the wine and ran.

Mail Call

My husband tends to keep things from me. Awards, commendations, medals and such. Once, after he came home from one of his deployments and we were unpacking from yet another move, I found a Bronze Star Medal in one of the boxes. I asked him what it was. He just said it was something "they give out to pretty much everyone." Now, I didn't exactly believe him, but I did have to wonder what it meant. And yes, I know that many of you military wives out there are shaking their heads at my ignorance. But, I honestly didn't know what it was! I eventually googled it and found out it was something to be proud of.

I've learned early on in this marriage not to ask too many questions about my husband's job. Mainly because I know I won't get too many answers. The deployment before this current one was - to say the least - under the radar. I had no idea where he was. He wasn't allowed to tell me. There was no contact for months. Once in a while I would get an email from a strange email address, letting me know he was alive. There was no skyping, no letters, no emails. In fact, I had to write fake "Love, Daddy" letters to the kids so they didn't wonder why Daddy was forgetting them. I wonder what I did with those letters. I wonder if they even remember them. Probably not. Like so many things military wives/moms do, we are even more-so "under the radar." 

I had to lie to the kids so many times during that deployment. Things like, "Oh Daddy called, he said he was fine, but he didn't want me to wake you!" Meanwhile, I hadn't heard from him in two months. "Daddy is so proud of you learning how to tie your shoe!"...and I had no idea if Daddy was safe, alive, hurt, or -heck - living it up in a hotel in Monte Carlo. The things we do for the kids to protect them from the unknown...

So today I got a package in the mail addressed to my husband. Tucked between a Kohls Catalog and the water bill. I opened the package in my car, on my way to bring the kids to swim lessons. (What a glamorous life I lead!) Inside the manila envelope was an award for my husband: 

"To all who shall see these presents, greeting: This is to certify that the President of the United States of America Authorized by Executive Order, 16 January 1969 has awarded

THE MERITORIOUS SERVICE MEDAL to (insert Hubby's name)" 

I had to laugh. I mean here I am, in my car with swim suits, towels, snacks, water bottles and bills piled on my lap holding a medal for my husband from the President. The certificate went on to list his accomplishments -- which were impressive, though he would never agree. In fact, he would be horrified that I'm even writing about it. I'm proud of him, and glad that I was the one who found this in the mail. Had he been awarded this prior to deploying, I probably wouldn't have known about it.

But it begs the question. Even with all of his accomplishments, could he do what I'm doing? Could he scramble around town picking up three kids at three separate places with three bathing suits, three towels, enough snacks, remembering to pay for camp next week, solving the mysterious noise coming from my bathroom (thanks to my Mom for figuring that out), kissing non-existent boo-boos, soothing achingly real boo-boos (from missing Daddy), keeping up with the bills, killing the bugs, wiping the tushes, cooking the dinners no one will eat, staying up with those that have nightmares, driving his car around so it won't die, bringing kids to the ER, cleaning up vomit, biting my tongue when I would love to just let loose on one or all of the kids, loving them when they are sometimes really, really hard to like. The list just goes on. Every single-mother out there knows this list. But do they get to open a package in the car containing a Medal for Meritorious Service? Probably not.

I wonder. When will the military start handing out awards to those who are holding it together on the home front?

I'll have to check my mail tomorrow.

Flags

After a long weekend, I was excited for Monday. Kids are going back to camp, I can get some errands done and maybe, just maybe I can hear from my husband without the kids interrupting. Not that I don't want them to see and talk to Daddy, it would just be nice to have him to myself for one conversation. You know, to ask him how he's doing, what he may need, what the !#@% is his pin number so I can pay the bills online? (yes, we did cover this pre-deployment, but I have since lost that particular piece of paper...or perhaps it is now covered in hearts and rainbows as my 6 year old daughter has taken to drawing all over my papers as of late.) The little things. 

So, as I rushed the kids into the car, bags packed with the endless items that each different camp requires (towels, sunblock, water bottles, cash, water shoes, regular shoes, socks, hats, etc.) I was ready for my "day off." It had been -- well, a weekend. I can not stand weekends during a deployment. They drag on forever, even when one of the days are filled with pre-planned activities (birthday parties or play dates.) Sundays are the worst. I think time slows down on Sundays, perhaps even goes backwards. How else to explain the phenomenon of being woken up at 0630 only to look at the clock three hours later (or what feels like 3 hours later) and it glares: 0715. Ah, Sundays. At least this Sunday, there was no ER trip worked into our schedule.

So Monday morning, backing out of the garage, something caught my eye out of the rear view mirror. A fluttering of sorts. I stopped the car and said, "What the heck?" (Which I still need to learn, to never, ever say that in a car full of young ones-- it only promotes the: What Mommy? What do you see? Can I get unbuckled so I can see too? What's wrong Mommy? Is there a tornado? barrage of questions) I got out to see what the fluttering thing was. 

It was an American flag. Someone had placed an American flag in my yard. I was caught off guard. You know that feeling like someone is watching you? I felt that. I saw that a note was attached and it was a paper with "flag facts" on it, apparently put there by one of the local real estate companies. As I looked around the neighborhood, I noticed that most houses had one flag in their yards...but not all. Curious, I turned the other direction and that is when I saw the other three flags planted on the other side of my driveway. These didn't have the notes attached. They just stood there flapping in the breeze, side by side.

Now, I can only assume the real estate people don't know that Hubby is deployed and that we have three young kids. What I don't know is who put the extra flags in my yard. I glanced around some more (feeling a little paranoid) and saw that in my little cul de sac, some houses were missing flags. Did they pull theirs out and place them in my yard for the kids? Did they all get together at 0700 and decide to do this? Or was it a ripple effect, one person did it, so the others followed suit? Or, maybe it was just the real estate people had three extra flags and stuck them in my yard. I'll probably never know. 

What I do know is that it gave the kids and I a little burst of excitement that morning. The fluttering of the American Flag...the red white and blue that my husband has sworn to defend (and me, marrying him, has sworn not to swear about his commitment too much) eased us into our second week of deployment with a renewed sense of neighborly love -- or at least recognition.  Or, at the very least, the realization that there was a very nice real estate company in town.

It's Flag Day today. It's the Army's birthday. And there are four little flags flapping in my yard. And maybe, someone out there is watching out for us right now.  And for all of that, I am grateful. 

Climbing

As I reflect on the last week's events...I am, well, exhausted. Between my oldest child's tantrums (resulting in a grounding where he couldn't attend a very special event) to the healing of the gash in my youngest child's eye, I realize that things can only go up from here. Right? Or...

I can go up. Into a tree. 

I noticed the browning of one my eight white pine trees that were planted in my back yard a few months back. We have not had luck with trees in this particular house. We've managed to kill 11 of them so far. We've planted, un-planted, planted again. It's tiring. This time we were convinced we were going to do this right! We weren't going to let anything take these beautiful, tall "neighbor blockers" away. So, when I noticed the burnt orange of some of the branches, I shuddered. 

Being the only adult in the house right now, I grabbed gloves, a ladder and pruning shears and went to inspect. Up, up, up into the trees. (Have I mentioned these are tall trees?) I had to pick bag worms (shudder). I had to dodge wasps (ack!). I had to keep from falling off the ladder and stabbing myself with the pruning shears. I could hear faint laughter from neighbors viewing what must have looked like a ridiculous sight.

You see, I am not a nature person. Sure, I like beautiful scenery -- from a car. I love the beach, the ocean (as long as there are no jelly fish or green flies.) The idea of sitting under a large shady elm tree having a picnic sounds delightful...until I get there and am besieged by ants and bees and itchy things. A hike? A hike sounds wonderful. Until I am climbing up a mountain and fearing for my life once I notice bear scat. (my sister in law can attest to this)

This week I've had my share of nature. Checking for ticks on my son's head every night he came home from camp. Killing spiders because the kids won't go downstairs into the TV room (thus giving me peace and quiet for a minute) unless the room is void of any spidery looking things. (Have I mentioned how much I despise spiders?) Our pet frog floating at the top of his aquarium. I actually yelled at it: "Chocolate!" I said (yes, that his name), "Chocolate, you better not die this week. Not this week! I WILL put a rock on you and hold you down!" I must have scared Chocolate, because he is now at the bottom of his aquarium...where I am blissfully ignoring the fact that he may or may not be "well".  He's fine. The end. 

I had to go back up into the trees last night before the big storms came (tornado watch), so I could try to get the bag worms that I couldn't reach earlier in the day. My kids decided to follow me -- one, because they were scared that a tornado would come and I wouldn't be able to see it coming, and two, because they've never seen Mommy climb up into a tree before. Fun for all! 

And on this, my last attempt, I did not get the bag worms. What I got was a ticked off bird who literally flew out at me, squawking and flapping and scaring the bejeezus out of me. I fell back...as did my kids (from laughter). It is now a story that will be told for many a days to come, I am sure.

As I trudged back into the house, I noticed little trails in the grass, weaving around the yard. I tried to follow them circling round and round, (again, neighbors shaking their heads in wonderment, I am sure) until they lead me to our patio. Where I found hole upon hole under the concrete. Moles? Mice? Snakes? Oh Good Lord. Ignore! Ignore! Ignore!

I am done with nature. Tornadoes, worms, trees, birds, frogs, ticks, moles?, mice?, snakes? and spiders...I wonder, if Hubby were around, would all of these things be 'happening?' Or is it Mother Nature having a fun go-round with me? I guess I'll find out soon enough. The kids are begging to go camping (in the back yard) this weekend.  If you hear screaming, that will be one or all of the kids...because my answer to going camping this weekend is a big, fat NO. 

I know my limits and this is it. I can't be super mom and pretend that I enjoy sleeping outside with all those creepy crawly things and ticked off birds. Instead I will bribe the kids with a movie and perhaps a trip to the pool. That's nature vs. nurture. Mother Nature vs. this Mother. This weekend, I win.  

Six

And so it begins. The trials and the mishaps that come with a deployment. Children unable to sleep. Children throwing up in the middle of the night. Children being rushed to the ER. All within six days of Daddy leaving. Of course! 

Private Murphy is always standing guard at deployed spouses' homes. Ready to slither his way in during the most inappropriate time. (For you civilians reading this, Private Murphy is our equivalent to Murphy's Law) He certainly made his way into my house this weekend. 

Sleep? Why would I want to sleep? I've gotten plenty of sleep...if two hours is enough for a not so young woman.  Alone? You mean without children in my bed? Hasn't happened yet. Every night I have to rearrange three little bodies that made their way to my bed even though I placed and tucked them into their own beds some hours before. And it isn't just them. They come with bears, Daddy Dolls, blankets, books...the list goes on.

Imagine if you will, me -- carrying these children, their bears and books, out of my room and into theirs, having to twist them around in my arms so I don't bonk their heads on the door ways or walls. All the while trying not to trip on the multitude of toys and clothes that are strewn on their floors (even though I literally just picked up every one before I put them to bed just hours before-- I am one of those people who believes Toy Story is a true story or at least based on a true story.) Now. Listen. Listen to the sudden THUNK of the head that I managed to bonk or the KRINK of the foot I twisted on the toys on the floor, or even the "shmpfk!" as I cry out from stepping on a Playmobil carcass.  If you listen harder, you can hear Private Murphy giggling quietly. 

Now that the kids are in their own beds, a little worse for wear, and I am in my own bed, nursing my foot, I can finally rest. Until. "Mommy....I don't feel so (bleeeeccccchhh)" All you parents know that dreaded sound. And it sounds even worse in the middle of the night. Again, Private Murphy giggling (though it sounds a little distorted since he's holding his nose at this point). 

And to end the weekend, (I won't go into the many, many, MANY fits and melt-downs that dot the landscape of my days) I am treated to a run to the ER. Why wouldn't a four year old want to dance with his sister? Why wouldn't he trip and fall into the coffee table thereby cutting his eye open? It is, after all, our first weekend into this deployment. A trip to the ER is pretty much expected. 

Oh, and Private Murphy? He was giggling for that one too. Just not a lot...more like gagging. He doesn't like the sight of blood. 

Shields

And just like that, he's gone. The gray bearded man driving a green minivan just whisked my husband away as if he was just running an errand. Off to the airport and out of our lives for a year. The kids did a lot better than I thought they would. The oldest just nodded solemnly at the whispered last words his Daddy spoke as he held him close. The youngest clutched his Daddy Doll and said "I miss you" over and over. The middle, in her usual way, tried to make light of it all, giving her Daddy a quick hug and a giggle.

Me? I was running around trying to find a fat Sharpie marker for his duffel bag, water bottle for his trip, and cash for the cab. It is amazing how time just sped up in these, our last few hours together. One minute we were celebrating the last day of school - last Friday - the next, it's 0940 and the gray bearded cab driver is standing at my door waiting to take my husband away. 

I know I should have said something profound to my husband. Something Military like. "Come back with your shield, or on it" like those Spartan women would cry out to their men before they left for battle. But I'm not that tough a woman. Nor could I cry out "Come back with your duffel bag, or on it" since, really, that is all he has right now.  I know when he gets to where he is going, they will provide him with "shields." I've seen the gear from the last four deployments. Bullet proof vests, helmets, guns, etc. But as he walked away from me and our life all he had was a duffel bag. Not so dramatic as the Spartan warriors. Everything now is under the radar. Shielding the families from things we don't really want to know about.

So many thoughts ran through my head as he pulled away, down the street and around the corner. I should have thanked him again for working so hard on the pergola. He wanted to keep his family in the shade, out of the sun -- opposite of where he will be for the next year. I wanted to tell him that I loved him one more time -- just in case. I wanted to make sure he was wearing his scapula and dog tags with the St. Michael Medallion that will lay on his chest, protecting his heart, his soul. Did he remember the Joan of Arc statue that my youngest picked out for him? Did he remember the Patrick figurine (you know, from Spongebob Squarepants) that the kids wanted him to bring? Did he remember to kiss us enough...did we tell him enough that we love him?

My last words to him: "Come home to us." I've said it numerous times to him. Too many to count in this last decade of Military life. I push out the "what ifs"  and the "I don't think I can do this" thoughts that currently are racing through my unguarded head and heart.

Why are shields more important than helmets? Why protect the heart instead of the head? To ask a Spartan warrior from thousands of years ago, you'd know that the helmet protects the self, while the shield protects the common good of all. 
 
My husband, my shield...come back to us. And don't forget to bring Patrick.

Thrones

So yesterday was Mother's Day. And in the usual spirit of my family, the kids were terribly excited. We were going to see an exhibit of Princess Diana -- surprise Mommy! Isn't that exciting? Yes, I was surprised and excited. For two reasons: One, I really wanted to go see that exhibit and have for a while (I was only two years old-- ok nine, can't deny my age-- when she got married and still remember being transfixed watching her on the television) and Two, I was stunned that my husband came up with this gift.

He isn't good with gifts. I've gotten cash before on Mother's Day past. I've gotten a Happy Happy Headscratcher on my 30th birthday. I've had Christmases with no filled stockings. He just doesn't get it. And I can't really hold it against him. He had no women in his life to show him these things. My mother in law died when my husband was twelve. With four brothers and a Dad, he was left to his own gift-giving devices. Considering what he received as gifts through his late childhood, I can't blame him for screwing up here and there. I think he and his brothers gave his Dad a ladder that they made with wood they found one year...you get the idea. His going away to college gift was an alarm clock (which we still have and use). So, gifts were not at the forefront of his life. And neither was a Mom. 

This Mother's Day the children were asking a lot of questions about Sharon. They wanted to know why I never got to meet her, why they never did. I told them the truth -- that she died when Daddy was young and she never got to know Daddy or their Uncles either. It breaks my heart that this happened to their family, and to ours. The kids never knowing Sharon, and she not knowing them. Of course, she is remembered as a Queen/Angel/Best Mother of All Time to my husband. Luckily, her mother, Hubby's Grandmother, approached me when he and I were engaged and filled me with the following knowledge that has helped me get through a lot of eye-rolling moments with my husband: "Those boys thought of their mother as an Angel...as perfect! Well, she wasn't. I just thought you should know that." Thank you Sally. Seriously, you have saved my marriage in many ways with that one statement. Sharon will always be the Queen in Hubby's eyes, and I am perfectly fine with that, because I got a glimpse of her through her own mother's eyes, she was just like me...not so perfect. 

Just like Princess Di...and just like how my Mother's Day ended up being...not quite perfect.  We got to the exhibit and it was essentially sold out. Hubby had not bought tickets beforehand and was really embarrassed. And yes, I did pout (as did my daughter -- she wore a tiara and everything!) but then I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. At least this year he had a plan. A flawed plan, but a plan non-the-less. It wasn't cash. Amen.

The kids kept calling me Princess all day yesterday, saying "Mommy, you are our Princess today!" and in the back of my head I was thinking, I'll definitely be the Princess tomorrow as I prepare for the colonoscopy. I will be as close to my personal "porcelain throne"  as I can be as I chug the disgusting concoction they force you to drink allllll day long the day before the procedure. And, from what I hear, the bathroom and the throne within it will be my little home for about twelve hours straight. 

Just a Princess and her throne. The day after Mother's Day. Timing is everything. 

Mass

There is nothing worse (ok, there are) in the world than seeing blood coming out of your body where there shouldn't be. When this happened to me, I went right into the land of denial. Hmmm...that's weird....on with my day. 

But when it happened four more times that morning, I realized that it was beyond "weird" and something needed to be done...and by someone who might know what to do (rather than me-- or say...google.) So, I boldly attempted to get an appointment with my Primary Care Physician (and yes, I can hear all of the scoffs and laughter from my fellow military wives) who apparently left the clinic some months ago. And no, they haven't found a replacement for her yet. So...no doctor. Really? None? Can't you find somebody that will look at me? I'll even take my narcoleptic doctor from the last Duty Station (unless they still haven't located him...in that case, let him rest.) 

At any rate, no doc....so off to the ER I went. With my four year old in hand. Scared, in slight pain, but more feeling like, "what a pain in the arse this is!" How true these words will become in the next few hours.

I won't go into details. No one needs to hear about them...and I certainly don't want to relive them. Let's just say I was battered, bruised, poked, prodded and left out to dry. Literally. My forearms look like I am a heroin addict. I think I must have been the very first patient of the young nurse that tried to get blood from me. Seriously, bruises the size of index cards.

The good news: You're not pregnant! 
The bad news: You're going to need a colonoscopy! 
Wait...whuh? Where they stick a....and they put a ...and whuh? 

I am completely stunned. My husband is about to leave for a year and you are telling me there is a mass in my ass? Seriously? If it weren't so true, I'd be laughing right now (ok, I did laugh..mass in my ass...I still giggle every time) 

I know we all basically have the same body parts. We ALL will have to get colonoscopies one day (yes, you will too)...but I really didn't think it would be needed so soon. I'm still (somewhat) young. I haven't felt any differently in the last few days. (I'm still the same neurotic person I've always been) So what the heck is going on with my body? 

The ER doc says not to worry too much. I say, "whatever doc" and let my imagination take me where it wants. Which is not Disneyland. It's Cancerland. And Cancerland before Deploymentland is not a good combination. Why does my body have to overreact to every deployment? It's like a two year old having a tantrum: "I don't want you to go to war, so I am going break down!" or "If you go, I am going to have Trigeminal Neuralgia or, or, or CANCER! So there!" 
So, yes, I am heading in for the one thing that most people don't even like to think about, let alone read about (so apologies are in order if you haven't stopped reading by this point).
 
The saga continues...and this is what it is like getting sick, stressing out, and finding blood where there shouldn't be. Welcome to Gettingoldland.

More

So I took a big step yesterday. I started new meds for the not-so-new pain that has been penetrating my face in the last few months. I guess even the "new" meds aren't so new. I've had them before. Three years ago to be exact. When my normal stopped and my new normal became. 

The pharmacist I picked the meds up from probably thinks I am in need of therapy. I asked for a consult. They asked if I had taken the meds before. I said, in stilted breath, "Ummm..yes, but I would like to speak to someone about them anyway." So, the very harried pharmacist comes over and (very loudly) announces to the entire population of the pharmacy section of the store "OK, SO YOU'RE ON CARBAMAZEPINE." I reply, very quietly, "Well, yes. But I really don't remember how this effects me...I'm not sure I want to take this again." He booms: "WELL IT'S THE LOWEST DOSAGE, SO SIDE EFFECTS WILL BE MINIMAL....OK?! GREAT, HERE YOU GO." And walks away to attend to more important drugs...like Viagra.

I'm not sure what I wanted from this guy. Did I want sympathy? Kinda. Did I want him to look at me and say, "What in God's name is someone as young and healthy and gorgeous (my fantasy here people) as you doing on this drug? No, no, no...you do not need this drug. This drug you do not need." (I don't know why he suddenly turned into a Dr. Seuss character-- again, my fantasy.)

So I crept away from the pharmacy counter with tears in my eyes. Angry at my stupid Trigeminal nerve (the nerve of it! ), angry at the (innocent really) pharmacist, angry at the price of sun block (I passed a stand of them.) Just angry.

And later, when I got home I stared at the bottle, felt the pain in my face and decided: yup, gotta take one. So I did. And now I sit here in the morning, debating on whether I should take the second dose. What is wrong with me? Why don't I just take the stupid meds that might just help me? Is it because I can't admit that my condition is permanent? That it waxes and wanes and I will deal with this forever? Because I can't imagine what the side effects may be? (trust me, if you saw me the last go-round, you would realize these side effects aren't pretty)

The bottle sits there, waiting for me to make my decision. I sit here waiting for the pharmacist to call and apologize for not complimenting me enough. And my life waits around for me to pick up and get going again. OK, then. On with it.

Breaking

So we just told the kids that Daddy will be leaving. We keep waiting on his orders, but none have come and since we are now planning out summer, we felt this was indeed the right time to "drop the bomb." It wasn't pretty.

Child #1 immediately started crying hysterically; asking all kinds of questions that a seven year old would consider important stuff: Will he be here for my birthday? (no) Will he be here for Christmas? (no) Will Santa find him? (yes) How will I get through each day without Daddy coming home at 5:30? (To this, I answered, "I've been asking myself the same thing.") He cried and cried.

Child #2 took it a bit differently. She immediately started telling us about her friends whose Daddy's were gone and how she wants to join "Hearts Apart" -- a program for Military Kids whose Daddy's are deployed. This started Child #1 to cry harder because he's afraid he won't like "Hearts Apart"


Jump to Child #3, who sat there, watching this all unfold, quietly eating his hot dog  and carrots. 


Back to Child #2: She said she could feel her tears in her tummy and they were about to come up. I immediately thought, "Crap! Get a bucket!" but suddenly, she started wailing and ran to Daddy to sit in his lap.

Jump back to Child #3, who still hasn't said a word. He looks at both the other kids who are sitting in Daddy's lap sobbing. He looks at Child #2's dinner plate and helps himself to her food. Somehow, I don't think he "gets it" yet. But he will.

I know this because the last four deployments have taught me that delayed reactions from the youngest child are inevitable.  A week from now, a month from now, four months from now, Child #3 will suddenly break down and won't be able to sleep unless he is in bed with me. It won't be pretty. But, at least for now, he has a full belly and is comfortably numb with ignorant bliss.

This part of the deployment is hard. To say the least. Trying to get everything done before the big day of departure. Trying not to think, "This is the last time he will be here while we (fill in blank)." Telling the kids. 


I know the kids will be fine, eventually. I know I will handle it with my usual and frequent wild swings of emotions. Strong one day, a complete mess the next. Some people think that because the kids are older now, it will be easier. I do have to wonder if there is a little truth and a lot of hope to that statement. I mean, they know the dangers over there. They see the Military Graveyard near our house. They know that when a Military Funeral Procession drives by their school, they are to stop what they are doing and put their hand over their hearts. And I know those are the images they will be thinking about when we say goodbye to Daddy. 

On the other hand, Child #1 just came down to ask me, "Mommy, when Daddy is gone, can I get the newest Squinkie Skull toy?" Somehow, I think he will be just fine.
The only questions are: Will their Daddy be fine? Will I?

Limits

I am trying to get in as much TV as I can, before the impending departure, because, as all Army wives know, TV is not our friend after Hubby leaves. Oh, the brain-candy type shows are fine, but I'm talking about the news, the violent shows, the news, the military channel, the news, the news, the news. I'm all about watching the House Wives of Wherever, or the Jersey Shore making my peeps looks like idiots, but the news is off limits when he is gone. However, another genre of TV has en captured my viewing pleasure. And it is like a train wreck...I just can't take my eyes off of it, even though it is scaring the crap out of me every time I watch it. This show will definitely be on my "do not watch while he is gone" list.

What show you ask? "Mystery Diagnosis"...you know, on Oprah's new network.  I swear, I sit there and take notes. "OK, if my left arm suddenly starts going numb..." or "If I suddenly grow three feet and my hands are six times bigger than they were three months ago..." I will now know what I am suffering from, and what doctors to call. What really freaks me out about watching this is the fact that I could be one of those people! They could do a whole segment on me!! 

I can just picture it. A skinny, modelly-type, young girl, waiting in the ER four times, only to be sent home with more narcotics than should be allowed. "I just knew something was wrong with me, but no one would listen," the skinny model playing me would weep to the camera (I would not allow myself to be interviewed on camera of course, being a not-so modelly type person). The skinny model (me) would tell of her struggle of trying to find the one doctor who would solve her mysterious pains.  She would tell of her multiple trips to the dentist, oral-surgeons, ENTs, and finally, (right before the commercial break) she reveals that at one point, a nurse actually accused her of making up stories. (The model playing me will let a single tear roll down her face -- cut to the Tide commercial).

Cut back to "Mystery Diagnosis" and the viewer has to hear the whole thing over again, like somehow we've forgotten what we just watched three minutes ago (but since in this episode we're talking about me, that is just fine). Finally, they introduce the person who diagnosed my mystery: Nurse someone. Interesting that I can't remember her name. But, I think this is a defense mechanism since I am totally still pissed at her for diagnosing me, then handing over more narcotics (which don't work for a nerve condition- duh!) Oh, I will totally make the skinny-model-me say that! 


So I will watch the show that is completely nerve-wracking (no pun intended), making the watcher think they have every disease under the sun, or to some extent thinking, "OK, if I ever have that I will know who to call." Scary stuff. I will watch it until Hubby leaves, and then, no more! I can't watch anything that will make me even more paranoid while he is gone.  I can't exactly go hypochondriac when I am the only adult in the house. That will have to wait until he gets back. I mean, I can't exactly call my mom every time I think I have some wacko disease or if I think one of my kids is suffering from some rare condition.

Oh, maybe I'll take a peek or two during the deployment. And if I need to vent...I'll just call Oprah. After starring on her network, she and I (as the skinny model) will be best of friends. That I am sure of.

Crush

Lately as I have been driving the kids around I have been doing that desperate thing that desperate Mom's do: put on a show in the dvd player. As I listen to the shows, I realize that I have NO idea what any of the characters look like or how the scenes are set up. I am in the front seat, driving. So hour upon hour (broken into twenty minutes here, fifteen minutes there - gas station, grocery store, waiting for school pick up, you get the idea) I listen to the same movies or shows over and over again, picturing what those voices coming from behind me look like. But more importantly, and yes strangely, I have developed a crush on some of them. Ok, one of them. And that made me start thinking.

In preparation of our impending separation, I have been looking back, remembering how it was, how it is going to be. With each of the deployments, I found myself having crushes on certain men, mostly famous, some not-so-famous, but none that were "real". During the first deployment, Conan O'Brien and I had a little something (though, he had no idea). During the second, it was the guy from "Reading Rainbow" (Don't judge. He was smart, educated my kids, AND kept them preoccupied for hours at a time). The third deployment, hmmm. It may have been one of those guys from those make-over shows. But, as we all know, that was DEFINITELY one-sided, since 99% of those guys are gay. Oh yes, the fourth deployment, was the magnificent Gerard Butler. Mostly from the movie "PS I Love You" (which many will dispute was a horrible movie -- how dare they speak of my deployment boyfriend that way!) Somewhere, deep inside, I think my crush may have been reciprocated on that one. Just the way he looked at me during the movie....moving on.

So. The question now is: who will it be this time? Who will join me on a daily basis and let me enjoy them via the television, movie, book or a radio?

I never know who is going to catch my eye, as I wait for a letter, phone call (ha!), or email (haha!) from my one true love (my hubby). But I have some early contenders (a woman does have to be prepared for these long, lonely deployments-- it says so in the Army handbook):

1. The guy from Cash Cab.
2. Mike from the show Pickers.
3. Ruff Ruffman. Ok, the voice of Ruff Ruffman. I'm not that weird. I KNOW he is a cartoon dog for God's sake.

Which brings me to the current crush brewing in my brain: The voice of "Kenny the Shark" whom I have had the pleasure of listening to for the last five grocery shop runs and school pick ups. Yes, I know in real life he is a cartoon shark. But as I am driving and following all traffic laws, the voice coming from behind me is a handsome, sarcastic Scottish dark haired man with a very keen sense of humor. (I never really got over my Gerard Butler crush, I admit it.) And come to think of it, I think Ruff Ruffman and Kenny the Shark are the same guy.

So listening from behind me, I am finding crushes. Looking ahead of me, my heart starts to feel the crush of the soon to be departure. I don't want to say good bye to the love of my life. I don't want to. But at least I will have my pretend boyfriends-- gay or cartoon -- to keep me company.

It's Time

It's been a year. I know. For a writer to not write much of anything, nary a word, is sacrilege. Perhaps I will be forgiven if I account for my departure of the writing world. So we go back.

The Monster did come back, but not nearly as voracious as I thought it would. I found a doctor, close by, whom I am not exactly thrilled with, but supplies me with the meds that keep the pain at bay. He still doesn't actually believe that I have TN, but - hey - you can't have everything. A doctor that actually believes you AND prescribes the right meds? Puhlease.



Fortunately for my writing (and perhaps for my readers), this year will prove to be prolific in giving me plenty to vent, rant and rave about. Yes, the Army has wrapped it's long spidery arms around my husband again, and he is off to pay his dues in the sun and sand. Sounds lovely doesn't it? Sun, sand? Oh, to be truly a vacation. Not war. Not danger. Not....what it is.



And this time around (is it the fourth, fifth? I can't even keep it straight anymore) the deployment will bring new challenges as the kids are older, wiser and won't be placated with "Daddy's at work" anymore. They will know. Well, the older two will know. Not only because they are older and go to school with other Army kids with Dads and Moms "over there" but because we have seen far too many military funeral processions pass by our school, our grocery store, our church. They know to stop what they are doing and just be quiet. They know that for every white stone we pass on our travels across Post, lies a soldier who "went to work" and never came back.



Oh, how to get through it AGAIN? How to say good bye, turn to my children with a plastered-on smile and say, "Ok guys, let's have some fun." It worked the first three (four?) times....not sure it will work this time.



And so I will write. The ups, the downs, the in's the outs. And along the way...perhaps I will find a way to get through it -- again. For the fourth (fifth?) time.