tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84842934265294149232024-03-06T00:55:02.056-06:00My Piece of MindEileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-38457539730131145462014-09-10T10:42:00.000-05:002014-09-10T10:42:46.713-05:00Bumps in the Road<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhojgpeS2Z8VoA2bRrO_RdgRFCVVn3iqFyk5iCqvucm8AuCgru8jqzrp5P_XV7ODpyhRmRg5hyphenhyphenvmrIf4ZzEKCJPeNdixhsCkhl4gkG-iYmwA1v0lRxaJ4zXN4311kIXbyAoPRbaezeVYA/s1600/20140910_092722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhojgpeS2Z8VoA2bRrO_RdgRFCVVn3iqFyk5iCqvucm8AuCgru8jqzrp5P_XV7ODpyhRmRg5hyphenhyphenvmrIf4ZzEKCJPeNdixhsCkhl4gkG-iYmwA1v0lRxaJ4zXN4311kIXbyAoPRbaezeVYA/s1600/20140910_092722.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I've found a new ring of hell. Buying socks. More to the point, trying to figure out sizing on socks prior to purchasing. I can already hear the "aaaagggh, these have BUMPS in them MOM!" if I don't get the right size. And by right size I mean, seven sizes smaller than his actual foot size (which inevitably, end up getting holes in them because his toes are literally pushing through the ends.) You can't even go to the store to buy socks because trying them on is impossible. So, I will add to my online cart, seventeen different pairs of socks in three different sizes. If none of them work out, I will make the trek to return the purchase. (Which isn't the easiest thing to do since the store is 30 minutes from my home) But I do this because I love my kid...and he apparently needs socks. I'm jumping in, making my best scientific guess and hoping for the best and hoping the store will accept my return of opened tried-on socks. That's what you do for people you love (and for those that need socks without holes) right? And that's what you do FOR love, right? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When you find someone you love, you give it them a try, see if they are the right fit, and hope for no annoying bumps and a decent return policy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Recently, my fifth grader has found "love." I knew he thought a girl at school was "nice" (code for "crush" in fifth grade, I suppose) but yesterday, we found out how much he thought of her. We were working on homework (remember onomatopoeia's?) and our phone rang. It was HER! He stared at the phone - frozen. I told him to answer it. Probably not the best Mom-move given what happened next. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Hello."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Hello. Is this C?" a male voice said. My son's eyes bugged out and he dropped the phone. The voice was this girl's FATHER. I whispered, "Pick up the phone and say 'yes sir!' " Which he did. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Well," the father continued, "This is (insert cute girl's name here) Dad. Can I speak to your better half?" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now, even I got confused at that. Who is C's better half? His sister? Umm...no. His brother? Probably not. His dog? So I whispered again, "Say, 'My Mom or Dad?' " all the while he was turning bright red and starting to sweat. The father asked to speak with my husband. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We ran outside to get my husband who was mowing the lawn. You can imagine that scene. When he mows the lawn, he is in a trance. <i>Must keep mowing, must keep mowing.</i> He sees nothing but the long blades of grass he must demolish. He hears nothing but the roar of the mower. Even when I'm frantically doing hurkies and waving my arms around screaming his name - he is oblivious. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When he finally noticed us, he grabbed the phone. Turns out my little Lothario had given the cute girl a note at school expressing his love to her (To quote, "<i>I love you. I know that seems weird, but it's true. Here is my phone number.</i>") </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now, as the mother of an eleven year old boy, I thought it was sweet. Apparently, to the father of the girl, it wasn't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He proceeded to tell my husband about the note, saying that he didn't think them calling each other was appropriate but they could chat on the computer. Which baffles me on so many levels. First, why call the parent? Why not just tell the girl, "You aren't old enough to call boys. Let him know that at school tomorrow." Why call us? To embarrass my son? Well, he got that right, if that was his intention. My son was HORRIFIED. He ran into the house and barricaded himself in a closet, refusing to come out. His first act of love and he was shot down, called out and crucified. I mean, the FATHER of the girl he "loved" called the house to talk to his parents. It wasn't like he asked her to marry him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The second thing is, why would he be comfortable with them messaging each other on a computer, with no parental observations -- but a phone call is no bueno? That doesn't make sense to me. We can't monitor what they are saying to each other via messaging. Admittedly, they are smarter than us when it comes to technology. They could delete things that were said. They could...oh I could go on. But a phone call? I can physically hear that. I can listen in on another line if I chose to. To each their own, but this I don't understand on any level. Plus, knowing my son and the age he is, the only thing he'll want to talk about is Minecraft anyway. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I remember my first crush in fifth grade. I did call him. He called me. The calls lasted maybe five minutes. I remember I had to work up the courage to call him. Not because I was scared to talk to HIM, but because of the speech I HAD to say upon the insistence of my parents, when someone answered: "Hi , this is Eileen L. May I speak with R if he is available please?" After I got through that fifteen minute tongue twister (which I rehearsed 17 times before punching in his number on the desk phone in the kitchen. No cordless phones then. I was bound to the kitchen by a wire stuck to the wall. My mother hovered - or maybe she was just making dinner) Anyway, R would get on the phone and it would go something like this: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Hi." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Hi." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"What are you doing?" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Um, playing Asteroids" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Oh."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Titillating, right? And the only time my parents "got involved" was when he gave me a pair of earrings for Christmas a month later confessing that he had stolen them from his sister. Which I thought was very nice of him to think of <i>*me*</i> as he passed by her dresser where I imagined the earrings lay. My mother didn't think it was nice to receive stolen property for Christmas, so I gave them back...but I had to include a Thank You card. (<i>Thank you for the stolen earrings, your sister has nice taste.</i>) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My parents didn't call <i>his</i> parents to talk it out. To determine what boundaries our fifth grade love had to be guided through. To embarrass the hell out of us. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My son's first love stomped on by my son's first rival. The Father. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh what a rough road love is. I just hope he doesn't give up on it. He may give up on her...which is fine. I think I had a crush on 13 different boys in the fifth grade alone (sorry R, but it's true,) so I'm sure he will move on any day now. My heart aches for him, for this embarrassment. (Though he seemed fine this morning - I wonder if boys are really pre-programmed to "get over" things so easily?! I was up half the night pondering all of what occurred!) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And so I want to say to my son: Life is bumpy kid...just push on through. And if someone embarrasses you, just tell them to stuff a sock in it. And then send a Thank You card.</span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-63411589093043346892014-08-28T19:01:00.000-05:002014-08-28T19:02:49.137-05:00Trash Talking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I awoke this morning knowing I had two appointments I had to attend to. First was a doctor's appointment, second was an errand I had to run. I wasn't thrilled with the prospect of having to deal with either -- it was one of those days where I didn't feel like doing anything. Sitting in front of the boob tube was about as much action as I really wanted. What I didn't realize as I begrudgingly got ready for my day: I would learn a thing or two about the world around me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I got through the doctor's appointment (blah blah blah-- here's your prescription) and then I asked Doc how his family was doing. You see, he is Syrian. A Muslim from Syria. A sweet, caring, doctor, neighbor, father of three, and husband who is Muslim. I know in my heart that the crazies over in the Middle East right now do not represent what I <i>hope</i> is the Muslim faith (I won't admit to knowing much beyond what I've seen on the news.) But it's so hard to separate the two, isn't it? After 9/11, after 5 deployments that my husband had to endure, after watching the last 13 years unfold and all of the thwarted attacks, the televised butchery, the murder of innocent people all in the name of Islam -- how does one separate the Muslim faith from the Islamic Extremists? Well, you ask. Ask a Muslim: "What do you think about what is going on?" Which is what I did. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My doctor looked at me with tired, saddened eyes and told me in a voice so soft, that I had to lean in to hear him, that his homeland is not the homeland he once knew. He told me his family members weren't safe. His houses were demolished. He told me that Muslims are not like these terrorists. "This is not Syria. This is not my faith, what you see." The lines around his mouth frowned into deeper creases as he told me that the evil will continue to spread until the head of the body of evil is removed. "Without the head, the body will flail about, but eventually fall." Then he sighed and told me he would see me in three months. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of course, I wanted to sit down with him and REALLY get into it with him. Why?! Why don't the Muslims who aren't crazy, speak out against these nuts?! RAGE! Rage against the Machine people!! I mean, I guess I <i>kind </i>of get it. While I was living in Slovakia, I noticed how reserved and self conscious people were. There I was, saying "Good morning" and "Hello!" to everyone I came across, and all I got back was a quick glance and a mad dash to get away from me. I asked some Slovak friends about this and they explained that it was because of the Communists. They had only come out from under Communism a few years prior -- so their mind sets were still on self preservation. You never know who was going to report you to the authorities, so you just didn't speak to people, especially strangers. Especially strangers with a horrible Slovak accent. You don't just smile at random strangers, and you certainly don't talk politics. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I suppose with the amount of oppression in the Middle East, you can take this explanation of behavior and multiply it by 2,000 years to<i> maybe</i> come to an understanding of why Muslims aren't raging, demonstrating, protesting? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My heart just broke for my Doc. To see it on the news is one thing. I was selfishly wondering if my husband was going to be sent somewhere again if things got "going" any further than they are. Shaking my head at the idiocy and almost child-like behavior of these "armies/gangs" taking over that part of the world. But to talk to someone who's family is in danger because of where they live...that's a whole new ball of wax. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I went on to my next errand...got it done and realized my tank was on empty. I drove onto the gas station and started filling up. While waiting, I decided to excavate the backseat of the car. And if you've never seen the backseat of my car -- let's just say it's not for the weak of heart. In fact, I think I found some sort of animal's heart (it could have been a dried up apple slice from McDonald's but I'm still not convinced.) As I walked over to the garbage can, my arms laden with mounds of trash, a woman comes up to me and says, "You active duty?" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now, when someone comes up to me in a public place and abruptly asks me this, I have to hesitate. In this day and age, I never know if I will be stabbed sixty-five times by some anti-military nut. But, since my car has a big old blue and white sticker on it proclaiming to the world that "we" are active duty, I answered her mumbling, "Uh, yeah...." (I was still gripping the mound of trash, thinking I could block any karate chops with the stale chicken nuggets I had found.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Well," she said, "I just have to tell you that I think what Obama is doing to you and the rest of the military is DISGUSTING! I don't care WHAT COLOR HE IS! He could be red, orange, purple with green eyes, it is an ABOMINATION!" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was, to say the least, a bit stunned. I replied, "Um, well--" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"If I could, I would go right to WASHINGTON and march RIGHT UP to Obama, and tell him what I really THINK OF HIS #!?$%! It is LUDICROUS how they are treating you folks!!!" She was getting really worked up. "With all this #!?% going on in the Middle East, you guys are getting the BOOT?! It's OUTRAGEOUS!" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ah, don't you love when the universe throws you a curve ball and then giggles when it comes full circle? Not even fifteen minutes prior I was almost in tears in my Doc's office listening to the horrors of what his family was enduring in his beloved homeland. Now I was standing in a gas station parking lot with rotting food in my hands with another point of view being hurled at me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"I wish you guys - the soldiers - could just tell him and this $#?&! administration to stick it!" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Well, " I said, finally getting a word in, "They aren't allowed to-- "</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"That's RIGHT! You aren't ALLOWED TO! It's a crying shame and I am SICK of it and I am SICK of him and I just think he is SCREWING this country up!" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Um, oh, ok..." (still holding the rotting food.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"OK, well, good luck. I just had to tell you." And with that, she stormed off to her car. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I dumped my trash / body armor into the can, turned around and saw about six other people standing there staring at me. I'm sure from a distance, it looked like this woman was going off on me for doing something wrong. Or, maybe she just looked like a lunatic. I don't know. I was taken aback, to say the least. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So reflecting on my day, I'm still trying to tie up the coincidence. Maybe there isn't a connection at all. Maybe it was just a strange occurrence that two separate people, from two VERY different worlds told me their opinions in two extremely different ways. But I tend to think that there was a reason. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And maybe that reason is this: We are very lucky in this, <i>my</i> beloved homeland. We can walk up to complete strangers in the gas station in the middle of the day and scream into the open air, "I HATE our $#!?% government!" and then hop back into our cars, drive to our intact homes, to our healthy families. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I didn't get a chance to see what this woman's eyes looked like as they were covered by sunglasses, but what struck me was that she had the same deep creases around her mouth, as my Doc had as he told me his opinions. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And maybe that says something too. </span><br />
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<br />Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-86871371480129769182014-08-26T10:00:00.000-05:002014-08-26T10:00:53.085-05:00Rolling<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, it's been a while. A long while. And while I can spout off every reason under the sun why I haven't written in several months, well -- I won't bore you with those details. I will however, bore you with the details of having an 11 year old that is driving me to drink at 9 in the morning. Kidding. Sort of. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My eldest child has always been -- shall we say -- a bit dramatic. His birth was dramatic, his first six months of life were dramatic, and he's always been one of those kids who can turn on a dime. Going from sweet to a full blown terror in .05 seconds flat. Yet the events that unfolded yesterday STILL caught me off guard. You'd think in the 11 years that I've known this kid, nothing would phase me. But this phase of his life....this phase...oy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He'd been "sick" all weekend. Sore throat, fever, etc. I babied him, coddled him, whipped him and his two siblings to the clinic to get a throat culture done. Got him a slushy to cool his aching throat. Let him sit in front of the television or computer for a lot longer than he's usually allowed to. Except for being sick, it was a pretty good weekend for him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And then Monday morning hit. He came down in dirty clothes. Not just, "Hey 11 year old, you wore those yesterday and the day before" clothes. Dirty, stained, smelly, (he hasn't quite caught on that he needs to wear deodorant. I haven't quite caught on that I am the mother of someone who needs to wear deodorant. I mean, I still can't decide which deodorant *I* like, let alone finding one *he* likes -- but I digress) and just gross. I told him to change. To which he replied, with the spawn of Satan eyes staring right at me, "YOU didn't do any laundry this weekend, so I have nothing else to wear." and stormed off. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Uh - say what now?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Well, you can imagine what happens after that. A lot of back and forth while the two younger ones diligently ate their cereal and talked sweetly to one another. You know how it goes. One kid is in 'trouble mode' and the others take full advantage. I never see the other two act so nicely to one another until the older one gets in trouble. It's like they're trying to prove how awful <i>he is</i> by showing me how wonderful <i>they are</i>. I'm onto them... though I must say I enjoy the fake pleasantries immensely. In my heart I think, "THIS! This is how mornings should be! This is how siblings should act!" But in my head I know they're just doing it to piss their brother off. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />He screams, "I HATE YOU!" while looking at me. ME! The one who just took care of him for five days while Daddy was away, let alone the last ELEVEN FREAKING YEARS. So I missed a weekend of laundry. Hate me?! I told him to get in the car and that I didn't want to look at him anymore. Should I have handled it differently? I don't know. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am so caught off guard by these emotional roller coaster mood swings by this boy. I was not told that BOYS do this. I was bracing myself for my middle child -- who happens to be a girl. I KNOW she will be moody (God help me) ...but I thought I had time before having to deal with her. What no one told me, what I didn't know...my 11 year old son would behave this way as well. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cut to later in the morning when I get a call from my husband. He drives the kids to school since it's on his way to work. Apparently, he got tired of the 11 year old's tantrums that continued in the car as well. So he pulled over and told the 11 year old to "get out unless you straighten up." Well, eldest son didn't feel like straightening up. He felt like getting out...and taking off. Running full speed in the opposite direction of the car. Which then started a maelstrom of screaming and tears from within the car (windows down, thanks to the younger children.) My husband had to CHASE my son to get him back in the car. PEOPLE WERE COMING OUT OF THEIR HOUSES WITH PHONES IN THEIR HANDS! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I mean....there are no words. I'm sure they thought my husband was trying to kidnap this "poor frightened child" (where in reality, this poor child was acting like the devil incarnate and if they wanted to keep him for the day, I would have gladly gave them permission) PLUS the two screaming banshees in the car. I was horrified FOR my husband. This occurred on a very busy road...I'm sure many people witnessed this absurd and, yes, embarrassing moment in our family's life. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />Somehow, everyone got back into the car, and got to school without the Police getting involved. Thank God. I can only imagine what my mug shot would have been since I hadn't showered and was still in my jammies when this all went down. Knock knock. "Mrs L? You are under arrest for not doing laundry this weekend. No you may not put on clean clothes, come with us." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When it was time to pick up my sweet angels (cough cough) from school, I got into the six mile car pick up line and waited. Waited like someone waiting in the DMV. I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to face the attitude. I didn't want to be told how much I was hated. (I did in fact do laundry earlier that day... I had a guilt free conscience.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They all came out...marching to the car. I held my breath. My 7 year old got in first and proclaimed, "Mommy, there was an incident this morning!" I acted like I had no idea what he was talking about. I asked everyone in the car what he was talking about, but their lips were sealed. Sibling bonding I suppose. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As per usual, later that evening, I got the requisite "Apology Letter" from my oldest. I have about 167 of these to date. In it he states, "I think you and I both know that I don't really hate you." Ah, warms the heart doesn't it? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This morning was quite different. Different in the way that I brushed my hair and put deodorant on before coming downstairs to get the kids ready. You know...in case the police show up to take me away. </span><br />
<br />Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-39919260949370481302012-11-19T23:00:00.000-06:002012-11-19T23:00:45.327-06:00Innocence<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When your nine year old is threatened at school repeatedly ...mornings are hell, days are gut-wrenching and nights are tormenting. A truly heartbreaking event -- to watch a child who once loved to go to school, who loved to socialize and had pride in his school, become one of the many kids who are getting bullied.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> I hate the word bully --a word that people glaze over...until it happens to your child. Then the word stops being just a word - it becomes a lifestyle. Bullies damage your child and change our world. They aren't the characters in movies that trip the underdogs, they aren't the 1980's film jocks picking on the nerds....these are CHILDREN inflicting emotional and physical pain on other children. First graders are getting beat up at schools. 9 year olds are being told they will be followed home and watched in their sleep....that their lives will be "ruined." Creepy old men aren't saying or doing these things. CHILDREN are. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have seen my son's personality change. I have witnessed his demeanor morph into someone I don't recognize. MY son. The one person I thought I would know in and out forever...he has changed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />We have taken steps to ensure this behavior will be stopped at his school --at least directed at him. But who knows what this other child has planned for other kids. I wonder...do these bullying kids "plan?" Do they wake up in the morning and think of new ways to torture their peers? Are these kids born this way? Is it something they learn? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All I know is since this all came to a "head" last week, I've been worrying about my child's life being threatened. I think "Columbine" (and yes, they are in third grade, but what does this other child have access to at home?) ...I think "suicide" as bullied kids have been known to...I can't even go there. Mostly, I think "What will be next?" and "Who will be next?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And a part of me cries for this kid...this child...who has been mentally abusing my son for the last three months. He is after all, the same age as my son. Why isn't he being helped? Can he be helped? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Bullying. Something I never saw coming. Something I never thought much about except I would hit the roof if MY kids ever did anything of the like. Something I thought was just "kids getting picked on." But it isn't. It has escalated far beyond that. It is a behavior befit to grown adults who are usually admonished by society. Threatening to follow my son home, watch him in his sleep and ruin his life? My God. An 8 year old has these words in his vocabulary!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For now, I will be a hawk, circling over my children ready to swoop down on any suspected mite that crosses their path. I am on full alert. I am bristling with the need to protect. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I will get my son back...but I wonder...will he be the same boy he was four months ago?</span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-34354254050133868112011-11-09T11:04:00.000-06:002011-11-09T11:04:59.362-06:00Homecoming<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDacJPrfINN7ezi-d6_W1KohCkz18qMLzCbXBjf1ylRIz7mQntpFl7lEIP_p4iTwkpfQQBvHOdBajkq4lMcIkfY8sQlFNJbTXqcUXkAgyj_HSpmda3h8dVU3O0lbaqK_XtEUtJta_gng/s1600/Special+Day.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDacJPrfINN7ezi-d6_W1KohCkz18qMLzCbXBjf1ylRIz7mQntpFl7lEIP_p4iTwkpfQQBvHOdBajkq4lMcIkfY8sQlFNJbTXqcUXkAgyj_HSpmda3h8dVU3O0lbaqK_XtEUtJta_gng/s320/Special+Day.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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!) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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 <i>planned </i>it ( or, more precisely, <i>imagined </i>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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I guess I should have alerted the press to meet us at IHop. </span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com78tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-92170622192238719252011-10-11T10:34:00.000-05:002011-10-11T10:34:20.964-05:00Spin<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhXTPzrSIbfYkEo6Vz4zPrx5SiFAju5LR_soB5x89fI-mOe4KipGHdnyn5JfWnshqNTokq0yBlYQ4WIUbXviMBtf0n2wJ3duLPsxbiI4CJXBPzHQhSN0rb7CvKAO4Z7fudCXlqtosYzg/s1600/P10-09-11_15-15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhXTPzrSIbfYkEo6Vz4zPrx5SiFAju5LR_soB5x89fI-mOe4KipGHdnyn5JfWnshqNTokq0yBlYQ4WIUbXviMBtf0n2wJ3duLPsxbiI4CJXBPzHQhSN0rb7CvKAO4Z7fudCXlqtosYzg/s320/P10-09-11_15-15.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </div><br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Just no DS. </span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-77780730342908360612011-09-19T10:08:00.000-05:002011-09-19T10:08:16.558-05:00Getting Prickly<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDCPddZLpn_C1BN_1DRMbV3Lz9GQNwndiPOY2NOqn5sG_tb2IYBjHEFHnRq9wIaAguFGeWLuQ_uEL2F4ptL2CnqgBEM4k-56wvLs-EhV9QlsAxAMweHFrSAVQHotGsUOAmTxVNoBa0nw/s1600/cactus+behind+bars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDCPddZLpn_C1BN_1DRMbV3Lz9GQNwndiPOY2NOqn5sG_tb2IYBjHEFHnRq9wIaAguFGeWLuQ_uEL2F4ptL2CnqgBEM4k-56wvLs-EhV9QlsAxAMweHFrSAVQHotGsUOAmTxVNoBa0nw/s320/cactus+behind+bars.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-7807621604188193482011-07-25T12:21:00.000-05:002011-07-25T12:21:13.715-05:00Bunkers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe-qoNItYLlrg0m-G_WIY7uHt6uN3j3fE7xdFCabjjewxDKCb7gmH8wyeZ4Mv8nGDZt-peGWvEkPWizSRidmhwRfA91w9PTsD_fYbd9hUFuOLh4kZKKLbQjJnI8si-PGcsInwuSYBk7w/s1600/Big+Jake2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe-qoNItYLlrg0m-G_WIY7uHt6uN3j3fE7xdFCabjjewxDKCb7gmH8wyeZ4Mv8nGDZt-peGWvEkPWizSRidmhwRfA91w9PTsD_fYbd9hUFuOLh4kZKKLbQjJnI8si-PGcsInwuSYBk7w/s320/Big+Jake2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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):</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>Dear Mommy,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>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 _____</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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?)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And I thought explaining the birds and the bees was going to be hard. </span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-67029876789360898992011-07-15T11:35:00.001-05:002011-07-15T11:42:33.932-05:00Itch<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk21KtHGmzFVy46_QZcqGsYml5owsiNQHpwJInGxCWRAT5MO67Hn7hhfdOsm9rr3KBrhxZZSt9KTndACSWdPYQ62tyh14kqKo-Snu8fo1mRIDLUd8n-cYlc5v5rd0dBz1CNxSSdFjyXA/s1600/IMG_2720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk21KtHGmzFVy46_QZcqGsYml5owsiNQHpwJInGxCWRAT5MO67Hn7hhfdOsm9rr3KBrhxZZSt9KTndACSWdPYQ62tyh14kqKo-Snu8fo1mRIDLUd8n-cYlc5v5rd0dBz1CNxSSdFjyXA/s320/IMG_2720.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. <br />
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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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I just wish my hubby were here to scratch my back. </span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-50702359351309313782011-07-06T18:20:00.000-05:002011-07-06T18:20:06.470-05:00Left Behind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgseTFnRFE11s6-1BEdQorRbQ8MuZFwbKu2B2Ke3d4CKL0CkdlN0vagI0eY8qZ-hZL7_lTWicyFhLsz5OVtmm1NG2ltqNWcVDMKF_Jb0xmupD575tvZjJQ9mJ4AwcgsGhjnCCGg-CpOKg/s1600/IMG_2734.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgseTFnRFE11s6-1BEdQorRbQ8MuZFwbKu2B2Ke3d4CKL0CkdlN0vagI0eY8qZ-hZL7_lTWicyFhLsz5OVtmm1NG2ltqNWcVDMKF_Jb0xmupD575tvZjJQ9mJ4AwcgsGhjnCCGg-CpOKg/s320/IMG_2734.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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 <i>where the heck was I in the late 90's and early 2000's? </i>Ummm... working. A lot. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> 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! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Then came the first of many deployments. </span><br />
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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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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!) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. <br />
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Which, in some ways, is very comforting. </span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-64440319705211698702011-06-26T20:07:00.000-05:002011-06-26T20:07:05.528-05:00Whine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_-leD2oNNFYEdBUcAs9XBMSg8IZc1bmrxHGtYHk_I1kW32pxSO7AQN7j0utVxDFqJhFXD-wziotTjoysjBkf15eoYyozwGDqBvv6JdjElYYG8S6nMuSZcmzOZAs234AUrvhhhXZmJhA/s1600/Conor%2527s+6th+birthday+269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_-leD2oNNFYEdBUcAs9XBMSg8IZc1bmrxHGtYHk_I1kW32pxSO7AQN7j0utVxDFqJhFXD-wziotTjoysjBkf15eoYyozwGDqBvv6JdjElYYG8S6nMuSZcmzOZAs234AUrvhhhXZmJhA/s320/Conor%2527s+6th+birthday+269.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> 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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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?" <i>Oh dear God. No...no, no,no. PLEASE don't be talking to me. </i>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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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?! </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And then... I realized my fly was down...and probably had been during our walk and presentation in front of the congregation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I should have grabbed the wine and ran. </span><br />
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</span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-29254402917756602702011-06-23T19:48:00.000-05:002011-06-23T19:48:43.827-05:00Mail Call<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi-dBYnYs_NNkYNLCm5wlrZtEqZxGsmbFVRFGStGpbjM95eWL96yAKD-o-0HxtQ9DvpKfwPoA3i7ywWkr1OTVTyM5IIrrMjulvU4Reo1NFPK4cHZEHHPiOdu7iW7Gj5gJd3qgz1hq61Q/s1600/Thanking+Daddys.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi-dBYnYs_NNkYNLCm5wlrZtEqZxGsmbFVRFGStGpbjM95eWL96yAKD-o-0HxtQ9DvpKfwPoA3i7ywWkr1OTVTyM5IIrrMjulvU4Reo1NFPK4cHZEHHPiOdu7iW7Gj5gJd3qgz1hq61Q/s320/Thanking+Daddys.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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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." </span><br />
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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...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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: </span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"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</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">THE MERITORIOUS SERVICE MEDAL to (insert Hubby's name)" </span></b> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. <br />
<br />
I wonder. When will the military start handing out awards to those who are holding it together on the home front? <br />
<br />
I'll have to check my mail tomorrow. </span></div>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-83926049805626815442011-06-14T11:54:00.000-05:002011-06-14T11:54:42.892-05:00Flags<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjREcsjJ-KCxbV0XTNmpBeI_9SX1D12v3aue2el6tOTwg-oFgzfCFH4ocyK-X2lnj42cPfZ8aIy3OVH9J7SCkn_n87oh4MV5XrsoXoxt2cbABgwQNqwV8EJbM3NVdyL20DncCQF22rtbA/s1600/Flags.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjREcsjJ-KCxbV0XTNmpBeI_9SX1D12v3aue2el6tOTwg-oFgzfCFH4ocyK-X2lnj42cPfZ8aIy3OVH9J7SCkn_n87oh4MV5XrsoXoxt2cbABgwQNqwV8EJbM3NVdyL20DncCQF22rtbA/s320/Flags.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-57774969981216397222011-06-10T10:57:00.000-05:002011-06-10T10:57:27.938-05:00Climbing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPKn8Q_Njc6YE21RIUUeUG8cTUlL77PWoPu0NvXNIL9-HYwGflSJZUj8V1esvnmIEn_zJTJXrvv5tuX9eRW7Z4mKlxczlN67QyL3jQl1F8tfVXe4-fR2d7CrYNYlr_7u8ev4i2eSSJWA/s1600/Conor%2527s+6th+birthday+262.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPKn8Q_Njc6YE21RIUUeUG8cTUlL77PWoPu0NvXNIL9-HYwGflSJZUj8V1esvnmIEn_zJTJXrvv5tuX9eRW7Z4mKlxczlN67QyL3jQl1F8tfVXe4-fR2d7CrYNYlr_7u8ev4i2eSSJWA/s320/Conor%2527s+6th+birthday+262.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I can go up. Into a tree. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> 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, </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">(again, neighbors shaking their heads in wonderment, I am sure)</span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> 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! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-13273882381737360822011-06-05T19:15:00.000-05:002011-06-05T19:15:10.063-05:00Six<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAtK-UmO6lMJWiEMdjvKGTiAckFoU4aZcjV_Q55AM1p_SheUE3dR_RuAXiDWn_u7BDXjBwjqYJ2yQBmriIlk8PGujf0bFXGHAmZV1O9DGa-v5jTfcJrx33RYX5pOBQ6GQWKW8CKZsprA/s1600/private+murphy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAtK-UmO6lMJWiEMdjvKGTiAckFoU4aZcjV_Q55AM1p_SheUE3dR_RuAXiDWn_u7BDXjBwjqYJ2yQBmriIlk8PGujf0bFXGHAmZV1O9DGa-v5jTfcJrx33RYX5pOBQ6GQWKW8CKZsprA/s320/private+murphy.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> 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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-21696513149138156162011-05-31T10:29:00.000-05:002011-05-31T10:29:05.338-05:00Shields<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj06faEFwFPHkkpBK6Mpvel8Rgq4qMMp14rE8hbxQAf9gr1nSeu7hZQ_zRFjo0TGsKV9TwY_43gryxEuCbczGgrPibL2LG3gUKdoK_MqthPcsOIF6XS79pWZZJuEsgQB0XqFivTT6UZ4Q/s1600/IMG_2746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj06faEFwFPHkkpBK6Mpvel8Rgq4qMMp14rE8hbxQAf9gr1nSeu7hZQ_zRFjo0TGsKV9TwY_43gryxEuCbczGgrPibL2LG3gUKdoK_MqthPcsOIF6XS79pWZZJuEsgQB0XqFivTT6UZ4Q/s320/IMG_2746.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My husband, my shield...come back to us. And don't forget to bring Patrick.</span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-64077819717798461242011-05-09T11:05:00.000-05:002011-05-09T11:05:39.057-05:00Thrones<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakwEG7nEbFchNv8COmzBVHsfAgSUkzYdlVLQsQkXzX4KdsG7WjE0iovYeboJsKAFc7-dlZY2qPNc0F7PETlpVNfnoYuHcFcVTq7J4djGzjSWnIAI75huh-5j2ebpIBVw9OzHppyTqsw/s1600/Glimpse+of+a+Princess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakwEG7nEbFchNv8COmzBVHsfAgSUkzYdlVLQsQkXzX4KdsG7WjE0iovYeboJsKAFc7-dlZY2qPNc0F7PETlpVNfnoYuHcFcVTq7J4djGzjSWnIAI75huh-5j2ebpIBVw9OzHppyTqsw/s320/Glimpse+of+a+Princess.jpg" width="221" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> 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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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. <br />
<br />
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>I'll definitely be the Princess tomorrow </i>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. </span><br />
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Just a Princess and her throne. The day after Mother's Day. Timing is everything. </span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-52613365794945427982011-05-04T18:24:00.000-05:002011-05-04T18:24:01.333-05:00Mass<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO3oPZxv07EC5pby84ev-foUTZrUzKh-G5hzkoOivduSvIdbEddOb_9c8iy1FB75xP2RQnQzxKmOkcbGFIb3g_OMabTjkpDcV9DI8SQ6Pg_WlBFaT48Zkw_W_cjAvJfQfW1XRbrdVigw/s1600/P1010162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO3oPZxv07EC5pby84ev-foUTZrUzKh-G5hzkoOivduSvIdbEddOb_9c8iy1FB75xP2RQnQzxKmOkcbGFIb3g_OMabTjkpDcV9DI8SQ6Pg_WlBFaT48Zkw_W_cjAvJfQfW1XRbrdVigw/s320/P1010162.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. <i>Hmmm...that's weird....on with my day.</i> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The good news: You're not pregnant! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The bad news: You're going to need a colonoscopy! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Wait...whuh? Where they stick a....and they put a ...and whuh? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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? </span><br />
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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!" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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). <br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-3456070641594989372011-04-28T09:01:00.000-05:002011-04-28T09:01:55.173-05:00More<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyRu3xi3tD8VGbe_NUC3DwgaJ0REIp5SOEmXW0p-4mo3NOW26PS8AO9Bf3QowQhMtFgh4P-H7LScIfxRSJTkXn78d2lbOe47dWPU4nx_BP7eEENms3A7bz5Se50yY9EdDpmNDbY2R2gw/s1600/IMG_2510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyRu3xi3tD8VGbe_NUC3DwgaJ0REIp5SOEmXW0p-4mo3NOW26PS8AO9Bf3QowQhMtFgh4P-H7LScIfxRSJTkXn78d2lbOe47dWPU4nx_BP7eEENms3A7bz5Se50yY9EdDpmNDbY2R2gw/s320/IMG_2510.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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.) </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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) </span><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><br style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-7632798904161723482011-04-17T19:27:00.000-05:002011-04-17T19:27:25.098-05:00Breaking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib5ZCycqyDc3AB2hGEGO80JP2j5vRefP_1EYmsJaUkcBGHbZr5mfOIp6KVBMRl17C6u7RzFd8lSWfUu-mmzQ5SsAtx31fqhbp6jB6W5WGslH8bbQkp6GHnv_a1osEoZ6yrlkNSHW9M4A/s1600/P1010178.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib5ZCycqyDc3AB2hGEGO80JP2j5vRefP_1EYmsJaUkcBGHbZr5mfOIp6KVBMRl17C6u7RzFd8lSWfUu-mmzQ5SsAtx31fqhbp6jB6W5WGslH8bbQkp6GHnv_a1osEoZ6yrlkNSHW9M4A/s320/P1010178.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. <br />
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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" </span><br />
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Jump to Child #3, who sat there, watching this all unfold, quietly eating his hot dog and carrots. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. <br />
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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. </span><br />
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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. </span><br />
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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. <br />
The only questions are: Will their Daddy be fine? Will I?</span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-52005025435267607862011-02-23T19:48:00.000-06:002011-02-23T19:48:14.980-06:00Limits<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijaYuefegett5oeS_sLHXEAyr-TzNGupGpdz7HsSzWPlg3jv8-AKf-WVSh9VgUYawmkKh6i8IMzQkajxn_WAtryA3a9I4ABkPUfVS39u2qPqRgBq2cwxN8p9nyUwIUGrI7u__L3StOLA/s1600/Conor%2527s+6th+birthday+724.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijaYuefegett5oeS_sLHXEAyr-TzNGupGpdz7HsSzWPlg3jv8-AKf-WVSh9VgUYawmkKh6i8IMzQkajxn_WAtryA3a9I4ABkPUfVS39u2qPqRgBq2cwxN8p9nyUwIUGrI7u__L3StOLA/s200/Conor%2527s+6th+birthday+724.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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!! </span><br />
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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).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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! </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">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. <br />
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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. <br />
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</span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-37560088440753982712011-02-20T17:54:00.004-06:002011-02-20T18:39:32.080-06:00Crush<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyMuHkZ1NpIqSzkcM3IEzBBzjso4xzaODDyamhyphenhyphenEiRb4uk_f54f1UKWYy1kkl05k15Y5gbej0RIU2kKgml5XzcOwkV9SSyFwA4xitolHJsVNaE8znFIXuQ-fWCpIAicwxXggRfrr1Ww/s1600/Conor%2527s+6th+birthday+572.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoyMuHkZ1NpIqSzkcM3IEzBBzjso4xzaODDyamhyphenhyphenEiRb4uk_f54f1UKWYy1kkl05k15Y5gbej0RIU2kKgml5XzcOwkV9SSyFwA4xitolHJsVNaE8znFIXuQ-fWCpIAicwxXggRfrr1Ww/s200/Conor%2527s+6th+birthday+572.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575935840329326082" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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. </span>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. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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? </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1. The guy from Cash Cab.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">2. Mike from the show Pickers.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.)</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">And come to think of it, I think Ruff Ruffman and Kenny the Shark are the same guy. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">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.</span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-56247642128038494222011-02-06T16:27:00.005-06:002011-02-06T16:46:09.252-06:00It's Time<span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: verdana;">believe</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> that I have TN, but - hey - you can't have everything. A doctor that actually believes you AND prescribes the right meds? Puhlease.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">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. </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">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.</span>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-33949221633013388022010-02-12T14:09:00.003-06:002010-02-12T14:27:01.207-06:00Until<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Cd93V51wkeZw3UOdSlBgTC3R-O_bYiuxI8GGPYDfah_w52t0xRFevw9pVWRfmVdctGO5MHYxAlUsSip7N1Tiy705HNlxcJPZ9o6zsd4FuweKKzA0iCGRC_0tweqH7i4QlTJfft2VeQ/s1600-h/where+we%27ve+been.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437455765568547874" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Cd93V51wkeZw3UOdSlBgTC3R-O_bYiuxI8GGPYDfah_w52t0xRFevw9pVWRfmVdctGO5MHYxAlUsSip7N1Tiy705HNlxcJPZ9o6zsd4FuweKKzA0iCGRC_0tweqH7i4QlTJfft2VeQ/s200/where+we%27ve+been.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Can you hear that noise? A slight, slow scratch. A deep and low groan. Beneath the surface, the electric pain is starting to erupt. Two years to the day the monster reared it's ugly head and threw my world upside down. Then -- reprieve. Almost a year and a half of glorious days with nary a twitch. Until last Saturday, when the first twinges woke me up in the middle of the night. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>No. No way. Just a twinge. Must be the weather. (Yes, when the weather is changing, I can feel it in my teeth.) But then Sunday came, then the next day, the next. Oh no. What have I done? What can I do? I look back at my records. My multiple notes from the neurologists. I dig out from my safe, my last remains of my meds -- are they expired? Will they work again? I cry. I pray. I beg -- please no! Not again! Not now!<br /></div><div>And so I wait for the beast to show full and strong. I remain quiet, waiting for my face to contort to the pain mask that I wore. I am already saying goodbye to the life I have built here, to the Mom I have been. Because when the trigeminal neuralgia monster awakens fully, it consumes everyone and everything in it's path.<br /><br />Will I survive it this time? Will my family? Will I find a doctor here that will believe me? And isn't it ironic, that on February 12, 2008 I wrote a very similar note on a scraggly piece of paper. Only then, I didn't recognize the monster. We hadn't yet formally met. </div>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8484293426529414923.post-19561512568621091172009-09-15T13:37:00.004-05:002009-09-15T14:00:31.527-05:00Fringe<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5BLngFB4vHFvEJ1TbLE90fZ3y0Pry4zizVT3J5DABivOCbqnIbhGn5DN_Y5RmLkGV8t0QdCKoNriA0So_nYWb7xBJcZpkyAS5-GCUPaYkTpHp514N-LVxdFSXa-0bUrdOqRjRQ6em9g/s1600-h/what+is+under+there.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381770567632420578" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5BLngFB4vHFvEJ1TbLE90fZ3y0Pry4zizVT3J5DABivOCbqnIbhGn5DN_Y5RmLkGV8t0QdCKoNriA0So_nYWb7xBJcZpkyAS5-GCUPaYkTpHp514N-LVxdFSXa-0bUrdOqRjRQ6em9g/s200/what+is+under+there.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Ahh..the military life. There is something to be said for those of us caught up in 'life on the fringe.' Where our existence is known "out there" but no one really knows what goes on "in here". There are definite differences. For instance: we become friends much quicker than civilians. We move somewhere, start unpacking and before the kitchen is filled with steins, plates and strange looking utensils from all over the world, there is a knock on the door from our new (best friend) neighbor, dropping off a bag, basket, or dinner. Because she has been there. She has been up to her neck in moving boxes, every other year for the past ten years. She has moved to a neighborhood site unseen, trusting her husband (or his buddy, or -- God forbid -- the lady at Housing) to okay the house and all if it's glory.<br /><br />Another example, we sign up our kids for anything and everything since we don't know how long we will have the chance to learn: wrestling, bowling, basket weaving, princess wand making, horse back riding or a plethora of other MWR classes. Not much research into any of these sports...not enough time to do that! Sign them up, hope they like it and hope the times work with the rest of the family.<br /><br />Church? Welcome one and all! By the way, I see you in church...could you be my kid's Godparent? We have no family nearby. Or....can you be my Sponsor? I am converting...and I see you around Church and the mess hall. The wonderful thing is: no one even hesitates. Sure! No problem! Do you need me to pick up Grandma from the airport? </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The Military Life is a complex system of emotional highs and lows (a lot of lows!) that many outsiders don't get. I am still trying to get it all. I've only been at it for ten years! (My husband has never known anything else) I am beginning to learn that once it is in your blood, it is hard to get over it. Witness my husband, who is supposed to be retiring in two years...and is now hemming and hawing about staying in for a while longer. Which means another deployment. Which means some more moving around, unpacking and all the rest that follows.<br /><br />Luckily there will be that knock on the door from my future new (best friend) neighbor . </div>Eileenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17218505484337120992noreply@blogger.com0