Spin

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just no DS.  

Getting Prickly

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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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


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

Bunkers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Itch

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Left Behind

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

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

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

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

Then came the first of many deployments.


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

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


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


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

Which, in some ways, is very comforting.

Whine

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

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


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

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


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

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


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


I should have grabbed the wine and ran.

Mail Call

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll have to check my mail tomorrow.

Flags

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

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

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

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

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

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

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