Left Behind

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

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

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

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

Then came the first of many deployments.


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

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


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


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

Which, in some ways, is very comforting.

Whine

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

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


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

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


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

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


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


I should have grabbed the wine and ran.

Mail Call

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll have to check my mail tomorrow.

Flags

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Climbing

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

I can go up. Into a tree. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Six

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shields

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

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

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

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

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

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