Deployment Survival Kit

My neighborhood on post has only existed for about three years (give or take). When I moved in just under a year ago, nearly every person on my street was with the same unit. They had all moved in at the same time. Their husbands worked the same schedules. They had almost all been at the same previous  duty station. 

They have strong bonds with one another.

When I moved in, without hesitation, they welcomed me. They told me the in's and out's of living on post (since we never had), let me know events going on, and which TV service to go to. All of the things that military neighbors seem to do for each other.

Three of them I have gotten to know best. One with a little boy younger than Eli but bigger than him (which is pretty much always the case with Eli). One with two kids in grade school (she is the very first person I met when I was moving in). And one who is, and this is her only poor quality, a BAMA fan. 

Football season was interesting. 

Anyway, their husbands deployed a little while ago for a year (yes, that's right, twelve-month-orders). I wanted to do something to let them know that they are in my thoughts, that I am rooting for them during this "go mode", and that I am here if they need anything. 

I know they have each other but they have always made me feel included. My husband is safe. My husband is "home" (quotes are necessary). I needed to do something.

To each of them I dropped what I called A Deployment Survival Kit at their door. So many people have asked about it that I wanted to share it here so that you can share it with friends and hopefully use it to brighten another spouse's day.

We all go through the cycle, in some way, but we fall into different parts of it at different times. When we are stronger, we need to share strength. When we are weak, we need to be willing to find strength in others. We are a community, a sisterhood, the arms behind the Army. We must support one another. We must be willing to put an arm around someone struggling beside us. We must serve one another while our spouses serve the nation.

Start smiles. Bring humor. Give strength. Share goodness.

We all need to.

This is a simple start.

What the "kit" includes:

A Bottle of Red - for nights when you need to "wine a lil"

A Handful of Chocolate - when you miss holding his hand

A Roll of Duct tape - to combat Murphy's Law

Big Girl Panties - for when you just need to deal with it

A Special Promise with a yellow ribbon - for days when you need to remember

Your kit can have whatever you choose. It can be simple. It can just be a card! Anything to let another Military spouse know: "I'm backing you!" "I support you!" "I am here if you need!" 

Something small goes a long way. Let's build each other up. Let's help each other thrive.

What would you put in a deployment survival kit?

Healing Waters

In my last post I spoke about the importance of understanding and recognizing the last image you give to your soldier. Of understanding what your reaction, what your actions, can mean to him. How important it is to provide a strong front, a calm sadness, a reassuring smile. If you haven't read it yet, I would encourage you to. 

(Farewells and Fairy Dust)

There is a part to this that may have been misunderstood or missed in total. If you have read through all of my posts (which, of course, I encourage you to do!), you know that I cry - a lot. In the days and weeks before C left this last time, I wore waterproof mascara every. single. day. It was the little things that got me - dressing Eli in the morning, wondering what size he would be wearing when C came home, wondering how different he would look. Watching Logan play on the playground, wondering how much more he would learn to do while C wasn't there. Seeing him updating and adding ribbons to his Blues ... 

I cried when I was in the shower. I cried when Logan put on his PC as C was packing up. I cried when we watched certain shows, when I tripped over his boots, at the grocery store buying orange juice because I don't drink orange juice, C does, and would I remember to stop buying it? What if I bought it on accident? What if I never had to buy it again ...  

The day I said "goodbye" I hugged him and stood on my toes to whisper, "I love you. I'll miss you. Come back to me."

And in the army way with the softest but deepest breathe I whispered one more, "See you soon."

And on the day C left, I stepped up into my car, and cried harder than I thought possible - the hot water pouring down my face, soaking my clothes, the snot mixing in, gasping for air between heaving sobs. Because no matter what had just happened in that assembly center, no matter what image I just gave him, I needed to feel it. My husband was leaving to go to war. My husband was leaving to live with Afghans - not Americans. My husband was going to be vastly outnumbered. My husband was entering into that situation barely a month after several Afghans (in the area he was going to) went rogue and turned on their trainers and advisers. In my mind, there was a very real possibility that he wouldn't come home to me, to our boys. That that was the last time I might see him. 

There is no healthy way to hold that in. None. 

I cried it out. And I didn't care who could see or what people thought. I needed to feel it, to let the sadness and fear and dread wash over me so that I could - at least for a time - let them go. It was healing for me. To cry until there was nothing left. To physically feel the sadness leaving my body. 

I cannot say how important I think it is to acknowledge the difficulty and sadness and pain that exists in this life. I do not think that ignoring that is in any way healthy or strengthening or smart. While in my heart I had to believe that he was coming home, I had to believe that God would watch over him and his men, you cannot know. You just do not know.

I do not think we should wallow in that. I do not think we should think every day, "What if he is gone today." No, no, no, no, I do not think we should ask that! But I think there needs to be a time - or times - when the what-ifs become too hard to bear, when the sadness begins to eat at our strength,  that we need to let it go. To sit down and let the pain leave our hearts.

It is in these moments, when I can barely breathe, when the sobs are so heavy, that I find myself in the truest, rawest pray. When in my core, in the deepest part of my gut, I am begging God to "Keep him safe." "Dearest, Dearest, God, bring him back to me. Let his children KNOW him."

Let him hold them. Let him watch them grow. Do not take him from them. 

Those are the vulnerable moments. When at the time we are at our weakest. The moments we don't talk about or don't share. The moments that are just "ours". Intimate moments between a loving God and a humbled human.

These are healing moments. Strengthening moments when we acknowledge that we feel broken. That our hearts are too heavy. That our road seems too dark.

Allow yourself to feel this life. Allow yourself to let it go. 

Tears are healing waters; prayer in agony is a powerful thing. He will strengthen you for the journey. He will wipe the sadness from your heart. 

You only need to ask.

Farewells and Fairy Dust

Within the last two days two different people have brought up how they handle farewells. What it is to show and hide emotion. What is "normal". What the movies make it seem like, like the fairytale side of us wants to believe things to be. 

We all say goodbye in different ways. We all have a different way of handling those last moments. That last hour, the last minutes, last seconds - they twist your heart. We all react differently to how it feels.

K (a reader) emailed me wanting to know if she did something wrong - because she had just said goodbye to her fiance and she didn't cling to him for dear life, or cry her eyes out holding him, or run back to him, or beg him over and over again not to go. She held him, she quietly told him she loved him, that she'd miss him, for him to be safe, and she walked away. 

There is a picture - and I have mentioned it before - of C kissing my forehead for the last time before he deployed to Afghanistan. One of my closest friends took it with a very simple camera in an assembly center filled with hundreds of people sharing the exact same moment. In this picture, there is a look on each of our faces that words do not exist for. There is so much sadness and pain and strength and beauty - all of it, on C's face and mine, at the exact same time. I cannot tell you what that picture means to me - to see exactly what that very last moment looked like. I feel so incredibly blessed to have it.

The last hour before C left we didn't say much. We sat beside eachother. We held hands. We just felt each other's presence. We barely spoke. 

It isn't that I didn't have anything to say. It isn't that C didn't have anything to say. It's that the things that come into your mind, that take over your thoughts, in the moments before your soldier leaves to go to war, are not the things that need to be spoken of in those moments. It's the what-ifs and the just-in-cases and the this-may-be-the-last-times that are the words that sit on your lips, that you fight to say or not to say. C and I choose not to say them. 

Because we can't live for the what-ifs and the just-in-cases. He can't enter into battle with my if-this-is-the-last-times on his heart. There is no room for that fear - not from both of us.

I want him to enter into battle with confidence in love, blanketed in prayer, covered in encouragement. I want him to enter into battle knowing that I can do this. That I will continue our life, that when he returns home, I will hold him with all of my might and praise God for bringing him back to me.

I told K that she went through her goodbye with more grace than I could believe - that everyone handles this differently and that I thought she did well.

I know some families who do not go to the "drop-off" at all. Who say their goodbyes in the privacy of their home. I can understand that. 

To watch the love of your life, the father of your children, walk away ... to know that this might be the last time ... to fight through those incredibly intimate moments surrounded by hundreds of others. I can see why some people choose to go through that in private.

The goodbyes are rarely what you see in the movies, what we imagine in fairy tales. You do not get to run back and pull him from formation. There is no "last call" for your soldier coming over the speaker as he kisses you once more. The reality is far different.

We all handle the goodbye in different ways. But I would ask that you remember that while this is your last time with your soldier, it is your soldier's last time with you. What image you leave them with is what they will carry with them - whatever you choose it to be. You can crumble at their feet, fight to keep them in your arms, and they will carry that. They will worry over it. They will wonder if you can make it through this. You can kiss them with all of your heart, simply, lovingly, completely. You can let them know you are going to be okay. That you will miss them. That you will be waiting here with open arms. You can stand tall, and give the slightest nod and tiniest smile to leave them with. 

It may be the hardest thing you do. 

It also may be the greatest gift - letting them know you are here for the long haul, that you are strong enough, that you love them to Afghanistan and back - to do so with the tiniest, most calming smile. To give them the final image that you would want them to carry into battle.

You can give that to your soldier to keep with him, to carry in the stars closest to his heart.

You will be given the Grace.

Always.

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You can read about the day C left for his last deployment -  "Closest to the Heart" -  HERE

When We Cannot Speak

A good friend and I were talking about some of the unknowns we are facing. They are - as almost always - some very large unknowns. They are far away but really aren't. I hear the tick-tick-tick that started the moment C came home with his next deployment on the chart, on the schedule, when it all became very real.

There is so much I want to pour out here but just cannot find a way. It has put me in a slump. Every time I sit to write the words don't flow the way they usually do. There aren't any lightbulbs going off that make me run to my mac and type, type, type. There is a cloud over us. That looming, annoying cloud that blocks it all out.

I want to talk about how this mission is going to be different, and why it is going to be different, and how much I have NO IDEA what he is walking into, what this means for us, how the day to day will be once he gets on that plane again. This is all going to be so different.

We have so much time. We have more time than most have had in the past between deployments. And while it isn't enough time, while it is never enough time, I just wish I didn't know yet. Because this one isn't going to be the same as the last. This one will be something that we haven't gone through before - that very, very few have gone through or will have gone through. I have too much time to dread all of the things that I do not know that come along with it. Too much time to not be able to share what this is. Too much time to think up every possible scenario in my jumbled mind and have them sit there.

These are the moments that are hardest - when we cannot speak. When as the spouse, as the next-of-kin, as the one who will fear the doorbell, we know things before others. We must hold onto information that we want to tell the world, want to cry about, or scream about, to someone - anyone - other than our soldier.

But these are the moments when you must, you must, honor the trust you have been given. You must recognize that the smallest thing that you say, in a public forum, on facebook, on a blog, can be read by anyone, can be seen by anyone, can be used by anyone.

Nothing that you put out there remains 'secret'.

As much as I would like to share this part of our journey with you, to share the heartache in a way that you can best understand, I will always honor my soldier first. I will honor his mission. I will honor his comrades. I will honor the flag he fights for by honoring the trust he has shared with me.

So please bear with me as I don't tell you over an undisclosed period of time where he is going, when he is going, or who he is going with. Bear with me as I struggle to share our story in a way that it can be shared. Be patient as I try to let you feel what I feel without letting you know what I know.

There will be some sad moments. There are always sad moments when the timer begins. There is heartache and fear and dread. I ask that you stay with me through it - live with me through it. Because if you know me, if you know this life, you know there will be joy. There will be goodness - so, so much goodness - and there will be pride.

There will be grace.

There will always, always be joy and grace.

Always.

I hope you continue to share our journey.

When the Timer Resets

My focus over the last two weeks has been on family. My absolute-number-one-nothing-else-matters focus has been on the four of us. And of course so much of that was because this time - this Christmas season - was beyond important for the four of us to have together.

I loved this Christmas. I loved that we shared the joy together. I love that C was here to hand the boys their presents and struggle with them through mass while I sang (HE may not have enjoyed that) and that we shared every moment of a perfectly simple day with just us. I am so very, very grateful that we were given this time.

But what brought that focus in the most, what made me hold C's hand tighter and take more pictures and try my hardest to remember each detail is because days before leave began our 'timer' reset.


It feels like he just got home.


My heart has been beyond heavy. I knew this was coming. I knew it.

I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.

But it's when the words are spoken for the first time - with actual timelines and plans and schedules. It's when it is released to the soldiers. When they go home to tell their families.

It's when it becomes real.

When every moment suddenly becomes counted, fleeting, sinking through your fingers. The world stops for just a moment.

You forget how to breathe.

Here you are again. At the beginning of an end - knowing how quickly time goes by. Knowing that every next day is one day closer.

Counted.

Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock.

God, give me strength.

The Beauty in the Old

I was clearing out even more little boxes that were sitting the corner of our room. These things were mostly C's and he hadn't touched them and they were beginning to drive me a little nuts. I sorted through little bits of gear that were loose pieces, thumb drives, coins, etc. and then I came to a boot box. It had been shoved in different places so often, been through so many moves, that the corners had begun to bend inward and the cardboard had become weak. It was so light that I almost discarded it without looking but as I went to pitch it I felt a slight jerk in the box. I opened it to take a very quick peak to be sure it was trash and I didn't move for a moment. 


It had everything.


Every card. Every letter. Every single word that I had written him that first deployment was in that box. 


Every. Single. One. 


I sat on our bedroom floor, while our boys slept in their room and C was at work, and read every card, every letter, every word. And then I read them again.


They had been worn by his hands, the creases had been softened by being unfolded and refolded. Words were smudged where his tired fingers had pressed too hard after a long patrol. Tear stains remained from the tears I had shed when I wrote them. They were beautiful.

And then a pain hit my heart. I hadn't written C a single letter this last deployment. I had sent cards and I had filled the card stock side but had not sent a single, hand-written letter.

I emailed. I emailed every time I didn't talk to him that day, or just because, or to send a picture of the boys doing something funny. I emailed all the time.

We Skyped for the second half of the deployment. We Skyped nearly every day. It was instant gratification. It was amazing. It was very much a blessing.

But it didn't give him anything to physically carry. It didn't give him something to go back to. It didn't give him anything to fold and unfold. To read and reread. To carry in the breast pocket of his uniform. It didn't give him something to save in a beaten up shoe box and to hold onto until we have grown old.

He only has cards from this time. They are something but they are not the same. Those letters are absolutely priceless.

Write to your soldier, or your marine, or your airman, or your sailor. Write long, long romantic letters. Write short, sweet ones too. Write funny ones. Write your heart. Write your sadness. Write your joy.  Spray them with perfume. Do it old school.

Technology is wonderful. I would never give it up. Not for anything. But I didn't realize I had given up that beauty. I didn't realize I had deprived him of that love.

There is beauty in the old ways.

Priceless beauty.

Counting Up

"We don't know how long this deployment is. We aren't planning on R&R. We are planning for twelve but are being told six. Everything is in limbo." Of all the uncertainty we face in this life this one killed me the most. And this wasn't even C. Mine had come home and her's had just left. There is a big difference between six months and a year. And to not KNOW? Ugh. I felt for her.

She sounded just a little defeated - just for a moment - but I heard it. I can't imagine.

Some of us still - every now and then - face a possible twelve month deployment becoming a fifteen. And many are beginning to face the six becoming twelve or vice versa. Punch to the gut. There is always the possibility that dates will change - that things will move to the right or the left. C's last deployment was cut a month short. And while that was a JOY for our family, we knew that that meant another unit was deploying a month early. 

Time tables change. 

It's almost a given.

I was talking to another spouse about "counting down." She emailed asking what I thought about "count down" posters and the like. Another talked about counting down from twelve when twelve was uncertain. We all do it - it can help, can be a comfort to count down those days. It's fun for our kids to have something that marks one day less without daddy. But in the situations where time is so uncertain, it can jolt us. It is a physical reminder that that time table just became longer. That we thought we were "this close" and now it feels we have miles left to go. It's thinking you signed up for a half marathon and then being told at the half-way point that you accidentally committed to the whole thing. 

So I talked to her about counting "up". When we don't know a definite timeline (and nothing is a definite timeline) we don't risk having that physical reminder that everything changed. I told her to buy a large vase or pretty container of some sort and place it in a display area of her home. Then to find something that you love or that your child loves. Find pretty pebbles, or color different sand, collect seashells, or find something important to you and add one every day. Every day it becomes fuller. Every day it becomes more beautiful. Every day it becomes more and more a part of your home - your life. 

And when your soldier comes home put a glass lid on it and keep it. Let it be a reminder of the journey. Let it show you how strong you have become. Look at it and know that it started empty - like we all can feel during a deployment - and it became something strong, something beautiful. Keep it for the next one and start another beside it. Recognize how far you come, each and every time you place something in it. Because you are counting up, moving up another day. 

A deployment is very much like climbing a mountain - we are fighting our way up. I don't think there is a downhill part of deployment. You can say that the second half counts as that but I don't really see it. The challenges don't suddenly stop just because we made it past that point. Every day we are battling uphill. Every day we are filling up that vase. Everyday we are going one more step forward until we make it to the top and we know that we made it. You feel accomplished. You are stronger. You did it.

So think about counting up instead. 

Just an idea. ; )

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What helps you to track time during a deployment?

No Words

There are no words.

None.

It is something that you know or you don't. You have felt it or you haven't. You have lived it or you can only imagine.

There are no words.

I knew that the song playing meant that they were about to walk in. I knew that when this song ended they would announce the arrival of the troops. I couldn't sit down. Everyone else was sitting. They didn't know. But we had welcomed C's men home last week so I knew. I. could. not. sit. down. 


"Ladies and Gentlemen," and then the screaming started. I didn't hear anything else that announcer said. I couldn't hear the person standing next to me. I don't know if I really heard anything. It wasn't until I watched the video on my phone back of them marching in that I realized just how much my body was shaking. There is no feeling like it on this earth. Chills, goosebumps, shaking, tears. And I hadn't even seen him yet. 


And then one soldier turned the corner and took the last step into the formation of 300 men and women  and I knew those shoulders. I knew that frame. I knew that stance. That was my C. Without question, without hesitation, that soldier was mine. 


"Look at me, look at me, look at me!" I thought over and over again while my eyes didn't leave that face on the complete opposite end of the assembly center. He stood perfectly still, as they all do, with his eyes very, very slowly scanning the crowd. "I'm right here!" my eyes yelled and then they met his. He saw me  and in his perfect stance he gave the slightest, slightest nod. No one else would see it if they weren't looking for it, but I did and that moment will be mine forever. There were so many tears. Hundreds upon hundreds of the tiniest, simplest tears. The first time we saw each other. The first time I could look into his eyes from - what felt like - forever away and know that we were US again. That in this huge center filled with hundreds of people all trying to find each other while remaining so very still, so very focused, so very strong, we found each other. No words. No waving. Nowhere near in each other's direct sight. We were pulled to each other. He found me while I yelled to him with my eyes.


You can tell me things don't happen like that. You can tell me that people can't feel each other like that and I will tell you over and over again that you are wrong. He found me out of the corner of his eye, across hundreds of people, without moving his head. That doesn't just happen. 


And then they released them to us and the crowd swarmed. Wives found husbands, daddies found daughters, parents found sons. In half a second the mob surrounded us, I saw my husband turn around to motion to one of his soldiers, and then he was gone and I felt like I couldn't breathe. "Where WAS he?" In the path between us that had been empty instants before were hundreds of families embracing, running, crying, cheering, laughing, smiling, kissing and I couldn't see my soldier. Desperately my eyes darted left, right, left, right. I couldn't see anything. I don't know if I could even process. He was gone.


And just like it happened the time before, my short, short body was standing on the bleachers looking left, scanning the crowd but not seeing anything that I wanted to see, when I heard it on my right, "You looking for me?" and there he was. 


There are no words. There are hundreds of tears, thousands of goosebumps, but there are no words.

To see our children hug their daddy. To see him kiss them. To see him hold them. To hear Logan yell, "Daddy!" and Eli softly say "Da-da" over and over again are incomparable to any joy I have ever felt in my life.

To kiss him. To see him. To know that he is here.

There are no words.

I have him. He's mine. He is safe. He is alive. My baby boys get their daddy back.

There are no words.

There are only tears. Hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of the most beautiful tears.

My husband is home. Thank you, Lord, for keeping him safe. Thank you, Lord, for giving him back to me. Thank you, God, for giving the grace for the journey. Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, God.

"Boots on the ground" - on this ground, on American soil.

There are no words.

No words but Welcome Home.

Nesting

I have decided that Sunday is my laundry day. Well, I didn't really decide - it has just happened that way since we moved. I have never done all my laundry on one day before but now I guess I do. And this Sunday was definitely laundry day. 4 loads when it was all said and done. It was also a baking day. I baked a total of 16 dozen cookies. 8 dozen of which were from-scratch-M&M-cookies but all for the returning single soldiers' barracks. When the boys were napping, and the laundry machines were going, I took on the garage. The insane, horrible disorganization that was the remainder of a very badly packed move. And I did it. I opened every box. I sorted, I tossed, I put aside donations, I marked items for a garage sale, I unpacked and consolidated, unwrapped and put away. I lifted a very large, very heavy, seven-foot, artificial Christmas tree onto a very high storage shelf and didn't get injured in the process. I broke down boxes; I sorted packing paper to be recycled. I finally found my bathroom rugs in a box labeled "Candles". 


I started to pin a potential slipcover.


I finished painting the garage-sale-find-dresser for the boys room and went out to set up the pool for my boys. I pruned my flowers and made an arrangement with the fresh cuts. I cooked dinner and then we headed to LOWE'S. 


I bought more paint : ) ... and tape, and rollers, and brushes ... 


And - get this - I did it without any coffee.


I guess you could say I'm nesting. The week before Eli was born, I was on my hands and knees scrubbing grout lines with a cleaner and a toothbrush until C insisted he take over. I didn't nest with Logan. It's hard to nest when you aren't allowed out of bed. But I am most certainly nesting now.

I want things to be perfect. For the house to be done. For it all to be put away. For every little thing to be put in place. Perfect. Because I want things to be "home" when he walks through this door.

And then it hit me. It will be perfect - no matter what I do and don't finish - it will be perfect. Because he will walk through the door. And all the rest will follow.

I can slow down.

Because we will build a home as we go. And if I don't paint the rest before, he'll paint with me - because he knows how much it means to me. If I don't finish my slipcover before he walks through that door I will while he takes our boys to the park or brings them to look at the tanks around post. I don't have to decide which fabric to make curtains out of right now because I can ask him his opinion in just a few days. (Which he will roll his eyes at).

These things can wait.

But again, I'm nesting.

And C did have to physically take that toothbrush out of hand and pull me up off the bathroom floor the last time.

It can wait. Really. But then again ...

Where's that blue painter's tape? I may just start taping off the trim in my room ...

The "Safe" Zone

(I wrote this a while ago. I didn't want to put anything out there until everything was 'concluded'. The memorial for these soldiers was held yesterday in Afghanistan. C was one of the leaders who planned it.)

I woke up with that feeling - you know - that feeling. The pit in your stomach, the truly-feel-sick-but-you-know-you-aren't-feeling. I tried my best to brush it off, to ignore it. When that didn't work I tried rationalizing.


Just a few more weeks. We just have a few more weeks. They're in transition. No reason to worry. We are almost there. Just a few more weeks. Transition. They're in transition. He's okay.


I stared at the "Welcome Home, Daddy" banner sitting by my front door, flattening out. The feeling was going away. I wasn't thinking about how he usually calls by now. He was busy, just busy. I was feeling better, I had won the mind-battle ... and then I turned on the news.


"Bloodiest Day" the headline said, "At least seven troops killed." I felt nauseous. 


Where, Where, Where, Where, WHERE? 


Like the news could hear me, the announcer said, "Kandahar." I nearly threw up.


Several hours later I heard from my soldier.

"It is so good to hear your voice. I had the worse feeling ... " 


"I know them, babe. I work with them. I can't talk about it. I just ... I ... I love you." The tears were starting to roll down my face. 


This feeling has not left me because it wasn't my soldier - but it was another wife's, another mother's, another child's. And we are at the end. We are in the mental "safe zone" - or at least I thought we were. And I can't stop breaking for these families. These families whose soldiers either just got there or were just about to come home. I can't stop crying.

I can't help but feel guilty. I am so incredibly grateful that it wasn't him but that isn't fair either. Because it was someone's everything. It was someone's partner on the journey. It wasn't mine and I have to thank God for that - but that seems so wrong. There is so much guilt. I can't help but want so badly to take away this pain. Because it just doesn't seem fair. It is never fair.

Right now someone is hearing the doorbell and I feel so broken. Their world is about to change and they don't know it. I can't even process because we are at the end. The end and we lost these heroes.

They are not forgotten. They will never be forgotten.  Remember them. Remember their families.

Quiet

For the third time I peek my head into the boys’ room. For the third time I bring the covers back up over their little bodies. For the third time I listen to their steady breathing. For the third time I return to my room and climb into my own bed and pull up my own sheets.

It’s quiet.

The last time I slept in this bed, Eli was two months shy of arriving. Logan was still sleeping in a crib. C was about to finish up at Benning. It was winter – a week from Christmas. And not this past Christmas but the one before. The last time I slept in this bed he was very much here.

I don’t like our bedroom furniture (it’s okay – my husband knows). It’s very nice, very good furniture, but it was my give. I don’t like hard, modern lines – nor do I like soft mattresses – but C does and he needs better sleep in a shorter period of time so I gave in when it came to each of these pieces.

It has been a lifetime since I last saw them. It feels strange to be in this new room, surrounded by things that are so very much him and for him to not be here. I keep rolling because I keep sinking into this far-too-soft-for-me-mattress. When he is here I don’t sink – his arms hold me up. And, Lord, do I miss him holding me.

It’s so quiet.

It’s much too quiet.

I just want to hear him breathe.

Not Daddy

Children are amazing.

The things they hold onto, the things they remember, how well they can process certain moments is amazing.

I don’t know why I didn’t expect it. I should have expected it. But I honestly didn’t think he would remember. He was barely two when we left here. But he knew it. The instant we drove up to the gate he knew it.

“Daddy?!” he asked – his voice rising on the “dy?” He knew this place was where his daddy should be. I rolled down the back window with mine so he could see the MP checking my ID.

“Not Daddy,” he stated simply, shaking his head. There was no sadness or disappointment, just acknowledgement that that soldier did not belong to him. I looked in my rearview mirror to watch him as he poked his head around with his neck stretched out looking, “Daddy? Where are you?” I rolled up the windows and pulled into post.

He looked for him when we went into the housing office. He even went up to a soldier and pulled the leg of his pant. The soldier looked down and smiled, said, “Hey, buddy.”

Logan let go. “Not Daddy,” he said shaking his head and searching for him again. He just “knew” he was going to find him. “Daddy? Daddy? Where are you?” he kept asking as he poked his face into doorways and looked behind counters. Never getting upset, never showing the slightest disappointment but never giving up.

As I strapped him back into his car seat and pulled the chest strap higher he asked me, “Mommy?”

“Yes, bug-ah?

“Where’d Daddy go?” My heart sank.

I have done my best to not say C went “to work” because I do not want him to associate that simple phrase with this kind of separation. But he has never asked me the question so directly. He has never looked straight up at me with his big brown eyes that are the same color as his daddy’s and asked me without anger or sadness where he had gone. He had never asked this question (that he had asked a hundred times) in this way – like he just needed to know why every soldier he saw today was “not Daddy.” What could I tell him?

“Daddy is in Afghanistan, baby boy.”

“Atgamininstan?” he repeated.

“Yes, Logan, Afghanistan.”

“Oh.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay.  Daddy in Atgamininstan.” He thought a moment.

“Mommy?” the same high pitch at the end.

“Yes, bug-ah?”

“Daddy coming home?”

“Yes, baby. Daddy’s coming home real soon.”

Another soldier got out of the car beside us. “Nope, not Daddy,” he said again. “Daddy in Atgamininstan.”

Children really are amazing. There is so much beauty within their hearts.

---------------------------------------------

How do you answer the “Where is daddy/mommy” question for your children?

That Day

For every one of us there is that day. The day when we break. The day when we go to wipe off our makeup at night and there isn’t any left. We have cried it all away. The day when nothing works the way it is supposed to, nothing arrives the day it is scheduled, nothing lets up along the way.

Today was that day.

When it was done I didn’t have anything left. My body hurt. My eyes ached. My lips were dry. I didn’t have any moisture left in my body.

And then he called.

This day was not over. The crying was not finished. I listened and I nodded my head and I took in what he said and I told him how much I loved him and that it was okay.  It wasn’t his fault. Because I could handle this one last bit of bad news. I could find the strength. Until -

Static.

“Baby, you there?”

BANG! BANG!

“C?! C?! You there??”

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Baby??  (BANG!) Baby? (BANG! BANG!) Answer me!!!”

Silence.

I stared at my phone in my hand. I stared at the call list. I stared without speaking for a moment. And then I started:

“Please, call back. Please, call back. Please, call back. Please, call back. Oh God, please call back. Please, call back. Please, call back. Jesus Lord, please, call back. Please, call back. Please, call back. Please, call back. Please, call back. Please, call back. God, no, no, no, no, NO, please, call back. Please, call back. Please, call back. Please, call back. Please, Please, Please, Please, call back. Jesus, please. Please, call back. No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, Lord, please, no. Please, call back. Please, call back. Please, please, please, please call back. Please, please, Lord, please.”

And then he did.

We don’t know what happened to the phone. We don’t know what caused that horrible, horrible sound. We don’t know why it would happen like that. But I do know that those seconds were the most terrifying moments of my life. I do know that seeing that six-digit number pop up on the screen I wouldn’t stop staring at was not enough to take away that heart-destroying fear. I do know that his voice was the most precious thing in the world to me when he said, “Baby, I’m here.”

I know that today was the hardest day I have ever experienced. Harder than when he deployed both times, harder than when he left after R&R both times, harder than seeing that wonderful man tell his baby boys goodbye time and time again. Harder than him leaving me in the hospital two days after Eli was born. Harder than watching Logan scream out the side door as we drove to the airport. Harder than any instant of my existence.

Because today for the first time in my life I thought my husband was dead.

And I thought I heard it happen.

My body will not stop shaking.

I have never known such fear.

Who He's Running To

"Da-da!" Eli yells with his arms stretched in front of him and his tiny feet racing to the front door. "Da-da" he says again with his arms now reaching straight up, pleading to be picked up and hugged and loved. He picks him up with just as much excitement as this one-year-old has shown. It's an adorable moment - so very sweet - so much love, so much admiration, so much joy when he walks in from work. Tears fill my eyes as I witness it all because there is one small problem: The man walking in the door isn't Eli's Daddy, he's mine. 


When C first left again after R&R, Eli said "Da-da" every time a door opened. No matter what he was doing, he whipped his head around and headed to that door his sweet, little voice calling for "da-da" the entire way.

I cannot explain how fortunate I am to have a father who is so beautifully in love with his grandchildren. He is so involved, so supportive, so amazingly hands-on it has made these last several months far easier than they could have been. I am blessed - amazingly blessed to have the great support of my parents during this trial along the way.

We all quietly ignore it when Eli calls my dad "da-da" (maybe responding "Poppa, baby, Poppa") and wildly praise him when he calls C the same. 'Yes, you love your daddy," my dad usually responds, or "Yes, your Daddy misses you." Eli knows his daddy. I know he knows his daddy. I know because he calls out to him when Skype is up and because he recognizes him in pictures and because his face beams when he hears his voice on the phone. 


I know he knows his daddy because I have done everything I can possibly think of to keep C here. To raise this child to know this man, to know his love, to know how very much he wants to hold him. I know he knows his daddy because that is my final prayer every night - a desperate, determined prayer. It's what I strive for, it's what pushes me.

It is my biggest fear, my greatest hope, my most fervent prayer - that these children get to always know their daddy.

So I am holding on to what is to come to get me through today. Because in a short amount of time that boy will drop his toys and jump to his feet when that key turns in the door. His tiny feet will try to keep stride with his brother's as he barrels forward with waiting arms and a glowing smile - his tiny hands pinching empty air as his knees bend up and down, just waiting to be love. And his little voice will say it, "Da-Da!" as those strong arms lift him from his sandy boots up to his chest and they will return that unconditional, innocent love that this precious child needs. And this time the tears will sit in my eyes again, because this time it will finally be the one he's been running to.

The Good

I don't think it will surprise anyone that I have had a rough several days. We have gone through a goodbye and everything that goes with it. Since we are getting prepped for a move, the "after" the goodbye included packing up his clothes, his shoes, his everything. He will not be coming back to this house when he comes home. I haven't taken his soap out of the shower - not sure why, just haven't. I went through one of those horrible "feeling in your gut" moments that seemed to last forever rather than two days. I watched C kiss his children goodbye, again. There is nothing harder than to see a father kiss his children goodbye.

I have been trying to find the good - to find the positive to write about. I don't like to share so much sadness at once. The heartache is real and I believe it is important to share but I don't like how much I put out there back to back. But this is, after all, one of the most heartbreaking times along this journey. I was waiting on one of those moments that inspire me to write - waiting for the ah-ha! Waiting for the "this will do good" moment. I was waiting for something BIG so I didn't notice how wonderful the small things have been.

"Codorato?" He repeated, questioning the word. "Daddy in Codorato?" He asked as I explained what the large box of bubble wrap was for.


"Yes, bug-ah. We'll see Daddy in Colorado. They have snow remember?"


"Snow!" He loves snow. "Eli in Codorato?" 


"Yes, Eli is coming to Colorado, too."


"Yay, Eli!"


It doesn't take much for a child ... 


Logan talks about C all the time. He gets excited about pictures. Eli responds to pictures. He calls him "Da-da." My children are doing okay - and maybe I haven't thought about it because there hasn't been any big moments. But that is a BIG deal.

Logan looked for him the first morning after he left - but he did okay when he didn't find him. Logan has gone right back to hugging his Daddy-Teddy and tucking him in at night. Logan has done great - talking about him, saying he misses him but not having a melt-down.

I have overlooked the resiliency of this child - the perfect innocence that has adjusted amazingly for this last bit of separation. I have overlooked the extra hugs he has given me because he has picked up on how broken I have felt. I have overlooked him crawling in bed with me to cuddle. I have overlooked that a just-turned-three-year-old has comforted his mother the only way he knows how. I have overlooked how much he has tried to help with his little brother. I overlooked the good - the young, sweet, genuine good - in my little boy.

I have been waiting for the melt-down - waiting for more of the bad. Waiting for our son to crumble to pieces. Waiting to become completely broken. I have been so scared of that moment - that I haven't been able to see all the rest.

That moment may still come. And if it does I will be ready - not because I have dreaded it but because I have chosen to move forward. Chosen to gain strength for the journey. To be prepared by continuing to thrive, continuing to push through, continuing to live.

My son healed me with his innocent heart - with his incredible determination to keep going. To move forward. To help. It is amazing what children can sense - what they figure out from our actions and our moods.

I found the good ...

in a three-year-old. : )

The Doorbell

Through all the training my husband has had - every course, every class, every airplane he has jumped out of - there is one that was the most difficult. Not all soldiers receive it - very few do actually. No one asks for it. There is no patch or tab or pin that you can add to your uniform for it. There is nothing that signals to those who see your uniform that you know how to perform this task. There is nothing that you "earn" through it. I know that my husband would give anything to not know what he learned from this class.

My husband has been trained as a CNO and a CAO. For those who don't know what those horrible letters stand for they are: Casualty Notification Officer and Casualty Assistance Officer. He is trained to both inform a family of the death of their soldier and to help them through everything that follows. I cannot imagine the load those who have to do this carry.

My husband has never had to perform this duty. I thank God for that.

"I need you to talk me down," my 1 a.m. text message read. "If you are awake that is." I needed my best friend to tell me what I already knew - but didn't know.


This was only the second time I had this feeling. But it wasn't making it hard to breathe this time around - it was making me physically sick. I felt like I had been punched in my gut and had regained my breathe but couldn't quite stand up yet. I felt ill. I felt weak. I felt like I couldn't stand.


It was a course of events that made me feel that way - not JUST that I hadn't heard from him. But it was what he has said the only time I had talked to him since he returned to Afghanistan. "Things are strange here. I don't know quite what is going on ... I'll call you when I wake up."


He said other things that made me uneasy but that I won't go into here. I could handle eight or so hours until he woke up to fill me in if he could. Just 8 hours of this confusion. 8 hours.


He didn't call. 


I emailed ... and emailed ... and emailed.


"Babe, you cannot say things like that on the phone and then not contact me. You just can't. I just need those two words. Let me know you're okay."


No response.


And then I let it happen - my mind wandered. I forgot how to reason - or my reasoning was just the worst kind. "If something would happen I would know. I know how this works. I know the process to a T. I know this. No, if something drastic happened no one could know for hours, maybe days. They are alone. Its different where they are. Something could have happened and I wouldn't know yet. It's possible that No One knows yet."


I took the boys and got out of the house. I didn't want to be there if my doorbell rang. I didn't want to know. I ran my errands, I went to a Starbucks completely out of the way. I circled the block before mine so that I didn't have to pull up and see a government vehicle in front of my house. I did anything to not be here. And when I was home I went upstairs, closed my door, and turned on the TV - anything that would make me not hear a doorbell. I fell asleep when the boys took naps. I hadn't slept at night and this seemed like a good time. I still felt sick.


"He's okay," I told myself. And then I decided to finally ask someone. I felt silly, I felt helpless, I didn't want to be the one who looked weak but I needed to gain a little sanity. I couldn't live like this. What if she answered no? What would happen then? I took a deep breath.


"Have you talked to your husband?" A simple message that to anyone else would seem innocent. To Army Wives we know why one asks.


Her reply was quick, thank God, I had forgotten to exhale, "Yep. No need to worry. He's okay. I'll tell mine to tell yours you want him to call." I could have averted all of this had I asked sooner. But I couldn't ask because I couldn't handle the other response. 


Instead I wasted a day and a half avoiding the doorbell.


When my husband was on CNO/CAO duty I would pray that he would not receive a call. I prayed that he never had to be that person - that he never had to ring a doorbell. That no soldier would lose his life - as I always pray. That he never had to be the image that we all have nightmares about. I prayed the entire week(s) he was on the rotation. I didn't want him to carry that. How could he carry that? How does anyone carry that?

We dread the doorbell - more than anyone else will ever understand.

Nothing Left

"Daddy? Where are you, Daddy?" He was in the closet now - searching for him. "Daddy?" He kept walking around the room - next into the bathroom. He leaned around the shower curtain, "Daddy? Where did you go? Daddy?"


I couldn't cry anymore.

"I don't think we should take the boys to the airport" he had said. Relief flooded my body. The image I had developed in my head of Logan giving the fight of his life to keep his daddy with him haunted me the night before. How could I get through that? How could C get through that? The tears instantly started streaming. 


I cried all morning. I cried more than I have ever cried on a day like today. I cried when he tied his boots. I cried when he kissed Eli goodbye. I cried when my mom held Logan back while we got in the car for the airport. I cried when they gave him his boarding pass. I cried when the attendant upgraded him to first class. I cried when she gave the slightest wink and an understanding smile. I cried when I saw the plane come to the gate. I cried when he decided to keep his ring with him. I cried when they called First Class passengers. I cried as he walked through the line. I cried when I saw people staring. I cried when I couldn't see him anymore. I cried when a wonderful stranger was also crying and then when she gave me a hug and still when she asked his name so she could pray.

I cried when my mom called to see if he was gone. I cried while I waited for the plane to leave. I cried as I walked back. I cried when I made eye-contact with the same workers who had watched us walk in together and now watched me walk away alone. I cried when Eli kept saying "Da-da" throughout the day. I cried when I laid Logan down to bed and handed him his Daddy-Teddy. I cried myself to sleep.

I have never cried this much. I have always been good to barely cry in front of him. I have always been able to find a way to hold it back. I have no tears left now.

For whatever reason - this time was harder. For whatever reason - this one hurt a little deeper. For whatever reason - I could not stop the tears.

Come home safe, C. See you soon.

Tomorrow

(Again, this has been posted well after the fact.)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------


I listen to the steady breathing that only accompanies the deepest of sleep. I watch the wave of his body slowly rising and falling beneath the white comforter. Slowly - up and down. Up and down. I just barely feel the slightest change in the mattress with each small movement of his chest.


There will be no sleep for me tonight. 

How quickly this time has passed through my hands. How quickly this last night came to be. How quickly were we here again. The waiting for the end - or the beginning - or whatever it is.

How quickly.

And I know to be grateful for this time. I am so deeply grateful that I was able to hold him and to have him hold me. That our children were able to make memories with their father. That my little, little boy walked to him time and time again, arms raised, saying "Da-Da." That for a small time any night I had a nightmare I could wake up, reach out for him, and have him be there. To not reach for air. To reach for skin and to find it. I am so heart-fully thankful.

But tomorrow I will watch this man kiss his children good-bye - children that have a much different understanding of what this is than they did a lifetime ago. Tomorrow my days-shy-of-being-three-year-old will understand what it means when his daddy walks away from him. Tomorrow strangers I will never know will watch one of the hardest moments of our lives and not understand. Tomorrow I will see the pain in the face of the strongest man I will ever know as he turns from his children and from his wife. Tomorrow I will not be able to make my Logan understand why his Daddy won't let him follow. Tomorrow I will hold onto my sons with every strength that is left within me. Tomorrow this man will take the ring from his finger and place it into my hand leaving me to carry both. Tomorrow will break our hearts.

... Breathe ...

God, give me grace.

Tomorrow is here.

Father Time

When did this happen? When did we get to "just a few more days"? When did time begin to pass again? Slow down ... SLOW down! Please, I'll do anything. I'll BE anything. I'll do more, I'll help more, I'll pray more if only You will slow this time down. 


And I don't know how it got here. Last week seems so far away - everything we did. Every excited moment, every happy smile, every special gift seems so far away. A lifetime away. Just one week ago is a lifetime away.

Suddenly we are moving too fast, suddenly we are clinging onto these moments, gripping, trying to hold them back. Trying to keep them from moving forward. Trying to hold onto the tiniest seconds. Because I only get to wake up next to him for a few more days. Because I only get to hear him talk our children to sleep for a few more days. Because I only get to see Eli walk to him for a few more days. Because I only get to hear Logan say, "Come on, Daddy" for a few more days. Because I only get to know he is safe for a few more days. Because I only get to "know" things for a few more days.

Days that will turn into hours. Hours that will turn into minutes. Minutes that will turn into seconds. Seconds that will turn into instants. Instants that will turn into nothing.

Just a few more days.

Father Time, I'll do anything.

Anything.

Just slow it down.

On the Homefront - Guest Post by Adrienne

Adrienne Stravitsch is a proud Army wife, who's husband is currently deployed.  She is the mother to a very energetic sixteen month girl, and loves every second of it.  Together, she and her little battle buddy are holding down the homefront until their Soldier comes home. She blogs at Fun Size.

As I stood on the brink, in the midst of the boxes, camo bags, groceries and general mess, the reality of it all would grab me in the gut.  Fear of living without him, of losing him, of losing connection with him.  Anger at him leaving, being so brave, and feeling so insecure.  I was terrified at the prospect of not just surviving life without him for a year, but living life without him for a year.  Of living life joyfully.  Truly, this seemed impossible.  Living life without my husband and enjoying it seemed impossible. 

But, we are doing it!  This morning, I sit here with my cup of coffee, not just content but truly happy.  He's not home, but I have a fantastic husband fighting a fight that not many can.  Though she missed her Daddy terribly, I have a beautiful daughter, with whom I've been given a chance to bond in a way I wouldn't have.  Together, she and I fight together.  Who knew a sixteen month old could bring me such comfort, love, and security?  Though it takes longer to clean and keep up, I have a stable home full of fond memories with my husband and our child. 

I have realized that happiness doesn't depend on someone else.  Happiness is not my husband, not a clean house, not stability, structure, and schedule.  Happiness lies not in a cooked meal set on the table, steaming hot.  Happiness does not disappear when the husband leaves, when the daughter struggles to understand why her father vanished. 

Happiness lies in you.

Every morning, when my alarm pierces the air, I have a decision to make.  I can wallow in self-pity and remain in bed.  I can pull the sheets over my head and cry about the empty space next to me.  I can be miserable and mourn my husband's absence. 

Or, I can decide to be happy.  When my alarm pierces the air, I can choose to be giddy about waking my daughter, get excited about sharing precious and intimate moments shared with her while the early morning sun creeps into the kitchen.  I can focus on the sound of the coffee brewing, the dates with friends, the Skype-calls with my husband.  I can garner strength from the many prayers being said for our family.  I can focus on the structure we've carefully and consciously constructed on the Homefront. 

No, happiness, I have learned, does not lie in foreign things.  We pull the happiness from ourselves, especially as military wives.  We choose to reach deep down inside of ourselves, even in the dark moments when we miss the call, appliances begin shutting down, or the R&R gets pushed way back.  We decide to reach down, and we pull out the happiness.  We shift our perspectives, and force ourselves to focus on what we do have.  Because, when we shift that perspective, though initially painful, we are winning our fight. 

This morning, I choose to focus on the amazing and heroic courage my husband has in fighting a war far from his family.  I choose to focus on how this incredibly difficult lifestyle has not destroyed our relationship but, thank God, has brought us closer.  Taught me humility, patience, courage.  I choose to focus on having learned incredible flexibility in life's twists and turns.  I choose to revel in our beautiful family, my daughter, the laughs and intimate conversations shared over Skype.  I choose to find joy in my daughter still loving her Daddy, even if he is not home right now. 

Here, on this Homefront, we are not merely surviving.  We are living.  Living Joyfully.  Because that is what we choose to do.