To Love Enough

I don't think there is a military spouse among us that hasn't heard the words, "Oh, I could never do that!" 

I don't think there is a military spouse among us who has never at the very least thought, "This, this is too much."

For a generation that far too often ignores limits, who so, so often believes and strives to do the impossible, I find it is those who are of my generation who are the first to shake their heads and say they could never do what I do. 

They they could never do what we do when we commit and marry a man or woman who serves.

I was one of the many who shake their heads and say, "No, I could never." 

I was raised in a family where marriage is finite. Where that commitment is a commitment. A sacrament. Holy. From above. Sacred. To be protected and nurtured and worked through. That that love must be and will be enough.

There was a time when I honestly thought something must be wrong with women who went a year at a time (or more) without seeing their spouse. I thought their marriages must be weak. That their love must not be truest. I didn't understand how a man could love a family that he would so "readily" leave. I didn't think that a military marriage could hold the values of marriage I was raised on. I didn't think that the two could exist in one. 

Lord, how you humbled me.

I know that there are people who look in from the outside and think what I thought. I know the friends and strangers who say the words, "I could never do that," are not necessarily saying them for the reasons I would in the past. I know that we don't ever get to feel the full extent of what someone else feels, to know what they know, to live how they live.

But for every woman that has looked at me and said, "I could never," I will tell you that you can.

For every new spouse that has said that farewell for the first time, I will tell you, you will make it through.

For every mother struggling to raise that new baby without her partner, or juggle and balance and keep the other parent present, I will tell you, you are able.

You can love across borders. You can love across war zones. You can love through IED's, and mortars, and patrols, and trainings, and road-side bombs, and nights alone, and black-outs, and fears and dread and tear-soaked pillows.

You can love enough to hold the hand of your partner as he writes out his will. You can sit beside him as his abled-body directs his funeral. You can love enough to hold the hand of a friend while you push through labor with out your husband. You can love enough to clap with all your might and simply let the tears roll while watching your first baby take his first steps without daddy there to cheer. You can hold your child back when his hero walks away. You can hold that little body as he kicks and screams and holds out his hands wanting nothing more in the world than for that man walking away to run back to him.

You can hold your little one to your chest when he wakes from a nightmare and all he asks is "why?" You can hold him, and rub his hair, and squeeze him to your heart without uttering a word. You can  freeze and say a prayer when that notification vehicle rolls down your street. You can hold your breath and then fall to the ground with that relief. You can struggle with the guilt and the gratitude and the confusion and the sorrow.

You can hold enough love to blanket your children with the love of two. You can cry enough tears to wash your pain away. You can scream and punch pillows and get back up and continue on. You can wait. You can live fully.

You can live through this day and the next and the next.

You can love enough to let him walk away. You can love him enough to hold your tears. You can love him enough to not allow resentment. You can love enough to love this nation as he does. You can love enough to understand that there are somethings you never will.

You can love enough to love completely. You can give enough to make you whole. You are able to live this life. You are given grace when you live with faith. You are given the promise that you can endure all that threatens.

You are placed where you are placed because you are able to thrive - you are able to do the most good. You are able to grow. You are able to love.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 

Love never fails." 

(1 Corinthians 13:4-8)

Positive Turns

I never thought I would enjoy teaching. 

I really, really thought I would hate it. I didn't think I would be any good at it. I thought I would teach my first class and I would walk away from it. 

I didn't think I would love it. 

And I really, really do. 

In the last class I taught at ACS last week, we had all the students/volunteers introduce themselves, let us know where they were from, tell us what their FRG experiences had been like. I stood in the front with a fellow instructor with twenty-seven-years in, still an active-duty spouse, and we listened to the different paths, the different stories, different experiences.

Almost every person in that class was taking it because they felt that something "wasn't right" in their current FRG, or it was broken, or their experience had been so poor before. I couldn't help but think how much that takes of a person to look at something that is broken, that in some cases has done harm, and to choose to be part of the team that rebuilds. To take that initiative. To say "this stops here." "This changes now." "I am part of the positive turn."

That is what is incredible about military spouses. That is what makes us strong, what makes our community strong. 

When something is broken, we fix it. When something is hurting, we heal it. We don't wait for someone else to step up, for someone else to demand a change. We choose to become part of the positive change, part of the greater good.

So much of this life - of any life - is about being the one who steps forward, who says, "This isn't right," "We can do better."So much of this life is about acting now, becoming part of the positive in this moment, creating healing and goodness today.

It isn't about waiting for someone else.

Our soldiers didn't wait for someone else to step up.

They chose to be part of something great.

The women (and one man) in this class chose to embrace the life, to not be beaten down by previous, negative experiences. They took the broken bits and chose to try to fix them. That takes courage. That takes faith. It takes goodness and strength and determination. 

To believe in good, to strive for good, after living through bad should be applauded and fostered and encouraged. 

It was heartwarming and reinvigorating to see so many people ready to be part of the positive. 

I now understand why people teach for their lifetimes, why people put up with the behind the scenes paperwork and administrative. I understand why people give so much of themselves in a classroom. You get to be part of fostering that goodness. You witness determination. You can see the resolve in people to keep pushing, to keep thriving. You see the spark catching.

It's remarkable. It's breathtaking. It's empowering. 

You choose what you do with any situation. You choose what you take part in and what you step away from. You may never know how much good you do, but you always choose how much good you don't. 

You can choose goodness each day. EVERY day you get to decide. Thrive or sit back. Fix something or let it sit idle, or continue to break, or continue to do harm. Become part of the positive or wait for someone else to.

It really is amazing when you really get to thinking.

You decide when and where good exists. That tiny spark is waiting. You get to choose. Goodness spreads. 

Go ahead, set the world on fire. 

What's in an Age

I had a birthday a couple of weeks ago. I have never been big on birthdays. I don't dislike them, I just don't go crazy over them. But over the last month-and-a-half people have been trying to guess my age. For a very long time, I have preferred for people not to know. When I took a job in our first Army home state, it was in my job agreement that people would not know my age unless I chose to tell them. Weird, I know. 

I am younger than C. 

Throws people off all the time.

In three jobs I have had, I have been younger than most of the people I supervised.

It has always just been that way. 

I worked full-time through college. I sat on conference calls in the hallways between classes. I switched from jeans and t's to heels and skirts in the Lockett restroom at LSU. My bed was covered in literary theory and floorset/merchandising pages. 

To many people, I married young. And for my generation, yes, I did. To most of my old friends who are just getting married and just having kiddos, I was a young mom. And I was. For today, I guess I still am.

 I was talking to a newer Army wife last night who entered this life at the same age I did. Who was and is a "young wife". Whose friends are still very much living their youth, and extending their college lifestyle, and who worry about how to pay the $175 for the shoes they "have to have" rather than worrying over how you will hold your husband's hand as he fills out the paperwork directing his last will and wishes. 

This life ages you.

I am twenty-seven-years-old. 

You have no idea how hard it is for me to type that. I feel old but at the same time I don't. I cannot tell you how many times I have been reminded by some spouses in this life - or outside of this life - that I was only "twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five."That I had no idea what was ahead. That I was "too young" to know.

 I worry how many people will now take less value in what I say. How many people will question if my experience can really be what it has been. Because I married young. I had kiddos young. And to so many people - so many Army wives - people write others off too quickly because of the numerical age.

I have moved four times - so far - in this life. I have lived in four states - so far - in this life. I have lived through two deployments with another approaching. I have lived the emotional roller coster of a deployment that didn't come. I have watched my husband grieve for fallen comrades while at home. I stood behind him as he held the hand of the mother of the friend who took his place. Who didn't come home. Who could have been C. I have struggled through that guilt. I have watched my partner fight through that. I have felt helpless, unable to take that pain. There are no words. I have watched careers change in an instant. I have watched women bring children into this world while daddies fought in a war. I have held a friend's leg while she welcomed her daughter, while she pushed surrounded by women, without her husband to coach her through. I have watched my husband kiss his new baby goodbye. I have watched daddies kiss their new babies for the first time - months after they were born. I have watched my Logan's arm tighten around C's neck - knowing, somehow always knowing. I have whispered the words, "Come back to me," through trembling lips and the softest tears. I have watched him walk away. I have recognized the fear. I have stood beside other spouses at a memorial while a four-year-old boy kissed the photo of his father set high behind a set of boots, a standing rifle, and an empty helmet. I have sat beside my husband while he dictated his funeral. I have listened as he discussed his pallbearers, his burial place.

That changes you.

I have waited for life changing news for myself, while my husband was six-thousand miles away. I have hidden testing, I have battled between what truths I should tell if my diagnosis had been different. If it had been what the fear was at the time. I have waited for a phone call that would change the life of our little Eli without C here. I have watched my husband struggle with leaving both of our boys in the hospital on two different occasions to return to duty. I have survived the nightmares. I have cried myself crazy in a kitchen after thinking I heard my husband being shot over a phone line. I have learned how to pray in great despair. I have learned what it is to be body-trembling-grateful. I have been humbled again and again. I have struggled with the guilt of thanking God for the saved life of my soldier while nearly being knocked over by the guilt of the same thought. I have feared the doorbell. I have lost my breath at the sight of my Logan wearing dog tags. I have felt the unspeakable joy of two homecomings for my C and seven for others. 

I have bought a car - negotiated a price, fought a finance manager to get what was fair. I have moved cross country during a deployment. I have made a temporary house into a home. 

I have waited. I have lived the vows. I have honored a man in a life that many cannot understand. I have stood against ignorance. I have done my part to help others to understand. I have fought for my soldier, for my family, and for the families that surround us. I have learned day in and day out how important grace is.

I have taken a path that no one understood - that I didn't understand - and have embraced it. 

That ages you. 

It sets you apart. It gives you experiences most will never have. It changes you.

You learn you are able. That you are strong. That you belong to something great.

You learn that your twenty-seven is not the same as another's. You learn to be amazed by what you have lived through. What you have survived. Where you have thrived.

Age is a number. One day I may learn to wear it as a badge of honor. I am twenty-seven and I have thrived through this much. I am twenty-seven and I have loved this completely. I am twenty-seven and I have learned that I am able, that there is no place He leads us that we are not meant for.

Age is a number. Just a number. 

What have you learned?
And how old did you think I was? ; ) 

Acceptance

Over the last two days I have been in and out of training to become an ACS (Army Community Services) instructor. A friend of mine (one of the coordinators) thought I would be a good person to "teach" Army families.

We'll see.

While looking through the section of the AFTB (Army Family Team Building) lessons I have to mock-teach tomorrow, I began questioning if this is something I can do. I have never been one that can be reigned in to a script, to follow directions step-by-step, to "stick-to-the-program". It's one of my weak spots. 

The topic I was given - on the surface - seems like a perfect one for me. It is all about helping new spouses best understand what expectations are realistic and unrealistic when entering into the military life. I could talk one-on-one with a new spouse about the subject from the first boom of the cannon at reveille to the final boom signaling retreat. 

But none of it would be in the script. 

One thing here and another there, but most of what I would want to say wouldn't be what the Army put in print. 

People enter into this life with all kinds of different expectations. I entered into this life full of the negative thoughts, the stereotypes engrained in my brain, the "when will this be over?", and "why do I have to give up what I want?" I didn't support the military. 

No really, I didn't.

I didn't understand the life, the choice, but, man, I thought I did. I thought I knew it all. 

Some spouses enter into the journey with rose-colored-glasses, taking Army Wives the show to be the "reality" of the life. Falling in love with the uniform and then falling flat on their faces when they realize the uniform eventually boards a plane, enters a war zone, can't be home for dinner, for birthdays, for anniversaries, for bad days, to change a flat tire, to hold your hand while you undergo childbirth. 

It doesn't matter if you started the journey from one of the extremes or anywhere in between. Where you begin does not determine where you end. 

Every opinion I held about the military and the life it leads has changed. Every single one.

My mindset, my outlook, my hope, my joy, my everything came from one moment.

The moment I recognized and accepted the reality of this life.

It isn't enough to recognize that your spouse has given a vow to a nation that directly conflicts with the vow he made to you. It isn't enough to realize that a country's priorities will belong above your own. It isn't enough to recognize that your husband is a soldier.

It isn't enough.

It isn't enough to understand that he won't be able to work nine to five. It isn't enough to recognize that his job is twenty-four hours a day, three-hundred-sixty-five days a year. It isn't enough to understand that he is at all times a soldier first. 

It isn't enough.

You have to accept that when duty calls, you come second. It's harsh. It's hurtful. It is hard to say but it is true. When duty calls he will go. 

You must accept that you married a person who serves. You must accept that you married a soldier. Who will leave you. Who will ask more of you than what is asked of most. Who will not be there for your hardest of days, for your loneliest of nights. Who will ask you to keep a family thriving while he leaves you behind. Who will expect you to honor the vows, to keep your promise, while he keeps the vow he first made to the nation. 

You must accept that you married a man who cannot always hold your hand. Who cannot always give you the answers you want to hear or the place to live you want to live. 

You married a man who can never turn off his job. Who can never stop the call from coming down. Who at times will have to tell you, "I can't be there." 

The moment you accept that he can say these things, that he can leave you, that he can put someone "else" first, and at the exact same time he is still loving you, and honoring you, and protecting you is the moment that you understand, that you are truly open to the remarkable journey. 

Our society continuously tells us to put ourselves first, to do what makes things easiest for us, for me, me, me. You belong to the one percent that chooses to put everyone else above themselves. Who values everyone else's freedoms and liberties above their own. To sacrifice the luxury of time together, and comfort, and ease so that others may keep it.

You have been called to serve the nation beside your soldier. To love him, to honor him, to support his mission. You serve by accepting the life, by finding the joy, and by thriving along the journey. 

Understand the reality you are facing - a terrifying, harsh, difficult calling - and accept that you have been called.

There is so much joy in knowing that you are fully capable of beating any odds stacked against you. You are fully capable of thriving through, of loving through.  

Acceptance is key and you are ready.

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The blog was nominated as a "Best U.S. Military Spouse Blog" for the 2012 MilBlog Conference. If you are a supporter of TLAS I would appreciate your vote! You can find the nomination on the first page.. A few other nominating comments have been left but they are being deleted as there aren't supposed to be multiple comments left for the same blog.

You can vote by giving a "thumbs up" next to the nomination left by Erin. Please share the link to the voting if you would like! Thank you all for all the support you have given me and the blog! This has been such an awe-filling experience. : )

VOTE HERE

Great Courage

You have heard me say before that we are placed where we are meant to be. That the way things happen are the way they are meant to. In the last week I have told myself these things again and again and again. 

And it isn't just during these several days that I have had to remind myself. It is not just with these uncertain changes that we all need to remind ourselves. It is anytime that an assignment comes up that we don't want, a location comes that we do not want, a job, or a unit, or a deployment, or a school, or a housing assignment, it goes on and on and on. 

The things that come up in our journeys that we do not want are the very things that can destroy it. The very things that take something from us that we don't get back. These are the very things that can put enough stress and strain on a marriage to end it.

How you face them, how you endure them, has everything to do with whether or not you survive them.

Whatever obstacle put before you exists to teach you who you are, what you can do. There is a purpose set within it.

The deployment C is facing makes my skin crawl. Speaking with another spouse today about the uncertainty surrounding it literally gave me continuous chills, goosebumps, my body was shaking. Everything about it makes me uncomfortable. 

But despite all of that, despite anything strangers tell me, or what I hear on the news, this deployment is going to happen. He will be leaving. I cannot change that. I cannot stop that from taking place. 

He will kiss us good-bye and board a plane with so much of what happens after that up in the air. Logan will have his first day of kindergarten without him present. Children will be born. Graduations will be missed. Loved ones will pass while they are away. Precious moments will happen and pass while they are not here. 

I can't change it. I can't stop it. 

These things will not go away.

But everyday until then and every day that follows after matters. Every day is given to us for a reason. Everyday is worthy of joy. Everyday is deserving of your whole heart, your complete self.

Every action that you take or do not serves a purpose, makes a difference along the journey. We are not promised to know the path ahead, to know when the rough spots will comes, to know how they will end. But you do choose how you make it through them.

It isn't always pretty. It won't be without tears. But there is another side to every hurdle, the simple reward of making it through, of not being beaten down by it waits on the other end. The strength that we gain is waiting.

This life takes your whole self. It takes every tiny, tiny speck that makes your character. It requires every ounce of courage God ever put in a woman.

And He made you the strongest of women. 

Whatever is looming ahead of you, whatever uncertainty, whatever fear, whatever obstacle, you are ABLE to live through it. You are ABLE to thrive through it, to learn from it, to gain strength in it.

Loving a soldier means letting him go with grace, holding his hand when there are no words, smiling through tears, trusting in the journey, and living every single day - apart or together. 

You are a woman of greatest courage. There are thousands just like you, thousands more who have lived through this, who have lived IN it, and have come out stronger. Thousands who were given this life because they were able to love through it. There are thousands more who will follow behind. 

Show them your joy.

Love that Lights the Sky

While sitting up in bed, with C miles and miles away, I came across something that spoke to me. It gave me chills.

Many military spouses that I have known and do know and will know have a way of thinking that I believe over time can wear on a marriage. The "I live this life, so you owe me." "I am still here, so you owe me." Or when we find out they will miss an anniversary or a valentine's day or a birthday some whip it out, "You owe me for this."

I get why some spit out the words. I get that sometimes it feels like we give so, SO much to and for our soldiers. And we do. Goodness, we do give much.

But at no time, in no instance, have I ever felt like C "owed" me. That I better get my due.

Because when I said the vows I swore to love him - even when love for country takes him from me. I swore to honor him - even when honor comes first. I promised to carry him, to stand beside him, to stick with him even in those tiny moments when for just a second, one tiny, tiny second I feel like I am doing it alone. 

I promised to give him all of me. To honor the vows. To thrive through this life. To love him and love him and love him in each moment, through the hard moments, through the lonely moments, the nights alone and the days that last forever. And I promised to never demand an "I owe you." He owes me nothing for my love and determination and gratitude and joy and hope and pride but to have the same love and respect and joy for and with me. And he does. 

He owes me nothing more for living the vows as he lives his vows to both me and to a nation. 

Never a "you owe me". Not once. Not ever.

Because great love between two, coupled to form one, makes for one incredible journey. It leaves no room for "you owe me's". No room for keeping score. 

Picture found on Pinterest.

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Preparing for the Mission

I got a peek at the next several months ahead of us today. You know how it is before a deployment. They are here but they aren't really here. They are training, preparing, tdy'ing (yes, I just made that a word), getting clearances, getting everything in order, etc. etc. They aren't here for much of the time that they are. 

I know how frustrating that can be. I know how much we think they should be with us when they are home. Of course we want them to be here when they are here. That only makes sense. 

But it isn't the reality. 

You have to understand that right now. That. is. not. reality. We live a life that is not just deployment/dwell, deployment/dwell. When they are away they are very much away, but when they are home they are not always 'home'. 

It is so easy to not realize that. There will be a day when your husband comes home and tells you he is leaving in a week for one month for a sudden assignment, and the month after that that he is "home" he will be training and planning training basically 24/7, and that the next month will be field time with only weekends home and so-on and so-on. And then, at the end of all this training, at the end of all this time apart while his boots have been very much on American soil, when all the preparation is done, those very same boots, those worn, high-laced boots will board a plane, fly to the other side of the world, and step foot into a desert. 

Pre-deployment is hard.

Pre-deployment is very, very hard. 

It is easy to become resentful. It is easy to argue that this is time that they need to be with their families most. And to a point, that's true. But, when those boots step off that plane, when those boots begin their mission, I want the man standing beside my soldier to be as well-prepared as possible, to be as well-trained as possible, to be as ready and as confident and as capable as one can be. I want these men to enter into their mission in the way that guarantees success. 

That means that there will be many, many weeks and months that take them from us to prepare. You cannot grow angry with them for that. Every training, every week-long period in the field, every night-fire, every month-long assignment away is one more step to help to ensure that they come home to you. They have to be ready for what they are about to enter into.

This is where it is so hard. It is one thing to accept a deployment. To accept that they aren't here when they aren't here. It is far easier to accept the sacrifice when you can't do anything - when you don't see another option -  but, to have to accept that when you see their clothes in the hamper, and their wet soap in the shower, and a half-eaten bowl of cereal on the table, to be able to smell them, to see the signs of their presence while hardly ever seeing them is harder than we dare to believe.

This is the job. This is the commitment. This is the sacrifice. We share part of ourselves with a nation.

They are at all times soldiers. They are at all times servants to their country. When they are home and when they are gone. They are always soldiers.

So when you hear those training dates, when you add up the days that they will be gone, look for that grace. Know that the preparation matters as much as the mission. Find comfort in knowing that the man beside you soldier, who will have his back, who will fight beside him, will be trained to do so.

Let go of any anger and resentment and frustration. He doesn't need that. You don't need that. Your children will pick up on it. Be with him when he is here. Love him when he is home; love him when he is not. You are strong enough for it. Your marriage is strong enough for it.

You are living this life because you are meant to. You are loving a soldier because you were made to. 

Take a deep breath when you hear those dates and see that schedule. Deep, deep breath. Pray for the safety of these men; pray for the strength you are going to need. If you ask for it, if you seek it, strength and grace will get you through. 

To Find a Way

I am very much of the mindset that we choose how we will respond to this life. No we cannot choose when deployments do and do not come. We can't choose where they go to, if they are in harms way or if they are support. No one consults us about not having a spouse around for the birth of a child, or the first year of life, or through potty-training, or through grad school, or undergrad. We do not get to call our spouse for support when we get a flat, or a pipe bursts, or there is a giant, unidentifiable insect climbing up our bedroom wall.

The world will begin to fall apart at times. Our lives will become more and more difficult as time passes. Any change in the plan - whether it's a deployment being extended or, yes, even shortened - these changes, challenges, can break us down, rattle the spirit, put into question our own resolve.

We have all lived through the moments; and if you haven't - you will. I think that may be the key to overcoming them - knowing they will come. Knowing that so much of this is a battle - a battle that so often just lies within ourselves. Recognizing our reality- understanding what this life requires - prepares us for what it will bring.

This life takes your whole heart - I mean in its entirety. The soft spots that allow us to love easily, to greet each other joyfully, to embrace each other, to hold one another in the harder moments. The parts that contract in and out, allowing us to adjust, to bid farewell, to begin again, to keep strength in and to allow it to venture out.  The worn parts that carry the heartache and the fear and the sadness - the parts that keep us feeling, that always seem like they cannot become anymore broken but somehow can just one more time. The places we always carry, quietly, heavily. The parts that can never leave us. That humble us. That come quickly forward and then just as quickly fade. Recalled again and again and again. There are the solid parts that hold our pride, hold the vows, hold the joy. The parts that we remind ourselves of when the darkness comes forward and the days get harder and the nights are long. Yes, it takes the whole heart.

It all makes up our strength, our armor. Everything that happens in this life can happen to or for us. We are victims or warriors. Every struggle is a moment for Grace. Every heartache, every moment they cannot be here for, brings us closer to the One who made us for this. Every moment that we survive - without distain for the separation, without anger towards a spouse who "chose a country over us" - every moment that we recognize something has been put there for a purpose - to help us to grow in love, in faith, in patience is a moment that we thrive. Sometimes we must find it on our own - sometimes we must allow someone else to grow by serving. Every obstacle we overcome, or struggle through, and sometimes even succumb to, adds to what our hearts hold.

How we love through this life has everything to do with how we respond to what it presents. There is always a choice, to flail or thrive, to be victimized or to overcome. Every moment has a purpose - every single moment.

This is a daily battle, a daily challenge, a daily life that always, always offers a choice.

It is never a question of "if" you can thrive through. I'm sorry, but it isn't. Asking that question sets you up to fail. It is always a question of "how".

All of us - all of us - can find a way.

Victim or Warrior

My mouth was hanging open as she told me about her first coffee experience. I couldn't believe how incredibly opposite hers was from mine. The wife she sat next to spent the entire time complaining about the Army, the brigade, the spouses, the volunteering, the moving, the commitments, the people, the everything. She looked lifeless. It was very clear that she hated this life. 


As D continued to tell me the events of the evening I was so grateful she has such a good outlook to start off in this life. That she came into it knowing the difficulties - or being aware that there were so many - and that she vowed to face them.  That she had a new husband who was dedicated and kind. They were going to be a good team. I know this young wife is going to make a difference in the lives of those around her and it made me so aggravated that this stranger had said such things. If this was any other new spouse, who knows how her reaction would have been. D let it roll - she knows better.


Over my few years in this life I have met so many different types of women. The quiet leaders - who are a constant - calm under pressure, giving gentle guidance when necessary. They can sometimes be misread as disengaged but I assure you they're not. They are watching. Taking it all in. Some of my best 'teachers' have been these types. There's the loudmouths. Okay, I'm a loudmouth. Who are always smiling, laughing, talking, talking, talking, talking, shaking hands, giving you info, asking questions, patting you on the back. We can be very intimidating in a different way. We mean well. You can laugh at us. We're probably used to it. My husband is the first to make fun of me for it. There are the "leaders" who don't really act like leaders. They hold a 'title' because of who their husband is but aren't committed. They aren't engaged. Stay calm - they probably have a right hand who is. There are those who hold a 'title' because of who they are married to and do care. Who have the right intention, who help because that is where their heart is, not because they 'have to' but because that is where they find their purpose.

I can tell you stories for hours and hours about the different people in this life. We are varied, some of us 'fit' into a category, some of us don't. Some of us change. Some of us remain constant. We come from every possible walk of life and that is just another part that makes this life so incredibly beautiful. The people.

When I was a child (okay, even as a teen, a bit) I played victim. The world seemed like it was against me in my mind. (I know my mom is nodding her head right now). "Mom! Nick locked me out of my room!" "Mom! Nick called me a conformist!" "Mom! Nick took my drink!" "MOM!' "Mom!" "MOM!" Yes, I was that child. I took every little thing to heart. Took everything as an offense. I was as whiny as they come. I was (and am) the middle of five. I still take an awful lot to heart. It's just how I am.

But I won't be a victim to this life.

It's easy to feel like the weight of the world is on your shoulders when your soldier deploys, or then have to move AGAIN, or you leave your hometown for his job. It is easy to hate that you can't find a job for yourself because his job will always take priority, his job makes you move every two to three years, his crazy, unpredictable hours make it impossible to plan for anything significant. It's simple to despise the fact that you don't know if you can make that family trip to the beach because you don't have a clue what his schedule will be like next year, next month, next week. It is easy to go crazy among the white walls that surround you because you don't want to hang pictures or paint or decorate because this isn't your "home" this isn't your "house." You aren't even your own person anymore, you're a dependent. Oh, how awful!

Tough love time.

You can feel that way if you want to. That's fine. It's your choice. Your life. But you aren't gonna make it. Sorry. But you won't. I have known many victims.

They are all divorced.

We all have times when we straight up hate parts of this life. There are parts of this life that I really, really have to fight through because I am fighting for my family. I said before that it breaks my heart that my boys will go to so many schools. It really, really brings me to tears thinking about it. But I can't let them see that or know that because that is my worry - not theirs. What they perceive from me is what they will take into their own little hearts.

If you believe in marriage, in your spouse, in bringing your children up to be happy, good, loving people you don't get to play victim. There is no room for that. We all fight the same battles, we all fear the same things, we all feel beaten down at times.

Moving all the time sucks. Deployments really, really suck. Having to make new friends is intimidating. Being the new girl is not easy. Transitioning your children is quite an undertaking.

But you get better at the moving. You get to redecorate all the time. Unpacking is sometimes like Christmas. Deployments make you stronger. They can strengthen your marriage if you work through it. Everyone else is just as scared of having to meet new people. Almost everyone is the new girl at the same time. Suck it up. You owe the best to your children. You brought them into this life. It is up to you how they view it. You children are always, always watching. They take in more than you realize. You are responsible. They didn't choose this - you did.

These things cannot become bigger than we are. No deployment is bigger than your marriage. No move is bigger than the love you have for your children. This is a battle - and I mean that in the strongest of ways. This a fight to live, to thrive, to make it through intact, together, stronger.

You have to fight for your marriage, for your children, for yourself because you don't get a do-over. This is it. Now or never. Sink or swim.

Victim or Warrior.

Pick one.

Which one are you?

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. ; )

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

What helps you to track time during a deployment?

When One Becomes Two

Military women are some of the strongest, most resilient, unyielding women you will ever come across. We take on double the load. We act as single parents while keeping the other parent "present". We fight to not just survive but to thrive. We cry the greatest tears, feel the deepest longing, pray the fiercest prayers and we make it through. We keep moving forward. We do what we have to do to build a strong family, to keep a strong marriage, to raise happy and loving children.

We take everything onto ourselves. We have no other choice but to be both parents, to make every decision, to live as independents while existing as a "co". When our soldier is gone, we learn how we need to do things independently in order to still do them well without our partner present. Once we find that ability we cling to it and it gets us through each and every day. 

Then they come home and everything shifts.

It isn't easy.

Because we are the strongest of women. We are determined women. We are (and have to be) women who can make it on their own. We decide where things are placed. We mow the lawn. We take out the trash. We discipline and reward our children. We determine the routine. We pay the bills, sign the loans, set up the cable, cancel the cable, set-up utilities, check the tire pressure. We teach our children what they can and cannot do, dry their tears, hold their hands, enforce the rules. And we have to. We have to do that for our families, for our babies, for ourselves. We have to take on both roles. We have to cling to that power and ability. For twelve months we have to be in control. It allows us to make it through. It allows us to succeed. 

When our soldier comes home, we have to find ourselves again. The "who I am" when one becomes two. It is  hard to get out of that "go" mode. That "this-is-the-way-I-said-it-is-going-to-be-so-this-is-the-way-it-is-going-to-happen" mode. We have to learn to discuss and decide together again rather than to just do. We have to become a unit again. We have to relinquish some control. We have to allow them to decide. We have to let them know they matter, that we need them.

It doesn't just happen. It is so important to realize that it can't just happen. We can't just shut-off survival mode. It isn't natural to let go of something so easily that is nowhere near easy to gain. It takes so much energy and determination to get us to that point. To just let it go, to just "forget" how to live that way cannot so easily come to be. It takes time. It takes patience.

When we marry we have to learn to go from being two to living as one. When our soldier returns we must relearn it again. 

We have to listen to each other. We have to talk to one another. We have to acknowledge that this is hard. This is the next part of the cycle. We will learn through this together. 

We are strong women married to brave men. And we must help each other through as one becomes two. 

The Grass is Always Greener ...

I have had a difficult time of letting go - of moving forward - and I never thought I would. Certain things have been so different from the ways I have been taught, and shown, and known things to work and to be handled.

Every duty station is different. Every unit is different. Every leader is different. 

And I have been struggling with the difference between my Army post now and my Army home that I knew so well before. Yes, I realize I didn't call this one an Army home because it isn't to me yet. I have been to the point of complete anger at how differently things have been handled, been brought to hot tears, been frustrated beyond words and it isn't like me. Things have happened in a way that disappoints me and discourages me. 

Yesterday I had a very good talk with a very good friend - a very, very well-seasoned spouse - who I have learned more from than most and who is currently on the other side of this country. She said a lot and she listened more. She made me laugh - as she always does - and she faced a certain reality with me.

I am here now.  

"No one is like the 101st. You just need to know that." Yes, yes, we are brainwashed but really ... I mean, duh ... she's right. ; ) (Can I get an "Air Assault"?)

"You'll fix it," she reassured me. 

And, yes, this was mostly a joke because she knows how much of a "fixer" I am but it really got me thinking. No unit is perfect. But some do better than others - and I don't mean one is tougher, or stronger, or one gives a louder "hooah".  I mean the people in them - the leaders, the civilian employees, the volunteers - can do a better job of communicating, promoting camaraderie,  building a "unit" within the unit. 

And I may not know how to fix everything - that isn't up to me - but there are parts that I will be able to control in the near future. There is an effort I can make and that I will make. I can take responsibility for what is around me and take everything that I have learned in my last real Army home and use it here - at my new one.

It will take patience. It will be a transition. It will be a bumpy road but I committed to serve in this life, to persevere, to thrive and to encourage those around me to do the same.  And I believe we all pass it along,  empowerment spreads, and by focusing on the little around you, you can influence the whole.

So I will stop looking back and holding on and criticizing. I am moving forward and holding onto the good to help me to do better, to serve better, to encourage.

No one said it was easy but this isn't anything that can hold me back.

To Serve

"Why?"

 She wanted to know how to answer this question. How many times have we all been asked this when someone finds out that our service member has chosen to reenlist or re-sign? How many times have people edged that question with disgust? How much does it hurt our hearts when we hear it? How many times do people ask why WE do it? How many times have we stood there with our jaws hanging open? How can anyone ask such a question? How can anyone not understand? How horrible that it is a such a foreign concept. How horrible that so many Americans think it is a pity, or unconscionable, or strange. How awful that the idea of service is something to be degraded. How incredibly sad.

Service.

This life that we lead is a life of service. Our soldiers serve in the greatest of ways. They serve a nation - a very great nation. They serve for our children; they serve for our children's children. They serve their parents, their spouses, their siblings, their friends. They serve strangers. They serve.

We serve.

I never mean to equate spouses to soldiers - I don't believe we are the same. I do not believe my sacrifice is greater than his but we do sacrifice, we do serve. Every day that our soldiers serve so do we.

We serve each other. We serve our families. We serve this nation. By building a strong family - a strong marriage - we build a strong military family. By forming a strong foundation for our spouse and family, we keep a strong foundation when he is away. We build a strong soldier. When we build strong soldiers, we build a strong force. When we build a strong force, we build a strong nation. We serve.

By empowering those around us we inspire them to empower others. When we reach out to one, we reach out to many. When we offer the tools for a strong foundation to one spouse, she builds a strong foundation for her family. She inspires those around her. She empowers others who share this journey.

And it continues.

We keep passing it on.

It isn't shameful or worthy of pity or questioning.

Thank you all for being a support for me, for serving with me, for empowering me, for encouraging me.

To serve is a humbling experience. To serve is an honorable experience. To serve is a blessing. The strength to do so will be provided when you are called to this life. The tools are given and He works through those that surround you to allow you to thrive. The hardest moments allow for the greatest grace.  Grace will be given for the journey. Find joy in it.

Always.

You will find it when you serve.

A House ... A Home

"You can paint?" she asked. I had checked into it when we decided to apply for post housing for the first time.


"Yes, I just have to paint everything back white before we move." She laughed. 


Trust me, I know how silly it sounds. Really, I do. 


I didn't paint our first house because we knew we wouldn't be there "forever." It took almost a year to really hang any pictures. Took almost two years for my husband and I to decide that mounting the TV to get it out of the reach of a toddler was worth patching the wall when we moved. I didn't plant flowers until the final spring we were in that house because what was the point of planting something I wouldn't enjoy when they got to bloom. I didn't turn the bonus room into much of anything until we were showing the house to rent. I didn't paint my first son's nursery because it was just going to be a "temporary" room.

We didn't build a fence. We didn't plant any trees. We barely did any landscaping. We didn't make that house a home - because it was temporary.

This time will be different.

I am going to paint. I am going to paint because for two years that post house is going to be my home. For two years my children will make memories in it and at some point scribble on the walls with a crayon that somehow wasn't in the drawer out of their reach. For two years I will invite people into my home - not a temporary place to stay. For two (maybe - crossing fingers -  three) years I will cook in that kitchen and watch my children's faces brighten as they turn on the Christmas lights strung along our painted walls and through the garland wrapped around our banister. For two to three years two little brothers will share toys and color and build a friendship in a decorated, painted room with pictures hung on the wall and airplanes hanging from the ceiling.

I will plant flowers that will bloom for the next family that makes this house their home.  I will plant flowers that will bloom for me and nurture flowers that will grow for them. I will make a welcoming entry for whatever spouse finds her way to my doorstep. I will take a cut of my mother-in-law's wisteria tree that was taken from her mother's house and plant it in the small yard and I will do it again every place that we go with the hopes that other's will do the same.

I will add color to our daily life, add our life to this house. I will take my time and my energy and turn just another house into another important part of our journey. I will make it ours while it is ours because all of the houses are temporary but the memories are not.

And what is so amazing about army wives and supportive parents is, even if they roll their eyes, even if they laugh at me too, they will take up a roll of blue tape and a paintbrush and a bucket (and maybe a glass of wine) and help to make a home with me.

Everything is temporary ... and I am going to paint!

One Percent

"So when he is home this next time, he's home for good." Its rarely a question - usually more of a statement. Like they understand, they get it. Or think they do.

"Yes ... well ... until the next one," I answer.

"He is going again? But he isn't even home yet."  (The usual response).

"One more. We know at least one more," I say for the umpteenth time.

"That can't be true. Aren't they all supposed to be out by 2011 ... 2012... 2013. He won't go. Don't worry about it." They usually nod their head confirming to themselves that they are right.

"No, we know the timeframe. He will be going again," again, for the umpteenth time.

"That can't be right. 'They' said ... " ("Who is 'they'?" I always ask in my head).

Yet again the same conversation. "Aren't they supposed to be out by (insert year here)?" And it never ceases to amaze me how people will argue with a soldier or a spouse about whether or not they will deploy again. You would think they would realize we might have a little better of an idea. I have stopped saying anything mostly or else the conversation goes more like this:

"He is going again? But he isn't even home yet."

"One more. We already know."

"That can't be true ... " 

"Ya-da-ya-da," I think until they assure me I must be wrong. "Well, we'll see," I usually shrug my shoulders. It's easier to let them think they are right.

We have the timeframe. We know at least one more. 

And I will consider ourselves incredibly fortunate. It will be only three twelve-month deployments in almost 9 years. For an Infantry family - we are so very fortunate. And like most active-duty families, we know the about time-frame for the next one before they even have boots on the ground from this one. 

This is our life.

"I thought they only had to do like two and then they were done. Right?"

I just laugh now when I hear it. Is that how I used to think?

I heard today that roughly one percent of the population has defended this entire nation for the past ten years. That one percent doesn't include the families that have also been worn by this battle. 

One percent.

At first it made this weight feel so heavy - back-breaking. 

One percent.

And then I thought how incredible. To be one of the few - to love one of the few. To be part of this great sacrifice for something far bigger than any of us. One percentage of people who have been given a strength that carries a nation, that ensures the future of the other ninety-nine.

To be part of this community of spouses that inspires and empowers and ensures that our soldiers are able to continue the work this one percent requires. To be strengthened by it, to be given the opportunity to thrive in it.

One more. At least one more. 

We can do that.

You can do that.

You are surrounded by the strength of that one percent.

"It's not the load that breaks you down. It's the way you carry it." - Lena Horne

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. : )

What You Cannot Do

"Why did you cancel practice last week?"


"Because my husband came home and he is still here so lets get practice finished," I smiled in reply. And yet another hand goes up. "Does this have to do with music?" I ask knowing most likely it won't.


"No, but it has to do with choir." Sure it does. They can twist anything so that it 'has to do with choir'. I slightly nod my head allowing her to continue. "Ms Megan, I don't think I could marry someone in the military."


"That doesn't have to do with choir, _______" (not giving the student's name). 


"I know but it kinda does. I mean, it has to do with you. I just ... well ... they leave all the time," she was wringing her hands in her shirt. She was really thinking about this. "I mean ... I just couldn't do that, ya know?"


"Then maybe don't marry a military man, _______. But, _______, you would be amazed at all the things that you thought you could not do but did. Now, back to the music."


How many times had I shared this thought? How many times had the perspective of a 5th grader on this life been so parallel to my own? How many times did I say "I could never ..." "I will never ..." "I can't ..." How many times had those words stomped on my heart trying to reason with it, attempting to prevent the agony that can accompany this lifestyle? How many times?

Thousands. At least.

"I can't."

I say it repeatedly because this life will give us vulnerable times repeatedly. Weak moments allow for the weakest of words.

"You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, 'I have lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.' You must do the thing you think you cannot do." - Eleanor Roosevelt

You must do what you cannot do. And you will. 

Because you were chosen for this.

Acknowledgement

About a week or so ago a new Army Wife that I have come to know well asked me for some advice. She had met an Army girlfriend recently and they instantly hit it off. This soldier's girlfriend was having a rough time understanding and processing the amount of separation there is between a soldier and his spouse and my friend asked me how she should talk to her about it. I asked her how I spoke with her about difficulties in this life and we went from there. I mainly told her to listen. Most of us just want to know that we are not alone in this, that we are not crazy for fearing what we fear and questioning what we question. We all go through it and to think that we are going through it alone is dangerous. We listen to each other and nod our heads and cry when we see the other cry because we understand whatever emotion is running through the other's heart. There is strength in the camaraderie, strength in the understanding, strength in the shared heartache.

I told her something else that I strongly believe is a vital way to communicate this life to others - especially to those who have not committed to this life yet, that aren't bound by the vows. And I say that not to scare those who love a soldier but to understand what this life is and to understand what it entails. I told my friend very bluntly, "Don't sugar-coat it." And I will say it again and again. Don't sugar-coat it. I think it is important to be positive in everything - not to be blissfully ignorant. There is a difference. Pretending that this path is just sunshine and roses does nothing to help someone who is about to enter into this life. They will be in for a rude awakening when that first month-long training hits, or a deployment is announced just when the stick gives you a "+", or you lose your ID and your soldier is at a three-day-long range. There will be no sunshine when your soldier is deployed and you live at Fort Drum and you get 20 inches of snow. No, literally, there won't be any sunshine - or roses either for that matter.

I think it is important to be real about this life and I try to convey that in what I write. I do try to be positive in almost everything - that is vital to getting through the day to day. Negativity gets us no where. I said once that I do not think we should wallow in our heartache but that I do think we should acknowledge it. To try to ignore it, to act like this life is just a beautiful walk in the park, can do nothing to strengthen us. At the same time, to spend every moment crying over it, to see only the hard side of it, to only focus on the negative, will break us. It is so important to live in the reality of it - to acknowledge that what we do is hard, that what we do is at times overwhelmingly heart-breaking, that what we face is at times unthinkable, unbearable. And I do not think that recognizing that weakens us - not even for a moment. I know that to understand the reality and to face it with an unwavering spirit will bring us strength, does give us hope, always makes the separation seem shorter.

It is easy to be blinded by the man in uniform - to fall in love with the idea of it. But when those blinded eyes regain their sight that uniform will become dozens of camo-printed pieces scattered on the floor to be packed for deployment. That shiny, decorated uniform, becomes a hanging bag lying on the floor of your closet hidden behind your clothes until he comes home. That man in a uniform becomes someone who doesn't just belong to you.

Acknowledge the reality and then live through it. Because at some point, the giant doors will open, your eyes will be blinded by the sun and then, finally, you will see him. Marching straight from the sunlight, in perfect formation wearing that uniform that you both love and despise. He will be home.

You will have lived through one reality to appreciate this one. Acknowledge the heartache. Acknowledge the difficulty. Acknowledge what it takes to get here. And then, open your arms and welcome your soldier home.

Erasing the line

For the past few days, I have been visiting with good friends at my first Army home - Fort Campbell, KY. This is where I welcomed home my husband (before he was my husband), where I watched women I did not know then welcome home their soldiers two years later, where my husband and I escorted the family of his fallen friend, where I witnessed a birth, where I delivered my first little boy, where he and I nearly died, and where we all began to live.

It is here that our life together began it's journey. It is here that I received my crash course in the military life -with excellent, and not so excellent, teachers. It is here where I found my niche. It is here where I began to learn this life. Here, there have been senior wives - seasoned wives, as I call them - who took me in once I was willing to be taken. They taught me, by example and by straight talk, the things that I needed to know. I will be forever blessed to have a handful of these women in my life and to have been led to them for this purpose.

I didn't want to go. The few wives that I knew had all left. They had said horrible things about coffees and about FRG's. I had avoided them since my furniture and suitcases landed in this awful town. But I was a horrible liar. I didn't have to work and I couldn't go back to work - I already had 50 hours in for the week. "Maybe I can get started on stuff for next week," I thought.

"Go." He interrupted the battle going on in my mind. "If you don't like it - leave. They won't bite." He knew I needed something in my life besides work. I already hated my job. I spent everyday at it thinking of how much better the one I left was about to be.

I must have changed 10 times. I was starting to show - the bump was definitely there. "Great," I mumbled, "I can't even drink." I still wasn't used to the whole pregnancy thing and I was already frustrated.

"I'll be back in half-an-hour," I yelled while walking out the door.

"An hour," he shouted back.

"Yeah, right!" I grumbled.

I know for those who know me you may be laughing at this foolishness. The me at that time was 100% content with going to work and coming home - and that wasn't the me before I married him. I wanted nothing to do with the military life - with the wives, with the social commitments, with any of it. I had been completely turned off from it by word-of-mouth. Word-of-mouth - a dangerous thing.

In our life, word-of-mouth can do great harm (as it can in any life). But word-of-mouth can ruin careers. Word-of-mouth can cause a woman to wait for two men in Class-A's to show up at her door. Word-of-mouth can cause a wife to disengage. Word-of-mouth can prevent a lot of good.

Keep it shut.

For a couple months after this "coffee" I still stayed in the shadows. Claiming to be too busy, or too tired, or too anything. I went where I was told, stayed for the bare minimum, and left. I cannot tell you why I was so opposed still - but, I can tell you when and why I changed.

I had stopped working, I was on strict bedrest, my husband was working long days, and I was alone. It was a horrible feeling and not a feeling I was used too. It was almost maddening - waiting for anything to happen. After Logan was born, my husband told me the Commander's wife had asked for me to attend the coffee for that month. I had not received an eVite (which I usually ignored anyway) so I didn't know what he was talking about. None the less, I got dressed (as best as I could with my mess of a body at the time), got the diaper bag together, and Logan and I headed into the neighborhood next to mine to stop in. This time, physically, I really couldn't stay long. I was still limited on my activity from my emergency section. I think I grinded my teeth as I rang the doorbell. We were greeted with a giant gift basket and multiple women with beaming smiles. Punch to the gut - at least it may as well have been. I had not said a word to half these women - and to the other half I hadn't said much. Their husbands were deployed and mine was not - and they had done something (that we do for all new mothers in this circle) to include me.

Then I understood. I had drawn the line - they hadn't. It wasn't until right then that I could see that.
It was my time to give back - and I have never stopped giving.

At first, I volunteered out of guilt - and that truly is what it was - guilt. I helped with anything I could - wherever I could. How selfish I had been to not step in and help with those whose husbands were deployed while mine remained safe.

And then I gave because I loved to give. I gave my time - it was all I had - and I reached out and became part of something. It is when I made this decision - to be active, to be involved - that I began to learn. I began to form friendships, found women who became mentors even. And to say friendships is an understatement - relationships is more appropriate. The knowledge I gained and the bonds that formed allowed me to become me again. I cannot imagine the army wife I would be now without these strengthening bonds - perhaps I would not be an army wife.

There can be no isolation - we cannot survive that way. We cannot be completely selfish. We cannot believe everything we are told. We have to be involved, to be conscious of what is available around us. Communication - accurate communication - is vital to our survival. Relationships are vital to our survival. It is easy for some to sit and wait, to work and go home - but how many deployments will that last?

There will always be wives ready and willing to reach out - but there is only so much effort they can make. I drew the line.

I love the service this life offers to me. I love that I can serve those around me - to strengthen them and myself at the same time. To provide the resources that can foster the bonds that get us through each day is something I can offer. To help new wives, like myself, understand the life we have taken on and to commit to be active in it is something I can teach. To own it. To embrace it. To thrive in it. To know that everything becomes so much easier when we erase the line is something I can emulate.

We cannot waste years waiting for the downtime in between - because, yes, they are gone years over time. We don't get to take that time back. We only have now - right now - to live this life we have chosen. I cannot sit and wait. I can help and wait. I can reach out and wait. I can be involved while I wait. The time goes by so much faster when we do.

The Toughest Job

I have been putting off writing this post ... mainly because I know that not everyone will agree with me. Don't get me wrong - I don't expect everyone to agree with what I say - but to word this in a way that can be really understood will be difficult. When I write, while everything I write is very much my opinion and the experiences of my family, I like to hope that many of my emotions and feelings are universal among military families. This hope is why I write, it is what gives me comfort, it is what pushes me to continue. But what I will write about today is a divided issue. It is also an issue that I find some wives get fired up about (including myself) no matter which side they are on. Both sides have valid points and I do not intend to demean those who do not agree with me or to make light of the intense hardships Army Wives undergo while our husbands are away. But today I took our first son to meet his first preschool teacher in his first school ever and his daddy did not get to be there.

I knew that tomorrow would be more difficult - I would have to leave him then. It would be a monumental moment of becoming one step closer to him being a big boy. Today we were just going to meet his teacher, let him get comfortable in the classroom, let him meet the other kids he would see everyday. I checked to be sure his name was on all of the supplies, quickly remembered to copy his shot records, and made sure his face didn't have any syrup left on it from his waffle this morning.

I, unlike most parents, do not have a child who cries when I leave. As soon as he sees the other kids and toys, he waves and yells "BYE!" like I can't get away quick enough. He is fiercely independent and has been, basically, since the day he was born. After 23 hours of induced labor, my son decided to make his appearance in a horrifying, dramatic way (which I briefly spoke about a little while back). He has never been afraid of people - a blessing and a curse. So, for me, today the only fear I had was trying to pry him away when it was time to leave. Let's just say, it was not a fun experience.

"NO!!" He shouted as I said it was time to go back home. My mind quietly began to panic.

"Please, don't let it happen! Please, God, if you want me to remain a sane mother, PLEASE don't let this happen!" I prayed fiercely, and repeatedly, in my head.

It seemed like we might be okay. He took my hand and we were heading out. I couldn't believe it! "There is a God!" I joked to myself (again in my head - I hope).

Well, this God has a sense of humor, and just to let me know how funny he is, he placed it right in front of our path. There it was - my mortal enemy. The one thing that would stop him from acting like a tamed toddler. I had never seen one so big - with working buttons and a "real" laser. I could hear laughter coming from somewhere up in the sky. "Seriously? Seriously?!" I thought.

"BUZZ!!" Logan shouted. The battle began to get him out of there. It was embarrassing. It was mortifying. It almost didn't happen. But it did and by the time we got out, I could feel my blood pressure rising and the sweat beginning to seep from my pores as I dragged my toddler kicking and screaming into the deep south's humid, hot air all the way to our car around the block.

And for just a second I thought it. As I replayed the other faces in the room, mostly replaying the faces of the many fathers who were there with their wives, I thought it. Just for that split second, when I couldn't take the thought back. "He is SO lucky he isn't here."

There is a bumper sticker that seems to be pretty popular among Army Wives. I would bet, while I do not know, that the other branches have one similar that tattoos the many SUV's and soccer mom vehicles that patrol the bases and posts. I do not have one. I do not want one.

"Army Wife - toughest job in the Army"

A dainty script pens the words and a red rose curls around them. The image and the font itself makes me chuckle every time I see it. But I do not agree with it.

Today was tough. Yes, my husband could have lifted Logan up over one shoulder and gotten him out of there much faster than myself with a stuffed, heavy purse and a stack of papers and that stupid fundraiser book. And he would have loved to have been able to do it.

Yes, I have to juggle being both parents while still, very much, trying to keep "daddy" present and active in their lives. Is this difficult? Incredibly. Having two children 22 months apart is hard enough by itself. But to do it without daddy while trying to keep daddy a part of it is difficult and exhausting. It is trying, it is tiring, it is overwhelmingly stressful. We have to deal with the hardships of raising children while our spouses - for a time - do not have to. We have to deal with the meltdowns and the hair-pulling-out moments while our spouses - for a time - do not have to. But we also get the hugs, and actually hearing "I love you's" while our spouses - for a time - do not get to. We proudly get to watch them as they grow and as they laugh and as they learn, gradually, while our spouses - for too much time - do not get to. They do not get to stroke their child's hair as he/she sleeps or wipe tears or kiss bo-bo's. And it isn't just that they miss it. They carry the knowledge that they are missing these moments with them everyday. I would never be tough enough for that.

We have to deal with the absolutely ignorant things that people say about the military, about the wars, about what is going on. We get to respond. They have to hear these things and defend the people who say them while saying nothing. There is no way I am tough enough for that.

He knows, everyday, that there is so much that he is missing. He carries the guilt of not being here for his children, for his wife. Knowing that the vow that he made to his country conflicts with the vows that he made to me. I would not be tough enough to carry that. Everyday, he carries the reality that while each day our toddler runs into my legs to hug me, he may be scared of him when he comes back home. I would not be tough enough for that. Everyday he struggles with the reality that our infant smiles when he sees my face, and reaches out for my arms wanting me to hold him and love him but that when he comes home, Eli will probably not walk to him. That this child will cling to my leg as his oldest son use to cling to his. He knows this, he carries this, he lives this, all while continuing his mission at hand. I am not tough enough.

Soldiers have seen horrible things - a way of life that to most, would be impossible to handle - and they keep going. They keep doing what they have promised to do. They lose friends in war and back at home and continue on. They miss the funerals of family members who pass on while they are away. They miss the time to mourn because they simply do not have it. They miss first days of school. They miss births. They miss first years. They miss graduations. They miss bringing their children to college. They miss first dances, first dates, "meeting the parents" talks. They miss father's days. They miss little kisses. They miss little smiles. They miss days. They miss months. They miss years.

We don't.

It is hard to go through this "alone." And hard doesn't explain it correctly. It truly may take superpowers. There is something that must exist within us that must not exist in those who do not do what we do. Yes, it is a "tough"ness. But what I do here, I will not believe, is tough"er" than what my husband does there. What I have to handle everyday is not nearly as heavy as what he carries with him on every mission, in every e-mail, with every wink of sleep, in every moment he is alone. He is alone.

I am not tougher than him. What the Army asks me to do is not the "toughest" job. I support him. I try my best to keep him focused. I do my best to keep him here while he is there. It is not a job. It is not my "job" to be his wife. It is my commitment. It is my honor. It is my joy.

It is his job.

He is a soldier.

Toughest job in the Army.

ONLY job in the Army.