What's Going on in Your Car?

You know that super annoying person meandering down the road in front of you with their turn signal on? Well today that person was me. Cruising down the road grooving to a little Lauri Berkner Band I glanced down to see that my right turn signal was still on indicating my exit from the highway about a half-mile back. I quickly checked the rearview mirror – yep someone behind me. It may not have felt so embarrassing except that I was certain they had seen my blond ponytail bouncing up and down as Dani and I boogied to our hip toddler tunes.

When I see “that” car going down the road, and it’s not me, I have to wonder where are they going? Why don’t they notice their signal? Did they just turn? Did they intent to turn but then didn’t? Did they bump it inadvertently? Are they lost? Confused? If the vehicle in question is a mini-van all is instantaneously forgiven. There is an immediate assumption that behind the wheel of that caravan rides what remains of some flustered mother’s sanity. She’s probably being pummeled in the back of the head by somebody’s stuffed animal (if she’s lucky that is – there is always a chance for hard plastic and potentially lethal Transformer or flying Matchbox car) trying to shout over the multiple voices competing for airtime, all the while trying to remember why she was so excited about those two purple lines so long ago that transformed her carefree college days into this minivan prison. I’m quite certain the turn signal never even makes a blip on her radar.

As for everyone else signaling turns they never intend to make, what is going on? I can’t tell you how many times I drive down the road and mentally teleport into a passing car. I’m sure this isn’t very safe, but I’m only gone for a second, just wondering. Where are they headed? A shiny red Volvo goes by, the family inside is all dressed up…are they headed to church? A funeral? An old beat up Dodge truck goes by with a young couple inside – the girl inside is practically on the young man’s lap and she is laughing. I smile. Hubby had a truck like that when we first started dating. My mind rides shotgun with them for a second while simultaneously returning to my own memories of a similar experience.

I love to glance around at the cars I share the pavement with. I love to wonder about the lives of the people inside. But most of the time I am caught up in my own world, distracted by the contents of my own vehicle. Life is like that I guess. We often think and wonder about what’s going on with other people but for the most part we stay in our own cars.

While researching what other military wife blogs are out there, I came across one written by a Marine wife who goes by the name “Mrs. P”. She has kept a blog throughout her hubby’s deployment. She has written about their time apart and the excitement of marriage that only a newlywed knows. She has written about her pregnancy and the birth of their first daughter which her hubby witnessed over the phone. Her most recent blog is entitled “2 Weeks”. This is how long it has been since her husband was killed in action in Afghanistan. Now I am riding in her car. All of the sudden what has been going on in my world seems pretty trivial compared to what is going on in someone else’s. I cannot imagine the grief of this 23 year-old wife and mother who was counting down to her husband’s return just weeks ago only now to be recounting how long he has been gone.

I want to remember Mrs. P. Her world is not my world and I know that. But what she has lost, and what her family has sacrificed makes me that much more grateful for all I have. As caught up as we all get in our own lives I think it is important that we take time to remember that we are not the only ones on the road.

So when you see that crazy person with the turn signal on cut them a little slack. We don’t always know what is going on in the other person’s car. I hope that it is just Dani and I rockin’ on down the road, but it might not be. Remember that you’re not the only one out there and the ride for some is not as smooth as the ride for someone else. Appreciate what’s riding with you in your car. As I glance back at that fuzzy green coat and pigtails I crank up “Rocket Ship Run”, and I know there’s no other car in the world I’d rather be driving.

For anyone interested in reading Mrs. P's Blog - www.alittlepinkinaworldofcamo.blogspot.com

Spiders

I am a girl and as such I feel that I should be allowed a certain number of ridiculous and irrational fears. Deployments steal your fears and I think it is unfair. Like the sharp ridges on your baby teeth that rip through the gums dull with time and wear so too do the jagged edges of your most innate fears. For me that phobia is spiders. I have always been afraid of spiders. Very afraid. I’m not sure what it is about them that so creeps me out, maybe all of those legs.

When our oldest child was a toddler she was terrified of dogs. Confusingly to me, the smaller the dog the more fearful she was. I remember researching this phenomenon and finding that this is commonly the case with toddlers especially concerning small animals because the child cannot predict the actions of the quick and energetic beasts. Perhaps this is also the case with my spider fear. They are quick and unpredictable. There is even the possibility that they are jumpers – shiver!

During my husband’s last deployment the girls and I lived in our newly purchased house in Missouri. It was our first home and we were ecstatic. We did not know that we would live there together for only a few months. Although we were the first owners of the home it had been built on the foundations of an old barn by a man who worked on it in his spare time. It took the hobbyist (and we would later learn – barely functioning alcoholic) six years to complete his work. Of the various issues and problems we encountered in our new home none was more concerning than the infestation of brown recluse spiders.

Apparently the builder’s slow craftsmanship gave the impression that the building was vacant creating a very inviting atmosphere for our eight-legged squatters. The spiders had been content to reside inside the walls until we moved in and started disturbing their once peaceful abode. The now working pipes and general “people noise” brought the curious spiders out of the woodwork to scrutinize their new roommates. Many mornings during the deployment I would awake to multiple spiders precariously clinging to the ceiling above my head. I would like to say that the toxic nature of this particular species of spider made them even more terrorizing but the truth is I found all spiders terrifying poisonous or not. My heart racing and sweat beading on my brow I would garner the courage to eliminate the spiders in defense of my children as any good mother would do. If ever there was a visitor present during such an encounter they would quickly be recruited to do the dirty work. On one occasion a visiting friend was in the bathroom changing her shirt when I burst in on her demanding that she kill the spider in the bedroom, now, now, NOW!!! As the deployment went on however the fear gradually began to dissipate. Eventually I could massacre a wall full of spiders without terror or remorse.

Last night I had a dream about my husband and spiders. I could see him but I couldn’t get to him. He was in some sort of a room and I was pleading with him from the outside of the doorway to come home. All around the inside of the doorway clung red, pulsing, fat-bodied spiders. The discussion had nothing to do with the spiders (although I am certain they served some symbolic purpose) but with his being deployed and my fears for his safety. I read once that dreaming of spiders is lucky. I think they are supposed to indicate future fortune. As often as I have had spider themed nightmares I should be a millionaire. In the dream I couldn’t get my husband to listen to me. If was like talking to him over the phone with that horribly long delay. I felt so helpless. I woke up my body shaking with phantom sobs and overflow fear. The girls were yelling for me from the kitchen with panic in their voices.

Groggily I threw on my robe and staggered toward the crisis. Ironically, their panic was spider induced. How there was a live spider on the kitchen ceiling in March, in Alaska, was more intriguing to me than the satirical situation. The girls chanted “kill it, kill it, KILL IT!” I stood on a chair and calming coaxed the spider onto a section of newspaper. I then opened the patio door and gently shook him onto the deck. Although I couldn’t bring myself to outright kill this miracle winter spider, I probably issued more of a death sentence then I was willing to admit by releasing him outside into the cold. And then it hit me. I’m not really scared of spiders anymore. I don’t really care about spiders one way or the other. I still “say” I’m scared, but I’m not, not really. I think it’s fair to say they still give me the willies, but the fear has been well, exterminated.

But it’s good to overcome one’s fears right? What concerns me is the general dulling of emotions that come with repeat exposure to negative situations. It’s not only my fears that I notice being exhausted it’s the good emotions too. I don’t want to lose what makes me, me. I fear that is happening more with each deployment. Well, at least I still have some fears:) I think there is a sort of defensive Novocain administered by the brain when it recognizes a painful situation is on the way. I don’t want to become this anesthetized person that doesn’t really feel life. I guess in a way I want to be afraid of spiders. They remind me that I’m alive.

Running to Afghanistan - Not going to happen!

I decided - just for the sake of curiosity to see if I could "run" to Afghanistan while my hubby is gone. I thought that would be a nice goal to work on - symbolic, distracting and health oriented. So I googled a distance mapper and found some devastating news. It is 5,474 miles from where I sit typing to the far away city he will be working in. That means that means I would have to run 14.99 miles every day to make it from here to there in 365 days. So I decided to try and find something more achievable. I searched for towns named "Soldier" thinking I could run to my soldier that way. The closest is in Iowa - still well over 2,000 miles away requiring a daily 7+ mile jaunt. Also NOT going to happen. So I've decided maybe I'll go with something fittingly more appropriate and run to "Chicken" Alaska - 321 miles away - and less than a mile a day. I'm exhausted already.

Running

Back to school! And thank God for that! Hubby chose to leave right in the middle of spring break, which was good because he was able to get in some extra time with the girls and bad because by the time he left they were bouncing off the walls – and my sanity with them! It was nice to get back into a little bit of a routine today.

Dani and I go to the gym on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. There is a wonderful set-up on our military base where they have a playground/gym facility all in one. Dani can play while I work out on the equipment which is arranged in viewing position. It’s a fantastic idea and I don’t know why more places are not doing this. I run a few miles and then do some strength training. I hate to run. I have always hated to run. My Dad was the high school cross country and track coach so I’m sure a mental health expert would have a great deal of commentary to make here. I also hate to floss and I hate to put away clothes. I run and I floss because I know they are good for me and I should do it to be kind to my body – and a little easier on the eyes of anyone having to stand next to me. I’m not sure why I put away the clothes. I can think of no real benefit in that. In some ways it would be easier to just leave the clothes strewn about to sift through as one needed something. I do not think we are at a socially acceptable stage however for this sort of adolescent behavior to continue beyond high school so I guess I will continue to conform and put away the clothes. I actually enjoy folding clothes – sort of mind numbing – calming methodical process. Yes, I quite like to fold clothes – I’m mentally drifting to a pile of warm towels right now…. My train has de-railed where was I? Ah yes! Running – so I hate to run. I have made a promise to myself that I will not run more than 3 miles on Mondays and Wednesdays, and make Friday my only 5+ mile day. I have been gradually breaking my promise to myself however and find that I am almost always running at least 3.5 miles now and creeping ever closer to 7 on Fridays. Not a big deal – but that little voice inside my head is screaming – YOU SAID ONLY 3 MILES!! And where is it all going? For what purpose? I have no desire to enter a race or anything silly like that. So why am I running further and faster? Because I can? I can see how people develop running addictions. There is something sort of soothing and mentally cleansing about running, that repetitive foot thumping and rhythmic breathing. My brother tells me that there is nothing you can’t run from if you just go far enough. I’m afraid to test his theory out on the open road or I may never come back.

Day 1 Done

I wrote "365" on my calendar a week ago when we first got the news regarding this deployment. We were totally blindsided by all of this. My husband had been home from a 2 month school only 3 days when we found out that he would be serving a year in Afghanistan. We were in fact on our way to the elementary school to pick up our two oldest daughters so that we could celebrate a welcome home Daddy dinner when the phone call came. My husband was still on the phone with his commander when I stumbled out onto the sidewalk into the biting Alaska cold to meet the girls. I felt sick to my stomach. The smile on a waiting friends face instantly vanished upon seeing mine. I tried to fake a little grin and wave but I couldn't do it. She's a military wife and she knew without words what my face meant. I could feel the tears starting to well up - and I am NOT a crier!!! When she came in for the hug I did a quick double tap on the back and was out. I had to get myself together for the girls. My 6 year old Lynn was out the door with the bell full of smiles and stories about the day. I had forgotten that our 9 year old Brynne had choir practice and would need to be picked up an hour later. While my husband went back to pick her up and after I had made a snack for the other two, I quickly retreated to the downstairs bathroom and had a quiet racking sob on the floor of the bathtub. The thought of telling the girls - I just couldn't - I cannot explain this even now what that feels like to tell a child their Daddy is leaving again for an amount of time so massive they cannot fully comprehend it. To a child a year is a lifetime. But of course we did tell them. Little eyes darted back and forth from Mom to Dad to each other with confusion and disbelief. And then of course the tears came. Except for Lynn - she rarely cries. She reminds me of myself. She told me just tonight that she doesn't like to cry, she feels things on the inside unless they hurt so bad that she can't help it. In a way this makes me even sadder than her big sister who is a faucet of emotions. And Dani the four year old, well - how do you explain this to a four year old?

At some point I am going to start posting fun, joyous and humorous things - I promise! Right now I feel beaten. I am angry, I am sad, I am everything that is expected of a woman in my position I suppose. Today I crossed "365" off the calendar though so we are already one day closer to making it through this.

Hours to go

He sleeps in a cocoon of little girls. This is a pre-deployment ritual. It makes me sick to think that we have done this so many times there is actual routine to it. We have only a couple of hours until he leaves for the airport. There is something eerily familiar between these last few hours of time we share and those awaiting execution. You can’t help but acknowledge the clock every few minutes trying to make every last second count. And how do you do that? How do you try to put into a few minutes what you will miss in a year? I don’t know. We rocked the band tonight (i.e. Band Hero – a favorite family activity), got take-out from our favorite pizza place, watched a movie, ate candy (a rare treat) and danced in the living room to music so loud the neighbors are surely hating us. No matter, it will be a while before we hold such a shindig again.

We had an early birthday party for Daddy tonight as well. We picked up an ice cream cake and wrapped presents that should have waited another two weeks. We laminated wallet sized photos for Daddy to take with him, and signed a birthday card with a farting English bulldog on the cover. Daddy was hoping for a real puppy this year but I am now glad that I never made any follow up phone calls that would have left me with three girls and a daily yucky jowl routine.

The night has ended with a campout in the living room in front of the crackling fireplace. Each of us talked about how we are feeling about Daddy leaving. We are sad. The 4 year old, 6 year old and I were talking about this while Daddy played a game of sudoku in the other room with our nine year old. When the 4 year old heard them coming she goes, “shhhh we shouldn’t talk about this anymore cause it will make Daddy sad.” How sweet a daughter we have to think about how Daddy must be feeling. And Daddy is sad, sadder to go than I have ever seen him. We talk about what we want to do when Daddy gets back. Always looking forward – always – if you stand still and analyze where you are at for too long the sadness will eat you alive. Should Daddy get a job where he doesn’t have to do away? Where should we live? The 6 year old shouts, “California!” The 4 year old yells, “China!” When asked I explain that it doesn’t matter to Mommy where we live – home is wherever my family is.

We have four hours until his ride comes and I cannot sleep. I am a chronic insomniac so this is nothing new, only tonight is different. The pit in my stomach will only be relieved by his going and knowing that we will finally be counting down the days until he comes back. The waiting truly is the hardest part. Who warned us about that? Was it Tom Petty? What a strange and wise man. I like to tangent off to humor and sarcasm when things get to heavy. If I’m not careful my train will derail entirely. I don’t know if I can go back out there. Mr. Petty, that is the hardest part. To see him sleeping with his three little girls trying to breath them in enough to hold their scents, their smiles, their love to sustain himself for a year away from them. In the morning it will be a dream. I will look at the spot where they now lay and it will once again be a dance floor, a gymnasium, an orca training facility, a boring everyday living room. Tonight it is a shrine. Please let the countdown begin. The waiting is killing me. It’s like a tug of war you know you’re predestined to lose. You just want to let go before you suffer any more rope burns. I’m letting go so let’s get going. 365 – or until the Army says so – to go.

Getting Started

I’m not sure where to start. I’ve just scanned the internet to see if there are blogs out there written by Army wives and I see that indeed there are. I don’t know how or even if mine will be different. While each experience is inherently unique, it is something that only we can truly share and understand – we; the spouses, the children, significant others, mothers and fathers who wait. I started to write “left behind” because that is how it feels, but I know that isn’t fair. I can hear my husband in the living room packing his bags. I’m having sort of a mini-internal meltdown and somehow feel dead all at the same time. I think that with every deployment I lose a little more of myself. Sometimes I wonder how much I have left. This is not our first rodeo and I feel like it should be getting easier, but it doesn’t. I think maybe it gets even harder. Part of me feels selfish for writing this expecting anyone else to read it or even to care what goes on in our little world. Another part of me feels selfish for not having done it sooner, for not letting the rest of the world know what really goes on inside the life of a military family. Either way, I think I’m going to do this. I think I’m going to measure a year in all the sad, bizarre and hopefully joyful ways that I can think to do it. Soon we begin 365 all over again.