Line-Up

 

Most of those closest to me know that the formative years of my early adulthood were spent at summer camp. Yeah, I know. Most of you knocked summer camp out as a pre-pubescent pimple picker (man, reigning in alliteration once you get going is really hard…) 

No, I pushed my summer camp experience to the right by a few years. Unlike my peers, I didn’t really “summer camp” in junior high or high school other than a couple of days here or there at a random college campus, where I was learning show choir or marching band or some such ultra cool skill set that you are definitely not laughing at me for right now (you are…it’s fine.) 

When I was a junior in college, I decided to take a summer to be a camp counselor. The rationale was that I wanted to really work intensively with kids the summer before I had to go off and student teach—to get my feet wet not only by dipping in the toe, but rather by jumping off the preverbal high dive into the sea of adolescent angst.

I accidentally stayed for six years. 

This was a magical music camp full of geeky wonderful talented amazing kids (they wouldn’t have made fun of my marching band camp, by the way) set in the wilds of the northern woods; an orchestra in the forest; players in the pines. And it was the professional experience that formed basically everything else for me since. 

That first summer, the most startling and horrifying part of being the person in charge of other people was getting up in the morning. I, my friends, am a sleeper. I did not pull all-nighters in college. I do not binge watch television shows (past 10 pm.) And I most decidedly do not tout the “I’ll sleep when I die” mantra. “I’ll sleep or you’ll die,” is a little closer. 

Much less than 7 hours of sleep in any given night is a recipe for disaster for me. String that together into consecutive days, and look out. The first four months of Ellie’s life were boarding on homicidal (for me…and possibly for J.) And those of you have been privy to the first hour of my “awake time.” Well then, this seems as appropriate a space as any to apologize. 

I need eased into waking…slowly… thirty good minutes of lying in bed, stretching, staring at the ceiling, wrapping my foggy head around what the day holds (i.e. remembering what day it actually is.) A quick scroll through facebook on my phone. And then I’ll get up and grab the first (of several) cups of coffee. Maybe a little yoga. When J is stateside, I’ll watch a little morning news. Then I’m good to go. 

And I suppose I should add that it’s best not to really talk to me during that first hour. That’s mommy’s quiet time. 

Now, to be clear, I don’t have a problem getting up early. I’ve got 5 a.m. in my pocket. Just know that I’m probably in bed by 9 the night before. And don’t talk to me before 6, and we’re solid. 

So you can imagine the scene: I’m in college. I like sleep. I’m in a job that is at least 75% social, i.e. means going out with co-counselors in the evening and/ or “roving” the camp to ensure the kiddos are sleeping tight (and not , say, having sex under a canoe.) I’m up much much later having fun and doing work and all that business than I ever really have been before. 

Funny thing, I don’t think camp heard about my 7 hours of sleep/ need an hour to wake up business. 

No, instead of that, they made me “work” (yeah, that’s definitely in quotes) until 12-1 in the morning, then *blew a trumpet outside of my window* at 6:40, and THEN put me in charge of waking up 16 teenaged girls and dragging them to a morning ritual that was, well, harsh to the least. 

Line-up. 

Everyone out of bed. Head-count. In your jammies. Just after sunrise. In the freezing cold. On a tennis court. Where “people in charge” shouted morning announcements that you weren’t listening to and definitely forgot the minute you didn’t really hear them the first time. 

Line-up was dreadful for me that first year. Reveille. 6:40. Every morning but Sunday. Oofa. Somehow that first summer 6:40 seemed like the middle of the bloody night. 

In the intervening years, I became the “people in charge” of shouting the morning announcements and making sure you weren’t really listening to me. And when you’re in charge, believe it or not, you’re the person who has to wake up *earlier* than the trumpet…you know, to make sure the trumpet actually wakes up, so that she can, in-turn, wake up everyone else. (How our trumpet players made it through the summers unscathed is truly beyond me.) 

In my last couple of summers there, it was those moments between when I woke up and when the trumpet blew that I came to treasure most. It was so quiet. And beautiful. I would have a coffee. I would bundle up in sweatshirts and a wool cap and go out on my porch and look at the steam rising over the lake as the sun came up and the day began gently, gradually, much like myself. It was so peaceful. I would pull my thoughts together, set my brain for the day ahead, and go meet the trumpet player out on the dusty gravel path where she would stand and issue the morning’s first wake-up call. 

It’s easy to look back so fondly now. 

While J has been in the military for quite some time, he and I have done very little of his stint while living in the same place. And we have never had occasion to live on post together. In fact, right now, living essentially across the street from post is as close as we’ve ever been, and probably as close as we’ll get before he retires. 

Now J swears that this happened before he left for Over There. I don’t think it did, or at least not to the extent that it does now. But every morning, at 6:30, on post, they blow Reveille. 

Loudly. 

Loudly enough for it to be very audible in our home, even over the dull hum of the coffeemaker or the television quietly chattering as background noise in the living room. They pipe that thing over loud speakers so that the whole free world knows that, ladies and gentlemen, it is time to get up. 

And how do I hear it so well now when before I did not even notice? 

It’s because in order to get my morning started and get Ellie up in time for school, I have to get up before the trumpet every day. 

Up before the trumpet again. I can’t tell you how weirdly peaceful that feels to me. And how much I have come to cherish those quiet moments between my alarm and going to wake my (thank God not 16 year old yet) little girl to get her ready to go out and face the day. It’s like I’m back at that magical place where so much of my life happened, reminding me of how much of life has happened because of it. 

The trumpet blows. I smile silently to myself and let nostalgia overwhelm me for a just a moment as I wait outside of Ellie’s door to go in and greet her for the day. The silence of anticipation. The peace before the trumpet. 

I’ll probably never be in a situation in my life again where I’ll have that actual audible reminder to take a minute each morning to be grateful and enjoy the peace. And I’m so thankful that in this time when things can get a little hard and a little lonely, that each day I’m greeted with the warmest of loving memories, as I prepare my little girl for the first of what I hope will someday be many morning line-ups.

Come my friends...

 

When I was in the 7^th grade, my parents took me to see the movie “Dead Poets Society.” I don’t feel like it’s an overstatement to say that it changed my life. It was the day I knew I wanted to become a teacher. It was what started a lifetime of interest in studying residential schools. And most importantly, it was the moment that I realized I loved language:  That there were others that loved language. That poetry was not just for sappy 14 year old girls who published their diaries in the back of Seventeen Magazine.

The movie quoted various parts and pieces of all manner of verse. But the one that struck a chord with me (though truncated) was Tennyson’s “Ulysses.” That day in that theater started my love affair with this poem (that day, followed by no less than 83 viewings of a VHS tape of this movie that I wore completely out before I had even finished high school.) 

We revisited “Ulysses” in our high school English class (thanks Dave...) I wrote a paper on the poem in college and taught the class the day we covered the particular writing. It has been with me for many years, this verse; sometimes when it found me and other times when I called it to my side.

Assuming that other normal, non-nerdy people don’t have a working knowledge of this poem, let me tell you a little bit about it, and why it has always been so appealing to me.

The poem is based on Homer’s Odyssey, and tells the story of our hero Ulysses.  To SparksNotes this up for you all, basically, after his voyage, he comes home, looks around and says, damn. I’m old. And I’ve been through hell, and war, and adventures and battles. And now, here I am finally home. What to do, what to do?

The poem is his response to this return. And his answer?

Don’t stop. Keep living life to the absolute fullest. (I cannot rest from travel, I will drink life to the lees.) Embrace the battles fought by learning from each one. (I am part of all that I have met.) Shun stagnancy. (How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!)

I always loved the ambition. The optimism.  The thought that at the end of someone’s life after a million adventures and hardships, you could still-- would always-- strive for something else; something better.  I didn’t understand why I liked it at age 13. At age late 30-something, I can’t imagine a text more perfectly encapsulating how I want to live my life.

If you happen to be one of the, like, 1% of the world who recognizes this poem at all, it is no doubt due to the last stanza:

Come, my friends,
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

The number of times these lines have run through my head in my lifetime is innumerable.

But they are fresh for me right now.

By all accounts, 2014 has not been one that I would choose to replay for either me or my friends. Beyond the smaller life things that seemed to crowd the lives of my loved ones; job changes and losses; homes lost or sold; hirings and firings and moves and scares and every day stresses, has been the bigger things this year: Massive illnesses, near death experiences, divorces, deployments, and the passings of loved ones both old and very young. It’s been a year for the books, to be certain. Not the kind of book you’d voluntarily check out from the library (though possibly fodder for a Lifetime mini-series.)  

I’m not going to try to sugar-coat it. I’ve been generally trepidatious about the holidays this year and much more subdued than is typical for me. It’s the first year I’ll be without my dad, which is no little thing for me. I miss him tremendously, especially at this time of year when typically I’d be thinking of fun things to send him; having Ellie make him pictures; planning my trip home to see him. And Thanksgiving. That was our holiday. We were never apart on Thanksgiving. It is my favorite holiday of the year. This year, he will be conspicuously missing from the table.

So will J.

I mentioned the general crappiness of the year the other day to one of my dearest friends as I was inviting him to join Ellie and me for Thanksgiving. “Even though it’s been a crappy year for us both, let’s get together and celebrate anyway,” was the gist of my invitation.  

He looked at me sort of funny and said basically that he didn’t agree with my assessment of the year. Now, this was quite something coming from this particular friend, given that he was one of the people I would have decidedly chalked up on the side of “suck” if I was making a tally board for the year. 

I looked at him puzzled. “Listen, I got sick in a place I could get better; what could have killed me ended up being not as serious. I have had family trouble, sure, but it’s resolved. 26 years of drama finally over. Your husband is securing your future by doing this deployment thing as quickly and painlessly as possible guaranteeing that he can take care of you and Ellie forever, buy a house and never have to do this again. Your dad passed quickly without much suffering, when you knew he was ready. It could be viewed as bad. But I don’t know…I feel like we’re all still doing pretty good in spite of it all. ”

Though much is taken, much abides.

That’s all I could think in that moment. That he was right. That though it seems like so much has been taken from those I love this year, we all have so much to be grateful for still.

This year, and hopefully every year, I need to remember this. I have so much. And I’ve got so much more to do. I don’t have the time (or desire) to dwell on what has gone. I have so much to be thankful for.

I’m hosting a Thanksgiving my father would be proud of this year. Though he’ll not be at the table, he’ll be here. And  I’ll have a house full of friends and family putting to rest the bad, and sharing with one another our grateful thanks for those things which abide.

Come my friends...

And though we may be a little wrinkled and weathered and worse for the wear (Smite the surrounding furrows!) …and though we may not be a strong as we used to be…that which we are, we are. Made weak by time and fate but strong in will…

This year, we all have heroic hearts. And regardless of what has been taken from us, we will continue to strive…to seek…to find…

And not to yield.

Time takes time, you know?

 

“Patience and time do more than strength or passion.” I’d never heard this quote before today, but having this come across my desk right now seems, well, fortuitous or serendipitous or…you know, some other “ous” that means that it was a nice thing to see just now. 

The concept of time is a funny thing. 

I do not embrace this concept generally, but especially when J is gone, I throw any concept of length of time right on out the window. It’s not that I lie about the amount of time that J and I are going to be separated. I just don’t think about it—don’t keep track. I live in this pretty blissful state of stupid that I affectionately refer to as The Land of Vagueness (it’s an admittedly bad name for a fictional world.) 

“How long has he been gone?” “Oh, you know, a few weeks.”

“Time’s sure passing fast, huh?” “Is it? Ok.”

“Wow, I didn’t realize he’d been gone so long.” “Oh, you know, we’re moving right along.” 

Daddy will be back in a little bit. Daddy will be back soon. 

These are the phrases that I have come to rely upon as my go-tos; as my blissful statements of indistinct time and random activity. (And pleasant alternatives to what I ACTUALLY want to say when people not really involved in my life try to tell me how quick the passage of time is. How AMAZING that he’s already been gone so long; and that he’ll be back in the blink of an eye! By the way, these are not phrases from you that enter into my ear-hole happily. You have been forewarned. ) 

Until yesterday, I myself have had no real concept of this deployment length, other than that we’re someplace in the middle. Maybe it’s because I am not counting months. Maybe it’s because I don’t really know when he’ll be home other than a ballpark couple of weeks (probably…maybe… plus or minus…) Maybe it’s self-preservation, because if I don’t take the time to figure out how much time is left, I can buy into my own fib that it’s all going to be over soon.

I mean, hell, right now the only way I’m measuring time is in number of garbage days I have remembered to take the trash cans out to the street. (By the way, I’m 13 for 13 as of today. Yeah. I’m killin’ it with the trash.)

So, some days have passed. There are more days in front that will still need to pass. I’m painfully aware of the fact that we are currently stuck in the middle of the deployment. We’re not in the beginning stages where we’re still trying to figure everything out. We’re neither close enough to the end to start a countdown—nor closer to the end than the beginning. 

It’s just the crappy middle part. 

Owing to my lack of calendar dependence, and my general avoidance of all things time related, you will imagine my surprise when yesterday, Ellie came home from school and said to me, “Mommy, see Daddy in March?” 

Now, my child has no idea what that means. No idea how long that is. No concept of the length of a day, or a week, or a month. She doesn’t know what that breaks down to in terms of minutes or hours. But all night last night she skipped around the house almost singing “see Daddy in March! See Daddy in March!” 

I don’t know why this bothered me so much. I haven’t articulated the come-home timeframe to her, mostly because I don’t really know it myself. She definitely didn’t get this phrase from me, partially because I’m afraid to said it out loud for fear it won’t come true. (Sorta like spilling the wish you made when you blew out your birthday candles--best to just keep that one to yourself there buddy, you know, just in case…)

I’m sure some very well meaning person at her school, who had no idea of my aversion to labeling time, and who most likely was just attempting to calm my child who pretty constantly walks around asking for Daddy, just said “you’ll see Daddy again in March.”

In March. 

When my kid so easily proclaimed what I haven’t been able to say, it broke me a little bit. Why did she have to say MARCH? Suddenly, I realized that March is MONTHS away (and seems like a thousand years away…) Just when I was starting to kind of let myself believe that I was almost done with all of this, there it was. March.

But the more I thought it about, the more I realized that maybe not everyone operates like I do. Some people, maybe even Ellie, need the direct object at the end of that sentence: See Daddy, When? In March (nerd alert: there’s definitely a diagrammed sentence in my head when I say that.) Maybe that brings some degree of comfort to her. Some degree of truth. Not a vague “soon” or “later,” but rather “March.” Regardless of how long that seems, it is a concrete end point. 

So for now, I’m going to let the kiddo have her phrase. As my Ben says, “in time, I won’t hear what you say. But time takes time, you know?” And until that time comes, I need to remember that more so than passion or strength, right now, it is only patience that’s going to move the hands on the clock forward. 

Patience, and just a little bit more time (16 more weeks, to be exact. If I had been counting…)

Unintended parenting

 

I’m not sure if it has exploded recently or if I’m only just now paying attention to it because of Ell, but there seems to be no shortage of articles/ blogs/ posts/ books about how hilariously hard it is to have a toddler. (Scary Mommy anyone?) I’m constantly reading about the 40 simple steps to get a toddler into a car (ok, that one was actually really funny…) or how kids take up all your time and your space and your waking hours (and your will to live.) 

It seems like the entirety of the interwebs* is obsessed with trying to make light of how really just effing challenging it is to raise a kid. I myself read pretty much all of them as they come across my news feed (it’s a bit of a sickness, really.) Oh, what does the Honest Toddler have to say today about how (tongue-in-cheek) crappy a mommy I am? Oh what does the Huff Post say about what it takes to be a good working mom? (In a related story, Huffington Post...I feel like your content has taken a bit of a left turn recently. But, whatever, I digress.)

           *By “entirety of the interwebs” I mean other than the cat videos…and, you know, porn. 

You’ve probably read the lists—the 50 things to say to your daughter—the 20 ways to bolster your kid’s self-esteem- the 15 most important life lessons you can possibly teach your kid…followed up by an expose on how we can’t ever say the right things to our daughters, bolster your kid’s self-esteem or help to teach important life lessons. It’s really quite exhausting, honestly. 

Yes. Being a parent is hard. Being a single-parent is harder. Being a single-parent during a deployment sucks. 

We all knew that the hardest part of this deployment was going to be the Ellie piece. This isn’t J’s first rodeo. And even the two of us have endured a deployment or two working the long distance relationship angle. No, this one was going to be about our two year old and we knew it going in. 

One of the reasons we did this deployment now was because Eleanore was little and we hoped, believed, that it would be less of an issue for her. She wouldn’t really know what was going on—too young to truly understand what was happening. Saying things like “daddy will be home soon” and “daddy’s at work right now” could be vague statements to a toddler who didn’t have a frame of reference for what those phrases really meant or how I was definitely stretching those definitions to the outer limits of truthfulness.

Well, I’m here to tell you friends, my daughter may only be two, and she may not completely understand the whys, and the hows, and the how longs, but she most decidedly knows that daddy is gone. And it is affecting her.

And as she gets older, even in just the 3 months J’s been gone, she’s learning to better articulate that understanding of his distance (much to my daily devastation.) Like in the mornings, when she crawls into my bed, looks into my eyes and says “I miss him.” (I know who him is.) And when she colors pictures and puts cups of imaginary coffee next to his picture in the living room to “give to daddy.” Or when she uses anything in the house that could be imagined into a phone to “talk to daddy” for several minutes at a time, typically mocking mommy (“ok, hon, I love you. Gotta go!”) Or when she thinks I’m not looking and she hugs my laptop, because that’s where daddy lives right now. 

The piece de resistance of course was when my girlfriend and I were shopping a couple of weekends ago and she sidled up to a mannequin dressed much like her father (cargo shorts and a t-shirt) and stood there quietly holding its hand until we had to go to the car, and then screamed at full volume for the whole store to hear “NO! Don’t make me leave Daddy!!!” 

(Yeah, that sound you hear right now is your heart breaking into a hundred million pieces. I made it to the car before melting into a puddle of blathering tears.) 

It’s hard to be a parent. Harder still to be a single parent. Being a single parent during a deployment sucks. 

A week or so ago, a dear friend of mine in an attempt to give me a laugh and a little humor sent me a link to one of those Huff Post parenting articles. I don’t remember exactly the scenario presented in the article, but the underlying idea of it all was that toddlers are ridiculous and exhausting and, well, good on ya mom, because raising a family is really hard. 

Much to my surprise, I fell apart when I read it. It was supposed to be a hilarious parody of life with a child, and here I was crying into the sleeve of my oversized sweatshirt (you know the one…that one that definitely needs to be in a laundry at all times, and yet somehow never makes it to the laundry room.) I felt so completely silly for doing so, but something about it just touched me—first that the universe acknowledged what I was doing was hard, but even more so, that someone close to me did as well. 

It was a cathartic cry. And caused me pause for reflection. 

It occurred to me that I have been focusing a lot (even if only internally) on how hard all this is, and on being so scared that on some level all of this was damaging Ellie is some strange way. “What am I putting this kid through?” “Is she ok?” “How badly am I screwing this kid up for life?” 

Lately though, I’m starting to feel like that’s not what’s happening at all. I’m enjoying the astonishing growth of my child as she matures and learns (and realizes things.) And even in all the heartbreaking moments, I love to see how compassionate my child is becoming. Yes, she is fully aware that daddy is not here. And yes, she misses him so much. But she leaves him gifts. She asks me to take pictures to send to him. She colors him things. She desires talking to him every day (even if it’s via banana phone.) 

She loves him. She really does. She’s two, and she gets what it means to love. And she’s kind. And has found ways to show him that kindness and love, even when he isn’t here. How incredible is that? 

It makes me feel like all the hard work is worth it. That in some crazy-ass unanticipated way it’s paying off. That somewhere in the crappiness of the poo-storm that is single-momming a toddler with a husband in a far-off war zone (and it is in fact a crappy poo-storm) that maybe I’m doing something right. And that we’re not just getting by. We’re more than ok. She’s learning, she’s growing and in the end she’ll be better and stronger and more loving for this whole experience. 

Maybe I will be too. 

And in the meantime, Huff Post, keep ‘em coming. Scary Mommy, sing your truth (I’ll sing along.) And Honest Toddler, I dare you to call me out on being a bad mommy. My kid has a banana phone. How about that.

I got nothin'

 

My mother always said if you didn’t have anything nice to say, not to say anything at all. It was her way of saying “don’t be mean” and “keep your complaints in your pocket there, bucko.” 

When J went back over, the only thing that felt like an upside at all, was that I was going to write again. Blogging the last time he was over there was how I passed the time, how I chatted with J, how I shared his goings on with our friends and family. I enjoyed the process, and I enjoyed having the time chronicled. 

You may have noticed (or hell, you might not have noticed) that the writing hasn’t happened this time. It’s not because I have mean things to say and am keeping myself from spewing vitriol upon the world (Oh don’t get me wrong. I could probably do that without too much pressing. But let’s be real, that simmers right under the surface most of the time anyway, regardless of J being deployed.) No one needs to hear that silliness, and getting up the energy to spew it just seems sort of exhausting. 

And it’s not that I’m keeping my complaints to myself. Again, I’m certain that I could give you a laundry list of drama if you gave me a minute. But there’s no use in that either, and in the grand scheme of it all seeming very first world problem-y, well, it is. 

To be honest, things are fine. Or as fine as one could expect when a husband is deployed and I’m trying to deal with a 2 year old and a full time job. Most days it’s fine. Some days it’s really great. Some days it sucks bigtime. And most days my job is amazing and accommodating and great. And others it’s incredibly frustrating and I want to walk into the office, flip the bird, quote “Half Baked” to the room, and call it a day (you all know the scene I’m talking about…) 

So yeah…life for me sounds a lot like life for, you know, 80% of the planet, yes? Not a particularly compelling story to pen. And if I’m completely honest with you, dear readers (and myself), I just don’t have the time or energy for writing. This makes me sad a little bit, but it is my reality.

Last time J was over, I would have these beautiful epiphanies and think through these metaphors of what I was feeling and what we were going through for days before sitting down to write. And then I would carve out time to revise and tweak and find the exact words I wanted to express precisely how I was feeling in a very existential and ever-so-slightly-dramatic fashion. 

Know what this week’s epiphany was? That I had gone 8 straight weeks remembering to take out the trash. And you know what the exact words I have to express precisely how I feel about all that? 

“Badass.” 

(Perhaps I shall write a blog post about the metaphor of taking on new home-related challenges and finding ways to accomplish these everyday tasks without J here. Or about how it all seems like a big heap of trash that I need to throw out each week so that I can start again anew... Bleh.)

But seriously folks…it’s the freaking trash. And I’m tired.

I’ve started about 3 different blog posts and deleted them all because they seemed pedantic and whiny and quite frankly not even the least bit interesting. 

I have friends that have reached out to me so kindly, that I just haven’t responded to yet because sitting down to write about, you know, the trash, seems silly. I have friends whom I know very well and who I know are leaving me alone to let me get into my groove a bit before reaching out. I know who you are. Thank you for that. And yes, I owe you a call, too. 

I have Facebook bursts where I will be on for like 24 hours straight posting non-stop. And then I’ll go a week without logging on. To be honest, I’m avoiding anything that looks like news or political commentary or, frankly anything that resembles drama right now (as I always do when J is over…) So any time I feel like someone’s going to post something about how hideous something is in the world, in life, in our government, or blah blah, I turn it off: The computer, my connection with the outside world, and my brain. Hunker down, and make sure to remember to buy milk and toilet paper. Because honestly, milk and toilet paper are sorta the priorities right now. I am blissfully disconnected from most things currently,  and I am totally ok with that. 

And so I’m here to tell you, things here are busy, hectic, non-stop, exhausting, but totally fine. Just like all of my friends lives are busy, hectic, non-stop, and exhausting. And for friends of J’s—he’s fine , too. Marking time. Doing his thing. Passing time in his own busy, hectic, non-stop, exhausting, totally fine (though totally random and other-side-of-the-world) life. For all who have so graciously asked…we’re all good. Exhausted and ever-so-slightly tunnel-visioned right now. But all good. 

So maybe mom’s saying should have been "if you don’t have something to say, don’t say anything at all." And if that’s the case, then mum’s the word here. And that, I think, is a good thing.

4...3...2...1...

 

When the call came in, it was simple enough. “Hey, one of you four guys on this email. We need one of you to take this deployment. Who’s volunteering to go?”

Not surprisingly, no one volunteered.

I knew then that J would end up going though. (It’s what he does.)

“Ok, you guys, if no one volunteers, I’m going to just have to pick one of you.”

And of course for J and me, *that* became the worst part. Having no control. Not being the one to call the shots. Those who know us know that neither J nor I deal well with ambiguity (OR not being the one to call the shots, for that matter.)

So then naturally the wagering began. The what-ifs. The conjectures. Who else is on the list? What are their stories? Their qualifications? What are our chances? How can we get in front of this thing? Like a desperate junkie, I started the mental bargaining…If you just keep him here, I’ll do anything…I’ll be a better person…I’ll give more to charity…I’ll stop complaining about work…and on and on through the familiar list of things people are willing to do to stave off the ugly in their lives.

But none of that mattered, because I already knew (in my heart…) that it was going to be J.

There are a thousand things I love about my husband. One of the most incredible (and sometimes the most frustrating) is his unbelievable sense of duty, of loyalty, and of dedication to whatever it is he has decided to do—of fulfilling his obligations, and for stepping up for those things in which he truly believes are his ills to address.

He decided to be a Solider seventeen years ago. And since then, he has never once shirked a duty; never volunteered someone else to do something he felt to be his job; Duty. Responsibility.

“Well, there are only four of us with this skill set. I’ve dodged this ask before (By the way, this was an interesting little news tidbit for me. I didn’t know that he had done that. Evidently right after Ellie was born, he side-stepped this same, annual deployment ask to stay at home with us.) “I have three years left in the Army…and if this is going to come up every year at this time...and I’ve already missed this once…and there are only four of us who can do this job…”

 Silence. Realization. Resignation. He was going to have go back. If not now, then sometime before he retired in three years. There was no getting around it. It was now or…

“If I go now…you keep your job. Ellie’s younger—she realizes less what is going on. She stays in her routine. You have friends here. Family close. People to help and support you. If we PCS-ed to a new city—new job, no friends or family, Ellie uprooted in a new school, new routine… and THEN I had to leave you guys with no resources…”

All totally valid. And logical. And maddening.

“Yeah, but what if we never got that call? What if you wouldn’t have to go at all ever again? How can I let you *volunteer* for this? Give you up if I don’t have to? There’s no guarantee this comes up again, is there? ”

More silence.

“Let me call someone. I know a guy. What if I can make it only six months? What if one of the other guys on the list picks up the other 6 months? Six quick months. And then I’m back. And then we move together to our last PCS, we do two years there, and then we retire. And we’re done. No more deployment. No more separation.”

More silence. Running thousands of scenarios in my head each second. Watching not my past-life flash before my eyes, but rather all the different future lives I might live depending on how this one decision played out (isn’t that pretty much how life works though? A series of small decisions we make every day which end up mapping out the rest of days…)

What seemed like a lifetime passed in about 7 heartbeats.

 “Yeah. Do it. Make the call. ” I told him to do it. I told him to go.

It didn’t really matter though. It’s what was going to happen anyway. From the first email, I knew. And even if I had broken down and begged him not to go, he would have gone anyway. It’s what he does. It’s his job, yes. But more than that, it’s his heart.

In the next three and a half weeks, when the Army was going back and forth about needing him—about whether or not the assignment was valid—about whether anything would come up again in the next three years at all, I still knew he’d go. I had resigned myself to it. I had mentally already let him go. It was the best decision for our family, and we all knew it. Don’t get me wrong—it was also the absolute shittiest decision for our family. But it was the right one. Because often in life the best decisions we make tend to be the hardest ones.

                                                         *          *        *          *        *

About a week after we had gotten final word that he was for real going and we had settled ourselves to what that looked like, one of my best friends and I had tickets to see my very favorite musicians of all time. Over dinner, pre-concert, he and I were hashing out this turn of events and all the details of what life was going to look like while J was gone.

I was trying to describe how I felt— how there was a certain sense of relief in just making a decision and going with it. Not fighting it. Being totally overwhelmed and sad, and somehow, sort of at peace with it. But I didn’t really have the words. How do you describe what it means to resign yourself to a goodbye, when it’s the last thing you really want to do?

Later that night, at the concert, while Ben Folds was singing it came to me. Ben Folds was saying it better than I ever could in my own words (Ben always does this, by the way. He has been my words when I’m wordless on more occasions than I can count.) And while the song he was singing that struck me so was about a truly difficult break up with someone he loved deeply, the lyrics still fit for what I was feeling and spoke to me.

And there *may* have been tears (tears then…tears every time I’ve heard the song since then…tears when I played the song on the way home from the airport after having dropped J off…)

“I’m letting you go…” says Ben. It may have been predetermined by the Army or God or my husband’s good nature or all of the above, but something about me saying “I’m letting you go” makes me feel like I had some control over it all, which weirdly makes me feel a little bit better.

Since that day, every time I wonder what the hell we’re doing here, it’s the chorus of this song that comes back to me (thanks again, Ben.)

As I walked away from the airport having just put J on an airplane, sobbing face hidden poorly behind super-large shades, all I could hear in my head were Ben’s lyrics. (I will let go, if you will let go…) Not particularly special nor eloquent. Quirky and a little silly (much like me and J and Ben for that matter...) I hope that others can appreciate the greatness of Ben’s simplicity when listening to this song.

And for those of you who have asked how I’m feeling? This is pretty much it.

Ben sings "Cologne"  

Where there's a will...

 

My father passed away in April. 

I miss him tremendously. My father was my anchor to good; the one who kept me grounded to the way things *should* be. Whenever I called, whenever I visited, he was there, with the sweetest smile, the most ridiculous of corny puns, and all the time in the world for me—like that I didn’t live half way across the country; like I saw him every day instead of every 4 months.

He was kinder than most people take the time to be. And humbler than most people believe is real (he’d be mortified by this post, by the way… I’ll post it anyway.) He was also hard on me—the good kind of hard. The kind that when I said I was on the brink of something that felt overwhelming, would force me to talk out the alternatives however painful—to figure out a plan—to find a way to fix it, whatever it was. Or to maybe just accept the reality that it might just suck, and that’s how life was sometimes. 

I honestly never remember him being angry with me or me being truly mad at him. Even in the ugly teenage years when everyone is angry with their parents. Not me and dad. We understood each other on a level that didn’t consist of words. He couldn’t tell you what my favorite food was, but he could tell you precisely why a particular piece of music reduced me to tears (he’d cry too…) Because while we didn’t come to the same conclusions almost ever, we went through a very similar thought process to get to our own individual outcomes. We didn’t think ALIKE, we just THOUGHT alike. 

The days since his passing have included moments of mourning, for certain. But all in all, I can truly say that dad’s passing was a great, great blessing—the quick and unexpected end before the pain and medications came—the cure to his extraordinary loneliness before it became so sharp that he couldn’t breathe anymore. More than any person I’ve ever known, my father was at peace with his life, well before his death, and was profoundly faithful. I don’t know much about much, but I know that if anyone goes to heaven and lives forever in a state of peace and rest and contentment, it is my Father. He had always been ready for what’s next, even if those close to him weren’t ready for him to go just yet.

My father, ever the purist, full of trust and devoid of any earthly belongings (can’t take it with ya) didn’t feel the need for a will—his possessions were few; his debts little; and his trust that we’d know what to do about it when the time came trumped his belief in a lawyer and extra documents and the assigning of tasks and possessions. In the days since his passing, I’ve worked my way through his accounts; his bills; his meticulously hand-written accounts of everything (Turns out, I come by that naturally.) It reminds me of his humanity. It brings me the greatest of joy to see on his credit card bills that even until his last few weeks on this Earth, he was going to the independent art cinema to see a movie, his favorite bar for a cocktail, and his favorite restaurant for a good meal and a quality conversation with whomever was sitting at the bar. These were his routines and the things that made him happy. Thinking about them makes me happy too. 

Two weeks ago, J and I went to a lawyer and got our wills done. Yeah. That happened. Now, I know this is a normal activity for grown up responsible people. To have a plan. To think about the unthinkable. To write things down on paper so that people don’t have to make tough decisions in our absence or pay our bills upon our passing. 

And yet, neither this very grown up rational thinking nor my own sometimes frustrating experience dealing with my father’s estate sans will took away the harsh reality of what we were doing or made me want to be there doing it. 

I’d feel like this regardless of the timing of our visit. But making this trip to the ol’ lawyer right before you get ready to send your husband into a war zone? Yeah. That’s as awful as it sounds. It’s like having to admit out loud the one thing that you’re trying really hard not to admit could ever possibly happen, could definitely happen: The thing you avoid thinking about, all you’re talking about for three straight hours. But we knew that it would be irresponsible for us to not do this. To not have a plan. To not have it all put down on paper. Especially now that Eleanore is in the picture. (Plus, I think the Service makes you do it once you have a family. Not the point, I know…)

Now, I know that lawyers are not paid to be, shall we say, touchy-feely. And I know that as long as we deal with the lawyers who are made available to us free of charge that we don’t have a whole lot to be picky about. Beggars and choosers and that whole thing, right? And I know that these lawyers deal with the whole gamut of service members to include the 19 year-old Joe who wants to leave his new Camero to his 17 year old girlfriend (too real?) I get it. 

But dearest Lord. If that women looked at us and without emotion uttered any iteration of the phrase “Ok, you’re gone, he’s dead, Ellie’s dead, who gets your stuff/ pays your bills/ pulls your plug?” one more time, I was going to jump straight across her military issue big-oak-lawyer desk and make her eat my end-of-life plan. At a time when all I’m working through in my head (and my heart) is counting the days until J and I get to spend the rest of our lives together, having some random lady talk about what to do if that doesn’t happen…it was just too real. And mostly horrible.

But it’s done. And put into a lockbox, never to be opened again. For at least 40 years. 

As I was leaving the lawyers office I realized that all I wanted to do in that moment was talk to my dad. Tell him about how insensitive that crazy lawyer lady had been. How much I didn’t want to think about death. How scared I was. But as much as I wanted to talk to Dad, I realized that I already knew what he would say to me. He’d tell me that sometimes things are hard. And not fun. And that the most important thing is that I was taking care of my family, and if I was doing what was best for them, then I was probably doing the right thing no matter how crappy it all felt. Then he’d remind me I’m a grown up, and I’m strong, and that this would all work out just fine. Part of a plan bigger than me. To have a little faith already. 

And the end of my fictional conversation with Dad? “You know Angie, where there’s a will… there’s a way.” And he would wait in silence on the other end of the phone for the groan that I always gave when he made those sorts of horrible puns. Even through the phone, in my mind I could see his impish grin, so proud of himself. Even through the phone, he’d know I was shaking my head in feigned disapproval. 

We’d end the call as we always did. “I love you Dad.” “I love you too.” 

With Dad, having a will or not having a will didn’t matter. Nothing on a document like that contains a bit of what he left me. And I guess that a grumpy, insensitive, fast-talking, patronizing , lawyer-lady with her wills and paperwork and plans really doesn’t do anything to define my legacy either. What matters, today, as always, is taking care of my family—instilling good habits in the kiddo; making good memories as a family; showing love to one another, and making sure that Eleanore knows some of her PawPaw’s good jokes.

And a will? Meh. If it’s necessary and makes people feel better, then fine. Really, it’s just a document to provide some order in potential chaos. A peace of paper, as it were. 

Pun definitely intended.

24

 

Most annoying show on television?

24. 

Not because I don’t love me some Kiefer Sutherland (because I do.) And not because I don’t like a good action-y, semi-suspenseful, and more than semi-violent television show, because I can get into that on occasion as well. 

No, the part that drives me round the bend is the fact that all this is somehow magically supposed to be happening in 24 hours (spoiler alert—that’s why it’s called “24”.) I mean, I’m all for suspending belief for a bit and going with the concept of the story, but really? 

Now before the haters hate, I’ll own that my meh-ness may be due to my ever-so-slight obsession with order and detail (read: I’m OCD.) But I find myself throughout the entire show focusing not on the storyline (we’re saving the President, AGAIN!) but rather on the practical impossibilities of everything I’m seeing.

 I can believe that someone can go for 24 hours without sleeping. Sure. We’ve all done it. Poorly and with questionable and often hilarious results, but fine fine. Plausible. And I can buy going for 24 hours without eating. I myself would not be someone you would choose to embark upon a road trip with at this point, but, if necessary, I could do it, sure. But going for 24 hours without sleep AND food? Listen Superman, no way you’re doing that AND ass-kicking-slash-saving-the-planet at that point. Clark Kent needs a nap. And…a glass of water…and potentially a bathroom break. (And do we even discuss the baffling issue of where in all the bloody universe one purchases a cellphone with unlimited service areas and a battery that lasts for 24 hours of non-stop use? I mean, seriously. You could make a fortune if you could get a hold of that patent…Whatever. I digress…) All I’m saying is that our Hero here needs one of his super-top-secret meetings to be at a diner with a cup of coffee, a nice burger, and an electrical outlet. And possibly a cot. 

 I guess I just can’t get my head tricked into suspending reality long enough to believe how much he can get done with so few resources in just 24 hours. The range of emotions. And physical exhaustion. The life or death situations. Too much. Not possible. Turning the channel.

 J is being deployed. Again. Suddenly.

 Yeah. I’ll let that sink in.

 It wasn’t supposed to happen again. He’s done his time—so close to retirement. He’d already been given orders for his next assignment. He doesn’t need a command. He was not even stationed with a particular unit. But of course none of that matters. It didn’t matter his rank. It didn’t matter his family situation. Didn’t matter that we already had orders to PCS. It didn’t matter the incredibly short notice or tight timeline they put him on. Didn’t matter that he was stationed in a non-deploying position, separate from any sort of deploying unit. Nope. Particular skill set + immediate need= pack your duffel, Soldier. You’re on! 

On a Tuesday morning we were on family vacation—happy, sunny, relaxed and planning our next PCS move.

On Wednesday morning, he got the email. And an hour later, we were on the phone. Trying to wrap our heads around our new reality. How do we do this? When does it happen? Why so quick? Can we delay? Say no? Ask for something else? Plead our case? 

No. Of course the answer to these things was no. This was happening. (Of course it was. For any of you who know J, you know that he would never ever side-step something he felt to be his duty. It’s not only that this is his job, it’s who he is: It’s what he does. From the moment they said “we need someone to go,” I knew it would be him. And it’s why I love him. But damn, damn, damn.) 

And then the planning started. What happens next? What resources do we have? What resources will we need? Who will help with the baby? How will Eleanore handle all this? Will she even know? What will my job say? Can I handle this on my own? (I’ll have to.) Can I reach out to friends and family? (I’ll have to.) Are we still moving when he gets back? Will I be coordinating that move? (Yes…and…yes.) And Christmas. And Thanksgiving. And Ellie’s 2nd birthday. And…and…and. 

Off the phone. Decisions made. Plans starting to come together. Quiet in my office by myself. First deep breath. And the waterworks begin. I’m profoundly sad. And I’m angry. And I’m proud and frustrated and scared out of my mind.

My poor unsuspecting girlfriend called just about then to catch up and ask about my vacation. (sorry friend...) Trying to relay the information to her only furthered my breakdown into an ever-deteriorating mental state. (In my defense…I had *literally* just hung up the phone with J. And this really did blindside us. Plus, the most mentally and emotionally taxing thing I had had to deal with in the week previous was getting my kid to sit still long enough for me to apply sunscreen. To say that I was ill-prepared for the phone call at that particular moment is a pretty solid truism.)

“You gonna be ok?”

 “Well. I have to be.” 

“No you don’t. It’s ok to be emotional about this. It’s a huge deal. I’d be upset for days.” 

And that’s when I realized that that wasn’t my reality—couldn’t be my reality. I sighed and pulled myself together. “I’ve got 24 hours.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I get 24 hours to process. I get 24 hours to be mad and freak out. And then I gotta be done with it. This is happening. And I am in charge of holding it together at home. And it’s going to be fine. I don’t have time to freak out longer than 24 hours. And honestly, J has to get his head in the game. He doesn’t have the time or energy to be worrying about what is going on at home. I get today to freak out. Privately. And then tomorrow I have to put my game face on and be done with this silliness.”

And so it was. I came home from work that night with our little girl in tow. Eyes dry. Said game face appropriately donned. “Let’s do this.” 

And so we planned. And schemed. And started setting up what life would look like while J was away and more importantly, what life would look like for us upon his return. Teamwork. Resolve. And a plan.

Thursday morning, J got the call to confirm he’d be taking the deployment. (An aside, I’ll leave out the next three weeks’ worth of torture where he was going, then he wasn’t going, then they needed him, then the assignment was no longer valid, then it was a year, then it was a six months, then it was a year but no move afterwards, then it was on, six months, and we still move to the PCS we were supposed to go to in the first place. Three weeks of this. Three.weeks. I’ll offer that little timeline without any additional commentary…other than to say not cool, Army. Not cool.)

But we made it. We made it through the first 24 hours. And we made it through the next 24. And each day after that, 24 more hours, removed from the Big Clock of slowly moving time that gets us to the next thing.

So I guess, when you’re in it, the 24 hours pass. And you come out on the other side stronger, having solved the problem in front of you and ready to face what’s next (I’ll be saving the President in the next 6 months?) 

Perhaps Jack Bauer isn’t so unreasonable. I guess it’s pretty amazing what you can accomplish in 24 hours when you have to. But if Jack Bauer is legit, someone needs to go ahead and grab that cell phone plan for me. I feel like I’ll probably have some important calls to make in the next six months or so.