"Take Heart! I Have Overcome the World!"- An Older Piece I Wrote A Few Years Ago

John 16:33 tells us, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world!” Think about that first sentence for a second.  He does not say we might have trouble. He does not tell us we have a 50/50 shot.  He does not say, “if you do everything I command, you will be spared.” No, Jesus tells us we WILL have trouble in this world.  But, before you let that beat you up and tear you down, keep on reading. Jesus makes another positive promise. He reminds us He has already overcome this world.  Through Christ’s death on the cross and his resurrection, He has faced death and come out victorious. Because of this, if our faith is in Him, we have nothing to fear. That does not mean we will not face tremendous trials and pain in our own lives. It simply reminds us that those pains are temporary, and we will be restored one day in Heaven.

 This scripture came to me as I was rocking my sleeping baby boy (well, 2 ½ years old is still a baby, right?!?) and praying for protection for my husband in Afghanistan.  He had called a few hours before to tell me that he would be unable to call on our 12 year wedding anniversary. Why, you might ask. Because, on that particular day, he would be leaving for a mission to a very dangerous outlying camp, and he would be getting there via a ground convoy instead of a helicopter this time.  He had been briefed by a superior officer who had recently returned from this camp, and, while he couldn’t give me any details, he mentioned the conversation prompted him to bring both his rifle and his pistol, as well as all the ammunition he could carry for each. 

So, with this thought in mind, my first instinct was to be afraid and cry and worry about his safety. My mind is quite imaginative, and, in 10 seconds flat, I had already envisioned answering the door to the Casualty Assistance Officer, seen the funeral, and watched myself as I raised my children to the best of my ability without their daddy. Whoa! Yeah, I simply had to get a grip. As I prayed with more fervor than I had prayed in a long time, I was reminded that I serve a big God, and he is bigger than this war. He is bigger than IED’s and the enemy’s hatred of America and all she stands for. My God is bigger than my fear, and all I have to do is ask, and he will calm them. So, I did. And, while I cannot say that I have been enveloped with the same peace that surrounded me the day I hugged my husband one last time and watched him get on a bus and head off to war, I have been given a different kind of peace.

The first scripture that came to mind after my passionate prayer for my husband’s safety and well-being  freaked me out a little. For reasons I do not yet understand, this scripture from Psalm 139:16 kept invading my thoughts. It says, “You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.” God knows the number of (very short J) hairs on my husband’s  high-and- tight-hair-styled-head. He knows the number of days ordained to him. So, my peace comes from knowing that God knows the number of days my husband will serve on this earth, and war will not change that. An enemy attack cannot change that. And, somehow, I am comforted by this. Not in the “I have a peace that he will not be harmed,” sense, but in the “God will be with all of us, come what may” sense. And, I know God will be there for both of us every step of the way.

My broken heart

“You’re only 33 years old. This can’t possibly be right!” Doesn’t sound too positive, eh? How about when this blow is delivered to you by a genuinely perplexed cardiologist, and the “this” is images of your recent heart stress test.  As some of you may know, I have been seen for low blood pressure, and they have been monitoring it for several months now. What most of you do not know, though, is that I have been having some symptoms that, when combined, are apparently indicative of a potential heart attack. Who knew, right? I’m at an ideal weight, we eat healthy, mostly organic foods, I largely steer clear of fatty, greasy foods, and, though I have been told I can’t exercise until they figure out what, exactly, is going on, I chase kids all day and walk on the treadmill as often as possible.

So, in light of that, about 2 weeks ago I underwent a cardiac stress test. During the test, I had some complications, and, while running on the treadmill, it was noted that my heart was, indeed, very stressed. But, I was told that unless there was a problem, I would just be seen at my regularly scheduled follow up on April 18. Well, no news was good news, or so I thought.

Until today. Last night I had the same barrage of symptoms-nausea, dizziness, tightness/clenching in my chest, unable to take a deep breath, and a feeling of complete exhaustion when it was over-so I called my cardiologist’s office this morning. They worked me in this morning, and that is where I found out just how “not right” things really were.

My doctor was asking questions and entering things in to the computer when he confirmed we had already done a stress test. He looked through my chart, read his notes, then turned the page to the radiographic images of my heart taken during the stress test. The look on his face convinced me he had not read nor seen the results until that very moment-a fact that will be dealt with once I find out exactly what kind of hurdles I may be facing. Had I not called them because of my symptoms last night, I would not have found out ANYTHING until April 18. A month after the test was done. But, anger will get me nowhere right now, and I have bigger things to worry about. Way bigger.

Long, complicated story short: something is wrong. Either there is a blockage of some sort or I was born with a congenital anomalous coronary artery. He immediately texted the cardiologist on Lejeune because apparently they have some sort of super high tech imaging machine. In less than 3 minutes, I got a call from the Cardiology dept at the Naval Hospital telling me to come in. Right now. So I did. But not before dragging the worst case scenario out of my cardiologist. I’m not even going down that road again right now, though, because my eyes filled with tears when he told me, and I was left with these words, “for your sake, I really do hope our tests were wrong.” He really was sincere about that. 

I wish that I could tell you that I immediately cried out to God in prayer and that I was overcome with peace and comfort. I didn’t.  I couldn’t. I wasn’t. I really did try to pray. I just didn’t even know where to start.  I instead saw myself recovering from open heart surgery. Not a pretty picture. I got to Naval Hospital, and the cardiologist there was a little more hopeful. I will have more tests done tomorrow morning, and I should have the results by tomorrow afternoon. I allowed myself to feel a little bit of relief.

On the way home, I, once again, tried to pray. I just couldn’t find the words. I know I have a God who is bigger than this little heart he created and placed inside of me, but I just couldn’t voice my fears. That would make them even more real. So, I did what I could do. I turned up the radio. And that’s when God spoke to me. Through Mandisa telling me,

“You're an overcomer

Stay in the fight ‘til the final roundYou're not going under‘Cause God is holding you right now”

“You might be down for a momentFeeling like it's hopelessThat's when He reminds YouThat you're an overcomerYou're an overcomer”

"The one who overcame death
Is living inside of You
So just hold tight, fix your eyes
On the one who holds your life
There's nothing He can't do” 

I don’t believe in coincidences, and I love a good word play, so the next song got me too.  My heart may be broken, both figuratively and possibly literally, but God still has my heart in his hands.

“Lord, I know I let You down
But somehow, I will make You proud
I'll turn this sinking ship around
And make it back to You”

“(‘Cause) All You've ever wanted, all You've ever wanted
All You've ever wanted was my heart
Freedom's arms are open, my chains have all been broken
Relentless love has called me from the start
And all You wanted was my heart”

“So I'll stop living off of how I feel
And start standing on Your truth revealed
Jesus is my strength, my shield
And He will never fail me”

Just this morning, a very good friend of mine who is facing some battles of her own posted about how certain songs, played during a very anxiety filled test, broke through her fear and further built up her faith. I had just commented this.very.morning. on how awesome it is when God speaks to us through music. Coincidence? No such thing.

Amazing Grace

I learned two new things about myself last night on a dark Alabama highway: 1) I rock at evasive maneuvering, and, 2) Deep down, I have a situationally dependent scream that is rivaled only by no name actresses in 3rd rate horror films. I'm still in shock at what happened, terrified at what could have happened, and immensely thankful to God above for what did not happen last night.

On several occasions spanning over the last 16 years of my life, various mentors (who have never even met each other) have told me the exact same thing, "Jessica, these crazy things happen to you because you are such a good story teller, and God must want you to always have a story to tell..." or some variation of that statement. Now, I don't know if I'm all that good of a story teller. Intense? Yes. Sarcastic? Most definitely. Witty? I'd like to think so. Good, however, is in the eyes of my readers, and I hope I can do this one justice. But, this story disturbs me, and, since writing is how I process, understand, and eventually accept my experiences, here goes...

My husband, 3 children, and I were nearly halfway into our approximately 1200 mile, 20+ hour drive back home to NC after visiting family for Christmas in OK and KS. It was dark, about 9pm, and I had just taken the wheel so Bill could rest. We almost stopped in Tupelo, MS for the night, and if we had, this whole awful scenario would have never occurred. Or, more accurately, it would have occurred, but I would have had no knowledge of it. Anyway, we decided to press on to Birmingham, AL. I can tell you exactly where it happened. Traveling East on Hwy 78, approximately 33 miles west of Birmingham, just past mile marker 57. I can tell you where it happened because I had to recite it to the Sheriff. As I said, it was dark. I was traveling in the center of 3 lanes of eastbound traffic at about 78 mph. There was a slight dip in the road, and when I came up over the rise, I thought I saw something in the middle of my lane. I did. It was a person. Just. Standing. There. In. The. Middle. Of. The. Highway. Not on a back road. Not on the shoulder. Dead center in the middle lane of traffic, just over a dip in the road, on a highway with a posted speed limit of 70 mph. Thank you, Jesus, I swerved in time. He made no move to get out of the way. Thank you, Jesus, there was no traffic to run into. Thank you, Jesus, I didn't flip the van jerking the wheel so violently at such a high rate of speed.

It's funny how the mind works. In that split second, I was able to take in his clothing and description. White male, about 6' or so, pushing 200 lb, dressed in dark brown coveralls and dark brown beanie, older model teal green Chevy S-10 on the side of the road. Everything simultaneously slowed down and sped up. Even as I jerked, I saw myself hitting him, his lifeless body flying into the van, my children having nightmares for years to come, and me in an orange jumpsuit, serving time in jail for an awful accident. I screamed the most intense scream. I couldn't stop. My whole body was shaking, my hair was standing on end. I told Bill to call 911. I could barely talk, but was able to relay all the information I took in in that fraction of time. They sent a sheriff to help the man.

I spent the remaining 30 minutes of our drive to the hotel berating myself and reliving the situation. I am trusting to a fault, maybe even a bit gullible, and I kept asking Bill dumb things like, "what if his wife was having a baby in the truck and he was flagging for help?" "Should we have stopped?" "Was calling 911 enough?" Then I had to relive what I saw. Either he was standing in the lane, waiting for a car to hit him, or he jumped in the lane. I honestly don't know. But I do know he made no move to get out of the way as my speeding minivan barreled toward him. So, no, I don't believe he was just an innocent person flagging for help. I believe he was either drunk, high, deranged, or demented, and he was clearly suicidal. There was no help or service that Bill and I could have provided that would have been better than calling for emergency help. And, honestly, what it boils down to is the fact that we live in a crazy, scary world these days, and I refuse to risk the safety of my children.

 I find myself being both angry that my family could have been killed, injured, or forever scarred by his decision, and concerned for his well being and wishing the sheriff would tell me what led him to the center of my lane that night. I may never know, and that's ok. Thank you God for protecting my family from him, and, by doing so, for however brief a time, protecting him from himself.
I still see that dark silhouette every time I close my eyes, and I will probably never drive down a dark highway ever again without thinking about that, but, by God's amazing grace, we are all ok.

Holy Freaking Vomit, Batman

Holy Freaking Vomit, Batman!

First off, I would like to apologize for the title. It’s gross, and you can thank my husband for that. Well, except for the Batman part. I added that because I thought it was funny, and when you’ve been up to your elbows in vomit for nearly a week, well, you need something to laugh about. Anywho, so here is how it all started. Since my pregnancy cravings can be pretty crazy, leading me anywhere from Rocky Road ice cream and Claussen pickles, to Spam and rice, my poor family never knows what I am going to want for dinner. (In my defense, I NEVER make them eat my craziness, so I usually end up making 3 meals a night: one for this sweet baby with a sense of humor who makes me crave the most ridiculous and gross things (i.e. Spam), one for Bill and Faith, and something totally different for my incredibly picky Rhett.)

Well, Monday night I wanted steak stir-fry and vegetables over rice. Nothing crazy. Not even oily as we used lean steak strips, and only cooked the vegetables in soy sauce. We even opted for plain white rice instead of fried rice. Faith had a friend over that night, and she gobbled it right up saying how great it was. Bill and I thought it was wonderful. Faith immediately turned up her nose and said she didn’t like it and her tummy hurt. This continued for the duration of dinner time, and we finally bargained with her and convinced her to eat a small portion. She kept saying she didn’t like it and her tummy hurt. Well, award-winning mother of the year that I am, I had the nerve to break out the “boy who cried wolf” story and tell her to quit making things up. I really did think she was just trying to get out of the dinner…after all, she gobbled up her root beer float, no problem. But, after I had tucked her in, I placed her little trash can right beside her bed, within hurling distance, just in case. Bill had the same idea, because he went in and laid down with her for a little bit. About 8:30, he came in to report, in great detail, I might add (and which I will spare you from) that Faith was indeed not feeling very well. This continued in 30 minute intervals until about 4:30 am.

By nature, I am more grossed out by puke than most people for some reason. The thought, sound, sight, smell, anything makes me gag. I will leave a movie theater at the climax if someone gets sick in the theater. I will walk a mile out of the way to avoid it if I know someone has gotten sick on an area of ground I may come in contact with. It’s stupid and unnatural, but there it is. One more cat out of the bag…oh well. I kept her home from school Tuesday, and sent her back on Wednesday. I got a call Wednesday from the school nurse, mere minutes after I had laid Rhett down for his nap, saying Faith wasn’t feeling well again. She hadn’t gotten sick, but looked “droopy,” according to Nurse Melissa. I immediately went and picked her up. Thank goodness, too, because by 2:30 my stomach was hurting so bad the only pain I can think to compare it to is intense labor pains, made a bajillion times worse by pitocin, an hour before giving in and getting the epidural. Yeah, it was bad. Again, I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say I got an enormous ab workout and went through 3 double rolls of Charmin in a very short period of time. Bill got home as quickly as he could, and, as I was lying in bed, cramping, chilling, and shaking, through the baby monitor I heard the unmistakable sound of Rhett getting sick. It was horrid and we both ran in to his room to confirm what I already knew.

Poor guy. And poor Bill. Since I was pretty much incapacitated, the task of trying to teach a 3 year old how to aim for a trash can rested on his shoulders. He got sick about every 45 minutes until about 5am, only resting briefly in between. Total germaphobe that I am, I kept texting Bill from our room, telling him all the things that needed to be disinfected, sanitized, thrown in the washing machine, etc. I couldn’t yell for him without getting sick all over again, but he took my manic texts in stride. I had him balancing on chairs spraying our non-lethal cleaners into our air ducts, covering the rug with a thick blanket so it would be easier to clean in case Rhett’s aim was off, wiping Rhett down from head to toe with Wet Ones every time he got sick, and telling him how to sort the laundry so we didn’t end up with strangely colored clothes from the Super Hot water in the sanitize setting. In between texting instructions and begging for ice chips (even water made me super sick), I spent all of the rest of my time praying, begging, pleading with God for the kids and I to feel better and for Him to protect Bill from this heinous virus.

Again, I think it has something to do with the pregnancy, because 3 days later I am still super weak. I could hardly stand on Thursday, and if I had to move from one room to another, I had to crawl. Friday was slightly better, but not much. That was forced to change real quick when Bill came in about 2am Saturday and said he thought he was getting sick too. Poor guy, but he did ask for it. When I told him how hard I had been praying he wouldn’t get this too, and how I had been trying to do everything I could to protect him from our germs, he just said, “I’ll probably get it anyway. Besides, I want to see what all the fuss is about.” Famous last words…. He must be made of much stronger stuff than the kids and I, though, because he only got a small touch of it.  By 2:15am I was up out of bed like I had been poked with a cattle prod, wiping surfaces with bleach wipes, Lysoling any and every surface imaginable, washing any blanket he had laid on (or even laid eyes on) since they came out of the dryer clean and sanitized yesterday afternoon, and seriously wondering why, if you can set off a bomb to kill actual bugs, why isn’t there some safe alternative that would kill off this stomach bug. Give me a break, it was 2:30am and I had been near death for almost 3 days. I had just used the last bleach wipe and I couldn’t squeeze one more cloud of toxic chemicals from the Lysol can. I was desperate.

If I were less of a chicken, or if I actually had a concealed carry permit that would allow me to tote my pistol through Wal-Mart parking lot at this crazy hour, I totally would have gone to the store right then. But, I am, and I don’t, so I waited until the kids woke up, and we went during daylight hours. I had to mentally psyche myself up for the trip. We were out of the very things I desperately needed to feel like I could actually control this situation (silly me, I can’t control this anymore than I can control the tide, but I have never claimed to be a rational germaphobe), but the only way to get them was to go through a cesspool of germs to acquire these items. Had I not feared embarrassing both myself and the kids beyond all help, I totally would have donned Bill’s gas mask to make the trip. Again, no claims at being rational after this kind of week. Anyway, so we made our way into the lion’s den, and I kid you not, before I even got parked, a kid barfed right in front of my car. Poor kid, her parents didn’t even break their stride; they just kind of herded her along like they had better things to do than take care of a sick kid. Needless to say, I didn’t park in that parking spot. Remember my aforementioned phobia. Yeah, it knows no bounds. So we parked a bit further out.

I ran through the place like I was on some kind of shopping spree where if I finished in time, everything in my cart would be free, which really would have been cool when you consider that, by the time I got all the cleaning supplies (never mind the fact I bought, like, hospital quantities of each),  4 new air filters (I can try, right?), a few new toothbrushes for all 4 of us, and a crap-load of Gatorade for Bill, I spent just over $100. I finished in record time, and then I heard the skies open up outside to an enormous, torrential downpour. I waited in the shortest available line for what seemed like an eternity, the sounds of people of all ages coughing, hacking, gagging, etc. growing louder as each minute crept slowly by. I was a near basketcase by the time I got to the register.  Seriously, had Wal-Mart existed during the Black Plague, I imagine this is what it would have felt like. I waited for her to s-l-o-w-l-y ring everything up, gasped quietly at the total amount, and made a mad dash for the door, where I was stopped and asked for my receipt. The guy’s topic of conversation? How sick everyone in the store was and how he had never been sick in his life until he started working at Wal-Mart. Didn’t he see I was buying $100 worth of germ-killing paraphernalia?!?!

The rain was still hammering down, so I zipped up the kids coats, pulled up their hoods, threw Faith on the front of the cart, and ran like hell through the rain, splashing in puddles of God knows what the entire way. For the record, I do not run unless being chased by a rabid dog, and even then it’s really more of a slow trot, but I’m pretty sure I made it in record time (for me.) And yes, I am fully aware that I probably looked like a baby giraffe trying to walk for the first time, but I HAD to get out of that place. I got the kids in the car, and Faith helped get Rhett buckled while I unloaded the cart. A sweet young Marine was taking his cart back to the cart corral, and, when he saw me headed in that direction, he offered to take mine as well. Who says chivalry is dead? Maybe he just felt sorry for the crazy lady who ran like a baby giraffe, who knows. Either way, I’ll take it, and I thanked him profusely.

I got us home safely through the continued downpour, and walked in to find that Bill was feeling much better, thank goodness. He was still in bed, but he was feeling better, so that’s a bonus.  If you have known me very long, or if you know me very well, you know that I use sarcasm as a tool to deal with nearly every situation, and I try to laugh at and find the good in whatever life throws at me. So, as I played back the week of bloopers, I tried to find some highlights. They don’t outnumber the trials in terms of quantity, but they certainly do in quality. So, here goes: 1) After waiting 17 weeks to feel the little peanut move, he or she made her presence known yesterday. We skipped the “fluttery” stage and went straight to the karate chops and barrel rolls, which was super cool. Maybe those 6 lbs I lost in 24 hours hacked him or her off, or maybe it just made my stomach so sensitive I could feel the movements more strongly than I had anticipated at this stage. 2) After battling the potty training roller coaster with Rhett for almost a year now (he regressed when Bill deployed, then he had a scary encounter with an automatic flusher at a public toilet, and he was TERRIFIED), Rhett has stayed dry, both day and night for 3 days now. The only accident was tummy bug related, and there is no way he could have controlled that, so it was actually good we still had him in pull-ups this week. But, today, he even made it to the potty in time for that gruesome display, so rock on! 3) As awful as this was, we all got it in stages and were able to help each other, so it really could have been much worse…especially since one of the toilets got clogged up this morning. Don’t worry, I’m a whiz with a plunger now, and fixed her right up. And 4) It was great knowing I have a husband I can fully rely on to back me up when things like this happen. He took care of the kids and me, and I took care of him. Good teamwork!

So, it was a long, nasty 5 days that I hope we never relive again as long as we are present on this earth, but we survived, and that’s all that matters. And if I ever decide to open a janitorial supply store, well, I’m well stocked now!

Catching up on some older posts-1 Month Down Party

If you have been following my blog, you know that I set some pretty lofty goals for myself and, about 2 months into the deployment, realized they were not very realistic for me during this particular time in my life. Sadly, one of the things that got pushed to the sidelines was my daily chronicling of the kids shenanigans.  Most of that, however, was out of necessity simply because everything that was funny or crazy enough to write about usually required at least an hour of clean-up, and sometimes required enlisting the services of a professional handyman, so I didn’t always get around to writing about it in a timely manner. But, I tried to keep notes about the real doozies, and I am going to attempt to re-create them.

 I have learned, however, that I write some of my best and most comical pieces in the heat of the moment, usually while the freshly mopped floor is still drying after my cleaning up Lord only knows what kind of disaster, but I’m gonna do my best . Some are long, and some are short. Some will make you simultaneously laugh at my children’s antics while you cry at the heck I go through some days. Be warned, though,  some might make you a little sick at your stomach! But, I am constantly reminded that these days that seem so hard to get through sometimes now are the very same days I will long for in a few short years when my kids are too cool to hold my hand in public or kiss me goodbye in front of their friends. My good friend Stessie, without even intending to reach me in particular, recently reminded me that “our kids live in the ‘now.’ They don’t worry about the past or spend too much time looking toward the uncertainties of the future. Life happens now,” and I don’t want to miss a thing. So,  I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I enjoy telling them. If not, that’s okay. They will provide wonderful topics of discussion to share with our children’s dates one day in the very, very, very distant future!

If you haven’t already, I encourage you to read my blogs entitled “The Best Laid Plans” and “You’re an Idiot, Bless Your Heart.” It will give you a little more perspective on what all I had gone through during our first month of the deployment. It will also convince you that God has an awesome sense of humor!!

April 1, 2011- One Month Down Ice Cream Party

Before Bill left, we participated in a program on base called FOCUS. It stands for Families Overcoming Under Stress, and it basically teaches you resiliency training in the face of a stressful situation such as a deployment, a move, or any life event that causes stress and anxiety. It is a fabulous program that is conducted by Master’s level social workers, and if you are experiencing a situation that you anticipate to be overwhelming,  I highly recommend you seek them out. Ok, I am aware that was a shameless plug for my pals at FOCUS, but it has made a huge difference in the way this deployment could have gone vs. how well it really has gone (at the time of this writing we are 4 months and 26 days into it, and I am constantly amazed every day at God’s grace and mercy as we face this deployment), and I want everyone to benefit from this free service.

One of the great ideas they gave us was to have an ice cream party with Bill the day he left for Afghanistan, and then, every month, on the anniversary of the day he left, the kids and  I would have an ice cream party as a celebration that one month had passed and we were one month closer to Daddy being home. This celebration was to be marked by building a  6 scoop paper ice cream cone on a large white sheet of paper. The night we had the party with Bill, he and the kids glued a paper ice cream cone on the paper, and every month we celebrated, we would add a paper scoop of ice cream. When Daddy comes home, we will have a party together, and he will add the paper cherry to the top. It’s a great visual tool for the kids, and I had very high hopes when we began using it.

Bill left March 1, so we had our very first ice cream party April 1. April Fools!!! I can’t even begin to tell you how not-great it was. I am still sad about that.  That happened to be a Friday, and Faith has ballet on Friday evenings, so we went after her lessons. I wanted it to be a great party for them, so we went to Cold Stone Creamery. Faith was so excited about it! I would like to take a timeout here to brag on what an awesome kid she is. She helps me so much with Rhett; whether it’s helping him climb into a high chair so he can’t wreak havoc on the restaurant or cheering him up when he’s inconsolable, she is the best big sister I could ever ask for. They play so well together, and they both have the most loving personalities, sometimes I feel like I am totally unworthy of being the mommy of such amazing little people!

So, we are at Cold Stone, and I have picked out a table and Faith has helped me put Rhett into his highchair. See, the fun started in the car when Rhett, after being told we were having an ice cream party started screaming, declaring he “no like it I keam.” I was sure he would change his mind once we got inside, so Faith and I literally drug him from the car into the ice cream shop. We were the only ones in there, so his screams echoed off the walls and drew a panicked stare from the poor 18 year old behind the counter. I am pretty sure she won’t be having kids for a loooonnnnggg time now. You’re welcome! Determined to have a nice 1 month down celebration even if it killed us, I went ahead and ordered our ice cream. Something pink and blue  and served in a chocolate dipped waffle bowl covered in sprinkles for Faith, she goes for aesthetics more than flavor I think, and chocolate for Rhett.

I get it all to the table, and Rhett starts crying even louder, if that were possible. By this time, though, the place is starting to fill up, so there are about 15+ people staring at me while I try to be upbeat and encouraging that we made it through a whole month. Half-way through Faith declares that her ice cream looks much prettier than it tastes and asks if she can have Rhett’s chocolate. Well, you can probably tell where this is going…Yep! Rhett did not want her to touch his “I keam.” Thankfully, I was able to distract him with her chocolate covered sprinkle bowl, thus ensuring he wouldn’t go to sleep for at least another 2 hours…oh, well. Having decided we had “celebrated” enough, we left and went home to glue our first paper scoop onto the cone and snap a picture for Daddy.

 Faith was all sweet ballerina smiles, and Rhett was still one unhappy camper. But, you know what, that’s what I felt like too. I was trying to turn today into a celebration of us being 6 months closer to Bill’s return, but I wanted to cry even louder than Rhett that someone we love so much has been gone a whole month and we haven’t even scratched the surface. FYI: deployments aren’t fun. But they are necessary if we want to sleep in peace at night when we lay down our heads. Someone has to do it. It just so happens I married one of the few who was brave enough to volunteer for the job.

Potty Time

Oh. My. Gosh. I am beginning to think that, instead of calculating college tuition costs for Rhett, I need to calculate the cost of a lifetime supply of diapers and pull-ups because this potty training thing is really not catching on. We are currently 2 weeks into July, and 4 ½ months into a deployment that seems to grow longer every day, and we are no closer to being diaper free than we were 6 months ago. Further, in fact, if you want to be honest about the whole thing.

Rhett began showing signs of being ready to potty train while we were visiting family in OK this past Christmas, but by the time we returned home to NC less than a week later, the moment seemed to have passed. Up until the day he stripped off his diaper while he was napping and proceeded to pee in his crib, sufficiently soaking his blankets, pillow, lovey, and at least a part of every one of the 15 various stuffed animals that were in his crib that day, that is. So, we tried again. And he lost interest again.  I did not major in Early Childhood Education, nor do I claim to be an expert on all things little kid, but even I am pretty sure you cannot force a child to successfully use the bathroom in the toilet.

Not wanting to turn it into a control issue, I backed off when he resisted, and encouraged him when he showed signs of being ready. Then, Bill deployed, and any progress (no matter how small) was lost, plus some. I have been trying to get him to use the potty for a while now, and he greets my request with a very polite, but firm, “No, thank you, Mommy. I no want to. I no like it.” At least he uses his manners. When he does agree to sit on the potty, I try to make sure all of the important parts are pointing in the down position so no one gets pee up their nose, but then he screams, “No, Mommy! No touch it!” Well, I'm glad he caught my lectures about that being a private area, but I think he might be taking it a bit to the extreme. Now he just goes into the bathroom and says, “I potty. Now you go away.” Ok, I understand the need for bathroom privacy more than most people, even though I have not enjoyed such a luxury in over 6 years now, but seriously?!?

So, I have this brilliant idea to buy him a little potty of his very own. He has the Elmo potty seat, but he refuses to use it, so, when he does sit on the toilet, I end up having to fish him out of the toilet water and thoroughly wash his whole lower half every time. This usually happens several times and goes on for several minutes before my patience is gone and, sensing his life could be in imminent danger, he politely asks for a diaper. But, today was going to be different, I vowed to myself. I bought the cool little Froggie potty, and we ran the rest of our errands. His diaper was dry when we left at noon, and it was still dry when we got home at 4:30. He was very excited to use his potty seat, and I figured he would need to potty soon, so I started getting cocky and thinking he would actually be using it for it’s intended purpose by nightfall. I’m so gullible.

So far, he has filled it with his favorite toys and squatted over them as if he were going to potty. Naturally, I don’t encourage urinating on your favorite toys, so I try to take them out of the potty. And so the struggle begins. Then he hops off and runs through the house like a caged animal that has finally escaped. He’s totally naked from the waist down while he is doing all of this, which makes it just comical enough for me to not want to scream at him, but not comical enough for me to not be annoyed. Since we brought the potty out over an hour ago, it has been hooked to his tow truck and drug through the house, he has taken the removable bowl out and worn the froggy part as a hat, and of course, he keeps filling it with his favorite toys and squatting over them. I really don’t even know what to do. He runs over, sits on it, lets out a long series of toots, giggles, and runs off again, little boy parts flapping in the wind. Each time he just looks up at me and gives me that super mischievous grin, then all that’s left is a blur of naked tush, and he’s off again. At one point, he just said, “Can I just have my diaper?” So I put it back on him. Then, a few minutes later, he stripped down again and the whole cycle repeated itself.

I am thinking maybe this is a job for Daddy…

Can You Hear Me Now?.....GRRRRR!

If you, too, are the spouse of a Marine (or service member from any other branch) then you know how important any form of communication can be. You sleep with your phone beside your pillow. You forward your home phone to your cell phone any time you leave the house. You are the lady who leaves her phone on vibrate in the movie theater and church, and, on more than on occasion, you have been the lady who, as quietly as possible, makes a quick, stealth-like exit when she receives a call from the one she loves who is serving his country so far away from home.  You have pulled over into a parking lot in an obscure location because you are between two deadzones for your coverage area, and you simply cannot risk having your semi-reliable cell phone provider’s shaky network dropping this important phone call.

If you are fortunate (or unfortunate, depending on how you will view it by the end of this story), your spouse may have access to something such as Skype. I would like to point out that I think technology is fabulous…when it works. It is infinitely frustrating when it does not. And, like most new technology, Skype is your best friend when the stars are aligned and networks are clear, but it quickly morphs into your absolute worst enemy in no time.  At times, I am fairly certain it was conceived by the devil himself. So begins my story…

It was the first or second day of summer vacation, and I had let the kids stay up late the night before. So, for the first time in over a year, they actually slept in a bit. I know I should have capitalized on this and jumped in the shower, but, crazy person I am, I took care of some things around the house first. By the time I was getting ready to get that much desired shower, I heard my 2 year old son squawking over the baby monitor. As much as I wished I could pretend I simply didn’t hear him, there was no way I could ignore his incessant “MO-MMY!!!!” So,  I got him up, which in turn led to him waking his sister up, and I began making breakfast. In the middle of this, I got a text (for those of you who don’t know, if your spouse has email access, he can text you from his email) from my husband saying he would be able to Skype soon.

As much as I appreciated the heads up, I had no idea how soon “soon” was. I was afraid to get in the shower for fear I would just get all lathered up and my daughter would run in saying the computer was ringing in a Skype video call.  I was equally fearful he would see me looking like an unshowered ragamuffin.  However, I feared missing him more, so I brushed my hair and teeth (yes, I am fully aware he can’t smell morning breath there…) and made myself presentable.  Then I waited…for over two hours.  He was finally able to Skype around 12:45pm, just as I was preparing to put our son down for his nap. And this is where the real fun began.

First, the Skype video call came in on my laptop. But, for whatever reason, he could see us but could not hear us. I checked all of the settings on my computer and my webcam, and everything confirmed that my microphone was working properly.  Then we lost signal. He called back, but, for whatever reason, it came in on my Ipad 2 instead of my laptop, so we ran to get that before we lost his call. The Ipad 2 is a fabulous little piece of technology, but it’s camera isn’t wide angle like my webcam, and my kids are way too bouncy for him to get a good picture of them. So, while he is asking me to have them sit absolutely still, they are running, jumping, and flying off the furniture as if they think I am too preoccupied to do anything to stop them. They were right. I could either fight technology or them, but not both at the same time. So, we get disconnected again, and I wait for the Skype call to come back in on my Ipad. Well, imagine my surprise when it rings in again on the laptop, but then Skype freezes up and I am unable to answer the call.  It rings in again on the Ipad, so I run back to the counter to answer it there, but before I can explain the situation to him, he is gone again, lost in cyberspace.

At this point, I decide to try to restart my laptop since the Skype is still frozen up and  I am getting the “not-responding-swirling-blue-circle-of-mounting-frustration.” My laptop is just starting back up, and all of the programs are opening. We are at the “don’t touch anything or the whole machine will lock up in response to your impatience” part of the drill, and, low and behold, he Skypes in again, and it comes through on the laptop, thus locking the whole thing up. There is no way to explain this to him, though, so I try to ignore his call. Refusing to be put off so easily, he tries again and again and again, each time locking up my computer until I am to the point I would take a swim through hot lava than try to deal with technology that is clearly not cooperating at this time. But there is no way to tell him any of this.

I frantically begin sending him messages to both his work and personal email. I message him on Skype, Windows Messenger, and Facebook. Really, I tried everything but carrier pigeons, but I couldn’t explain the situation. Add to this frustrating story a 2 ½ year old little boy running through the house crying and saying, “Where Daddy go? I didn’t say “I wuv oo Daddy.” I want Daddy.” Mix that with a 6 year old’s pleading eyes just begging for the chaos to stop, and you get one stressed out Mama. I regret to inform you that when we finally did get a few minutes of semi-clear (his video picture was upside down, but why should that shock me at this point?) video chat time, I was not the sweet, loving person he had hoped to speak with that day. Instead, I was the hacked off, burnt out, evil twin who actually had the audacity to yell at him. I am not proud of that, and I have apologized and been forgiven, but by the time this was all said and done, it was nearly 4pm, and we had been at it for over 3 hours and had been disconnected more than 20 times.

We finally gave up, said our “I love you’s” and disconnected. For the second time in the nearly four months he has been deployed, I put the kids down for a nap, climbed in the shower, and cried…alot. It was the “ugly cry”, complete with blotchy eyes and tears and snot running down my face, and  I am so thankful no one was there to witness it. I cried out my frustrations, and I cried out to God.  I wept and prayed and begged God to help this get easier. All we wanted was to see that the other was okay, and it turned out disastrous. After a few minutes of standing under the hot stream and cry-praying, I felt much better. I vowed that tomorrow would be better, and I immediately emailed my husband an apology.  Thank goodness I had made that vow to myself or what happened next would have been nearly unbearable.

The next day, the kids and I were on our way to the commissary. I had forwarded the home phone to my cell phone, and I had a full battery and full bars of signal. So, I was shocked when the phone never rang, but I got a voicemail notification. I didn’t even have to listen to the voicemail to know we had missed his call yet again.  But, I listened anyway, and his disappointment was painful to hear. He never called back, and we finished our grocery shopping with heavy hearts. He later confessed that he thought I purposefully didn’t answer his call. That went over with me like a lead balloon, but then I realized how, in my frustration, I had spoken to him harshly.

So, the next day, to make sure my network didn’t drop his call again while I was at home, I turned off call forwarding. We were able to speak with him for a little bit, and he promised he would call again tomorrow. But, I was in a rush the next morning, and I forgot to forward the phones again, and we missed his call again.  The next day he messaged me that the phones were down and he would be unable to call. By the end of the week I was so frustrated, I could hardly stand it.  I felt like I simply couldn’t catch a break, no matter how hard I tried. But, then I realized something I had been missing all along.

God doesn’t Skype. He doesn’t rely on faulty networks or overworked brains who forget to forward the phone. He is always there, waiting for our call, willing to answer no matter the time of day. In some ways, I think this hellish week of communication (or lack thereof) served a greater purpose, and that was to teach me that things will not always go my way. Actually, because of the job we have been called to do, more often than not I will probably deal with some kind of adversity I would rather avoid. But, it’s up to me to call on the One who can help me. He may not steer me around it, and He may not take the obstacle out of my path, but He will enable me to plow through whatever comes my way. He’s just waiting on me to call Him.

Groundhog Day

Have you ever seen the movie, “Groundhog Day?” If so,  disregard my 10 second synopsis of the early to mid 1990’s Bill Murray film. Basically, he wakes up every morning and it’s Groundhog Day all over again. He keeps living the same day over and over and over. You’ve heard the saying, “same crap, different day…” Well, in his case, it’s the same day, just different crap.  That’s a bit how my day was today. I had only been awake a little over 2 hours and I could tell today was going to be a slightly modified, more disgusting version of the day I described in my blog “The Best Laid Plans.”

I got off to a rocky start. For whatever reason, I was restless last night and ended up watching TV (which I  almost never do anymore) until almost midnight. Then I decided to read a couple chapters of my latest Lee Child novel. So, by about 1am I was finally going to sleep. To some, this is normal.  To me, this is torture. I need at least 7-9 hours a sleep a night to even think about being able to function like a normal human being.  Since my alarm is blaring by 6am every weekday morning, I was in a self-inflicted world of grogginess this morning. I managed to get both kids ready and get Faith to school on time. I even remembered to pack her lunch. This is a huge accomplishment given my exhausted state this morning.  Rhett did not have preschool today, but errands wait for no one, so off to the commissary we ran.

I drove to the commissary at the air station, and, for the second time this deployment, felt the feeling of dread when I saw there were absolutely NO cars in the parking lot. This time, however, it wasn’t a scheduled power outage. It was because I got there 45 minutes before they opened. For some reason, in my head I got the times mixed up and thought the commissary opened at 8:30am for early bird shopping. Nope. They open at 9am. Since I had no intention of sitting in the car for 45 minutes waiting for them to open,  Rhett and I drove over to the commissary at Camp Lejeune. By the time we got there, we had been trying to tackle the day’s errands for over an hour and hadn’t even made it inside one store yet. My gut told me today was going to be one of those days, so I might as well just hang on for the ride. I hate it when my gut is right.

As I mentioned earlier, I had lots of stuff to get done. I had to get groceries, run home and unload them, get my oil changed,  take Rhett to get a haircut, and I needed to do all of this in less than 3 hours before it was time for Rhett to take a nap.  Not bad, except I had already wasted an hour playing musical commissaries. As I walked in, I realized it was payday, and the place was already a madhouse.  I got everything I needed and by the time I made it to the register, the cart was overflowing and items were teetering precariously off the sides. At the commissary, there are contracted baggers that work only for tips and they bag your items and carry them out and load them into your car for you.  They asked what type of bag  I wanted. Since I was in a hurry,  I asked for cold items in plastic and everything else in paper. That way I could easily identify what needed to be thrown in the freezer and refrigerator and drop those items off before running on to get the oil change and so on. As they were sorting my items, the bagger asked if a particular item should be in the regular or cold item pile, so I assumed they were sorting them the way I had asked.  Nope. Everything wound up in big paper bags that are nearly impossible to carry more than 2 or 3 at a time. Oh well. I actually used coupons today, and I was proud of myself for saving $5, which, coincidentally is the amount I needed to tip my bagger…

It took a little longer than planned, but I got the cold items unloaded then headed off to get the oil changed. We managed to get through this without anything crazy happening, so that was good. Rhett did, however, ask to go out and play in the shop with the mechanics. Naturally they said no, but it made them laugh. 

Then it was off to get Rhett’s haircut.  He knows that if he behaves he gets a lollipop, or, as he calls it, a “pop-pop.” So, he was good and he got his treat. It was a big mess of a thing. Incredibly sticky, too. I know this because, as I was loading him into his carseat, somehow he managed to get a huge amount of my hair wrapped around his lollipop. Great.  The result was only slightly less noticeable than that of Cameron Diaz’s in “There’s Something About Mary.” Wow, I’m really relying on my movie titles today, huh? Anyway, moving on.

We went home, ate lunch, and I got him down for his nap and we had a relatively uneventful afternoon.   Thank goodness, because the most challenging part of my day was yet to come. While he was napping, I got a chance to properly organize the frozen items I had shoved in the freezer in my haste to get on with my errands.  In doing so, I discovered some leftover turkey and, since I had already taken the trash out and wheeled the dumpster to the curb for tomorrow morning’s trash pick-up, I decided to run it down the garbage disposal.  Bad move, Jess, bad move.  The sink filled up with some nasty brown turkey scented water. I tried in vain to get the water to drain, but I eventually had no choice but to call our property manager. He informed me that, apparently, contrary to popular belief, you are not supposed to run anything down the garbage disposal. It is only there for little pieces that may accidentally fall down. Hmmm. Well, the name “Insinkerator” was very misleading, now, wasn’t it? I tried plunging. I plunged and plunged to no avail. I called my brother and he told me a few things to try. They didn’t work. In fact, it just moved some of the water from the sink to the dishwasher. He told me that might happen just as I looked inside my dishwasher to see it filling with muck.

The property manager told me a plumber would be here soon. And he was. He was very nice and didn’t even scold me for ignorantly putting small pieces of turkey down the disposal. He plunged it, but nothing happened. He had to take apart the pipe under the sink. I grabbed a mop bucket, and tons of turkey laden water drained into the bucket.  My brother had told me that this is probably what he would need to do, so I had moved all of the things (mostly cleaning products—I’m a neat freak germaphobe, remember) out from under the sink. Apparently he thought I might be the type of person who doesn't learn her lesson the first time around, so he showed me how to take the pipes apart when I inevitably did this again. 

We emptied the bucket, and I thanked him again for helping me. I hadn’t yet washed out the mop bucket, and I just sat it on the floor behind me while I went about the task of putting everything back under the sink. It was a bit lengthy because we have LOTS of cleaning products. Partly because of my neat-freak-germaphobia, and partly because we share a home with Rhett.  Anyway, I was putting the stuff back, when I happened to turn around and see Rhett.  WEARING THE MOP BUCKET ON HIS HEAD. And, if you gag easily, you better not read this, but there was a piece of turkey hanging out of his mouth. I’m pretty sure I threw up a little in my mouth. But, I composed myself and  sprang into action. In one swift move I yanked the bucket off of his mischievious little head and swiped at his mouth and found there was nothing in it. I am telling myself it just landed there when he put the bucket on his head. Please do not make any attempt to shatter that illusion!! Seriously, for my own mental health and emotional well-being, just let me believe whatever I have to tell myself to keep from absolutely losing it! I was nearly dry-heaving as I washed out the bucket and took it to the garage.

I had no idea what to do. If only there were some kind of baby safe oral bleach. Yeah, that won’t work.  I seriously considered washing his mouth with my anti-bacterial soap, reasoning that it probably wasn’t any worse for him than whatever microscopic germ was taking up residence on the piece of turkey I had just fished out of the corner of his mouth. I called my mom, who laughed hysterically. I called my brother back, and before I could even finish the story, he had already guessed that Rhett was using the mop bucket as, as he put it,  his “Darth Vader” helmet. He, too, laughed hysterically. Then he jokingly asked me if I had some Amoxicillin lying around.  I would have put him on a penicillin drip if I could have got my hands on one. I freaked out and called the Pediatric Urgent Care. I warned her my story was bizarre, and then proceeded to explain how my son came to have tainted turkey in his mouth. She didn’t laugh hysterically.  In fact, she didn’t really laugh at all. Which left me thinking, either she gets calls like this all the time, or she was making a note to call Child Protective Services on me for allowing this to happen in the first place.  She assured me his body was made to fight whatever germs he may have encountered, and told me to take him to his primary pediatrician if he started vomiting or having diarrhea.

She said I could squirt a little mouth wash in his mouth to kill anything that might still be on his tongue. I didn’t have a spray bottle, so I emptied out the Chloraseptic bottle and filled it with Listerine. I had to hold him down to spray little bursts of it into his mouth. Funny that he put up such a fuss over the mouthwash, but had no problem with the turkey that had passed through the garbage disposal.  I did this a few times, and gave him lots of water in between bursts.  I finally gave up and conceded that if he was going to get sick, there was nothing I could do about it now. All I can do is wait for the puking and the pooping to start.  Same day, different crap…

After taking care of that business, I set about cleaning the sink. I think the normal bleach to water ratio is, what, something like 10 parts water to 1 part bleach? Yeah, I reversed it and did about 100 parts bleach 1 part water and scrubbed the heck out of the sink, the stopper, the counter, everything.  In doing so, I sloshed some of the toxic mixture on one of my favorite shirts, and am now sporting a nice bleached out circle about twice the size of a silver dollar. Nice. I really should have seen that one coming, considering the way the first part of the day went.

So, with that excitement behind us, we still managed to celebrate today. Today marks 3 months that Bill has been deployed to Afghanistan. Three months down, 4 more to go.  We decided early on to commemorate this anniversary with an ice cream party, and every party has  proven  to be even more interesting than the last. We still have 4 months to go, and, at this rate, I cannot even fathom what kind of adventure we will have by the time we reach our 7 month ice cream party. Part of me fears it will merely be another Groundhog Day.  But, most of me is just grateful Bill will be home to witness the craziness of the life we have created together.

Dirty Socks

If you know me personally, you know that I am a bit of a super-hyper-anal, type AAA,  neat freak. This personality trait has morphed and shown itself in many different ways and in many different areas throughout my life. For example, when I look back at pictures of mine and Bill’s first home together, I immediately notice there are stacks of mail on the counters and piles of magazines beside the chair. I am appalled by this clutter, but then I also remember that every other day I scrubbed our kitchen floor on my hands and knees with a small scrub brush. You will be pleased to know that I now mop our kitchen floor like a normal person, but I try my darndest to keep clutter to a minimum. See, super-hyper-anal—just in different ways at different periods in my life. If we didn’t have two children, I would probably still be scrubbing my kitchen floor Cinderella style!

One of the side effects of my super-hyper-analness is that I expect other people to conform to my crazy standards. For example, I expect my husband to put his dirty clothing in the laundry hamper instead of merely leaving it on the floor where he, quite literally, just walked out of it. In case you are wondering, wadding it up in a ball and “hiding” it between the wall and the night stand does NOT count. This has been the cause of more than a few arguments over the course of 12 years of marriage.  I would like to pause right here and say that I love my husband more than anything in the world. We have been through our ups and downs, but we have conquered them together and came out victorious on the other side.  In fact,  I would dare to say we are even stronger than before for having banded together and overcome the obstacles that sought to destroy us.

But, no matter what we have overcome, we still have one mutual enemy…dirty socks. Over the years, I have come to the conclusion that he apparently suffers from a genetic abnormality that prohibits him from placing dirty socks in the laundry hamper, or, for that matter, even realizing he has left his dirty socks in the middle of the floor in the first place. I have literally watched the man STEP OVER his dirty socks but not even acknowledge they are there. This used to leave me fussing and fuming because, like my husband, I too must have a genetic abnormality. Mine, however,  leaves me unable to keep silent when this occurs.  Thus the silly arguments over cotton foot coverings.

A few days ago, however, my view of dirty socks was forever changed. I was talking to a very dear friend of mine, probably my best friend at this stage, time, and geographic location in my life, and she was saying that when her husband gets home (her husband is deployed also) she won’t even complain about his dirty socks laying in the middle of the floor. Because dirty socks in the middle of the floor mean that her husband is home to wear them and throw them wherever he chooses. It doesn’t matter anymore, because dirty socks on the floor simply mean they are home safely.

I really took those words to heart.  The thing that had been the bone of contention for us for many, many years is now something I am longing for more than anything. A few days before that conversation with my friend, my husband called to tell me that he was okay, but there had been a close call after what he described as an “interesting” few days. En route to another camp, they had encountered heavy enemy fire and were in a 2 day firefight, basically. At some point in this expedition, a truck had gotten stuck, and my husband being the guy he is, he jumped out of his vehicle to help get the truck un-stuck. He got back in his truck and went on about his day. About an hour later he got the report that, apparently, he had been standing on an IED. This was discovered because a truck followed his tracks and drove over them, assuming the area to be safe. The back end of the truck was blown up when it ran over the deeply buried IED.  No one was injured, just mentally shook up. A thousand scenarios ran through my head after hearing this news. Very few men survive stepping on an IED, and, if they do, they have no need for socks after doing so. I thank God so much for keeping his hand on my husband. My husband could have jumped down out of the truck a little harder, but he didn’t. The IED could have been buried closer to the surface, but it wasn’t. The driver of the truck could have been killed or injured after following my husband’s tracks, and my husband would have carried the weight of his death on his shoulders for eternity, but that did not occur.

After receiving that phone call, I did not hear from my husband again for almost 3 days. Not long in the most general sense, but, when waiting to hear that your husband is still alive with all of his extremities intact, it seems like forever. I prayed continually, every day. I am sure other drivers thought I was a crazy person as they saw my lips moving, speaking to a God they may or may not know, as I passed them on the street. As I rocked my children to sleep, I was constantly praying aloud for safety for my husband. In the shower, cooking dinner, all the time, I was in constant prayer. Then he called. It was such a relief to hear his voice. I love him so much, and I just want him to come home safely.

 He didn’t have much time to talk, but I made sure he knew that things would be different when he came home. We have a really good relationship, so he was a bit confused at first. Then I told him the conclusion at which my best friend had helped me arrive. Dirty socks mean our husbands are home, and I would never complain about the dirty socks ever again. Now, I know that will be hard to stick to when he’s been home a while and I am always picking them up. I also know that, just to test me, he will totally capitalize on my promise to cheerily pick up off the floor and personally escort his dirty socks to either the laundry hamper or directly to the washer, depending on their degree of funkiness. But, at this point,  I really don’t care. I would give anything for those dirty socks…because I wholeheartedly love the man who wears them.

Perspective

A few weeks ago, I was talking to the oldest of my two brothers, both of whom have become my best friends and biggest cheerleaders as we have gotten older.  He had to go out of town, about 5 hours away from home, for a few days for business, and his two children were sad. This was within days of my husband deploying to Afghanistan for an unknown amount of time, but it would be anywhere from 7-14 months. He said that he told my niece and nephew that his going out of town for a few days was nothing compared to what my children and I were going through.  “It’s all about perspective,” my brother and I said at the same time.

 Then I started thinking. Who was I to be discouraged? Yes, my husband was in a combat zone for an undetermined amount of time. Yes, it sucked, plain and simple. But, on the other hand, I am so truly blessed. I am married to someone whom I love with all of my heart, and he, despite all the goofy, ridiculous predicaments I get myself into, loves me wholeheartedly, without question or judgment. Sometimes my kiddos get a little crazy, and the thought of raising them by myself for this period of time sometimes scares the Dickens out of me, but they are  absolutely wonderful,  very healthy, incredibly  smart,  stunningly beautiful children.  I love them with every fiber of my being. We have a nice, warm home, plenty of food. I truly have so, so much to be thankful for. Yes, my husband is gone, but think of the wife who has just answered the front door to see a Marine in full dress uniform with a sorrowful look on his face, telling her he is sorry, but her husband will not be returning home. Think of the wife or mother or child who has had a crisply folded flag placed in their hands “on behalf of a grateful nation.” Think of the parent who was just been delivered the news that they have an inoperable tumor, or worse, their child does. Think of the mother who looks in her bare cupboards as her babies cry out in hunger.  No, I don’t have anything to feel sorry about, and my heart and prayers go out to all those who do.  It’s really all about perspective.

Military wives joke about “Murphy’s Law of Deployments.” This law states that anything and everything that can go wrong will go wrong, multiple times, while their husband is deployed.  I am obviously not exempt from this law, as you can see from my past few days.  After yesterday’s endeavor with the playhouse, however,  I thought I was entitled to a "buy" today. I had a wonderful day planned. My daughter’s little friend was getting baptized this morning, and his family had invited us to lunch at their farm afterward.  The baptism was amazing, even more so because the little boy’s father was able to baptize his son. He was so touched that he got to participate in this monumental step of faith in his little boy’s life that he got a little choked up. They are great friends of ours, and I sat there sobbing. Sobbing because I was so happy that he got to do this for his son,  and sobbing as  I hoped and prayed my husband would make it back safely to participate in our children’s baptisms.

We had a fabulous lunch at their farm, and the adults took turns taking the kids on rides on the golf cart.  My 2 year old son LOVES their golf cart. We could not get him off of it.  He was sitting on the back of it, playing with a little truck, when it all went downhill.   There was a large Black Lab running and playing with the kids.  My friend’s mother-in-law was dog-sitting 2 Jack Russells, and one of them ran by.  The Lab growled, I turned my head, and when I turned back my baby boy was falling face first off the seat of the golf cart onto the pavement. I have no idea how he fell, but I dropped everything in my hands and ran to make sure he was ok.  Praise God, he did not hit his head or have any scratches or bumps or bruises on his face and head.  He was still crying, and it was well past nap time, so we headed home.

 I took his little jacket off and began rocking him to sleep. As I caressed his little baby arm, he started to scream. Then I realized it was much larger than his other arm. I quickly flipped the light on to see that his little left elbow was swollen to nearly 3 times the size of his right elbow.   I immediately packed a bag of toys and snacks for him and my daughter and headed to the nearest urgent care facility. When we got there, they told us it would be at least 4 hours, and we might be better off going to the ER.  When we got there, the parking lot was full. But, he had to be seen, so we went in and got registered.  While we were waiting, I noticed a small group of teenagers waiting. They were allowed to go back, one by one, to see someone in the ER. The longer we waited, the more teenagers showed up. 

Soon, my son fell asleep in his stroller.  A few minutes later we were called back.  The nurse practitioner who examined him thought his arm was broken and sent us for a few x-rays. While we were waiting, an x-ray technician was just clocking in and he made a comment on the parking lot being full. The x-ray technician who was taking care of my son said all the cars were visitors of one patient, a trauma patient. That was all I heard over my son’s screaming.  I immediately said a prayer for that patient.  They took the x-rays, and we were all pleased to find out it was only very severely bruised, but there was no fracture anywhere.  I was so thankful. As  I called my mom to tell her he was ok, I felt compelled to ask her to pray for the unknown patient with all of the visitors. I was so concerned about my son, but his injury would have, at worst, ended with a cast.  I may never know the outcome of the person with all of the teenage visitors, but I am sure, somewhere in that hospital, there is a mom in deep pain and grief over her child.

When I got home, I realized I had missed a party my neighbor across the street was hosting. I called to tell her why I had missed her party. I asked her, too, to pray for the trauma patient with so many visitors.  We talked about “Murphy’s Law of Deployments” and I told her about my playhouse incident.  I jokingly asked why all of these things kept happening to me lately, and she said, “see, he's okay, but you were placed in that ER on purpose so you would know to  pray for, and ask for prayer for, the trauma patient you heard about.” She was so right, and that’s when it hit me. It really is all about perspective. So, if you are reading this, please pray for a patient I know nothing about, except that he or she needs prayer. It really could make all the difference in the world.

You're an idiot, bless your heart

A few years ago, a really good friend of ours told me that all of these wacky things happen to me because I am a good story teller and God must want me to always have a story to tell. I don’t know if I am a good story teller or not, but I do love to tell of these wild things that always seem to be happening to me. Who knows, maybe he was right, because, seriously, I am not normal!

So, it started out like any other Saturday.  The night before, I had purchased a very gently used outdoor playhouse from a young family on the other side of town. I got the kids loaded into the truck, and we picked up the playhouse and got it home without incident. I was very grateful for that because the whole way home I had visions of it becoming airborne and flying out into the 4 lane road down which I was traveling, causing multi-car pile-ups and bookoos of dollars in damage. When I pulled into our neighborhood, I remembered we were having a community yard sale.  I took my first left and saw that one of my neighbors had a much larger playhouse—for free. While I was slightly bummed that I had just dropped $85 on the playhouse in the back of the truck, the one I paid for was definitely worth it’s price…as was the free one. But, a bargain is a bargain, and it would be cool for each of the kids to have a playhouse to call their own. So, I raced home to unload the playhouse before someone else could claim the free pile of junk I had my eyes on. I unloaded the playhouse and drug it into the backyard then set out to claim my free playhouse.  When I got back, it was still there." Wonderful," I thought.  “Sucker!” God must have said.

So, I am trying my best to dismantle this beast of a playhouse when a girl around 12 years old emerges from the house and offers to help.  I climbed inside and saw the roof was screwed on. She found a screwdriver, and, within a few minutes, we were back in business.  “I’m pretty handy,” I thought smugly to myself. I got all of the pieces loaded into the truck, but the tailgate wouldn’t close. “We are only a few blocks from home,” I thought. “What could possibly happen?” At this point I am pretty sure God called all the angels together and they all settled in with their buckets of Heavenly popcorn to look down at His silly girl and watch as the tragic comedy unfolded before them.

  I made it to within half a block of our house when I heard a “whoosh.”  Yup, two walls of the playhouse that were fused together with years of grit that I had been unable to pry apart flew out of the bed of the truck.  Now, a normal person would have seen what happened, reversed back to the playhouse walls, and loaded them back into the truck. I, however, make no claims to be normal. So, idiot that I am, I put the truck in park and run back to retrieve the walls.  In an effort to “clean it up a bit” the folks giving away the playhouse had hosed it down, and apparently all of the water had seeped in the drainage holes, adding a good 15 pounds of weight to the already monstrous wall.  So, here I am, holding up traffic, running as fast as one can when carrying 2 playhouse walls that are roughly 3 foot by 4 foot each.  The  platinum blonde in the shiny SUV behind me  looked on my chaos, drumming her perfectly manicured nails on her steering wheel,  and I am sure she was thinking, “you’re an idiot, bless your heart.” So, she screeches around me as I am hoisting this stupid free playhouse into the back of the truck.

I try again, this time driving roughly 3 miles per hour.  I am seriously within 100 feet of the turn off to my street and it flies out again.  This time I have a line of cars behind me, all of whom I am sure are convinced I should be committed.  I'm not so sure they are wrong! At this point, I am so frustrated I want nothing more than to leave the darn thing in the middle of the road and crawl in a hole somewhere. I haven’t even had breakfast yet, and I already need a nap. But, thoughts of my beautiful little girl playing happily in her very own playhouse fill my mind, and I, once again, load the “free” playhouse into the truck. It may have not cost any money, but I definitely paid for it with my dignity.  I hop in the truck and my daughter says, “Mommy, should we pray now?” I told her that would probably be a very, very good idea. Her prayer goes something like this, “Dear Jesus, please, oh please, let us get home without the playhouse flying out AGAIN! And keep Daddy safe.  Amen.”  God must listen to little girls because, miraculously, we made it home.

 So then I am left to unload this beast and haul it to the backyard where I realize just how filthy it is.  I scrub it down as thoroughly as possible and haul it to the far corner of the yard. I heave the incredibly heavy octagon shaped roof onto the little cottage and start screwing everything back together. It looks great, but I am not sure I like where I have positioned it. So, not wanting to take the blasted thing apart again, I haul it, completely intact and weighing twice as much as me it seems, to the complete other side of the yard, where I deem it totally stupid in that location and haul it back to it's original spot.  I position the “free” playhouse of doom next to the small playhouse I had purchased earlier and look on as my son and daughter laugh and play and delight in being neighbors. Then, as I am standing there, covered in what I hope more than anything is only mud, lots of sweat, and countless bruises I don’t even remember getting, I both laugh and cry at the havoc I create for myself in my effort to be the best wife, mommy, and now daddy, too, that I can possibly be. And then it hits me: maybe, just maybe, God is just giving me material for that book I want so badly to write…