My Piece of Mind

Homecoming

2011-11-09T11:04:00.000-06:00

So I got an email on a Sunday a couple of weeks ago which read: "At Ft. Campbell, arriving at airport tomorrow. Pick me up." Which left me completely stunned. He was home. He was in the U.S.! He was going to be HERE tomorrow! SIX MONTHS EARLY! My thoughts raced from, 'oh crap this house is a mess' to 'oh crap, I need to lose twenty pounds before tomorrow!' (weight loss had been my goal for this year-long deployment-- sigh) And then...how am I going to keep this secret from my kids? And then, should I call the local news and have the big reunion televised?! So many things to think about and decide in the next twelve hours!

I quickly canceled their impending Dentist appointments for the next morning, feeling guilty since it had been six months. But my sister pointed out (she was here when I got the surprise email) that it was OKAY to cancel for this reason. My sister is, quite frequently, a voice of reason for my cluttered, unreasonable head. I then had to make the decision: Do I bring them to the airport or bring them to school and surprise them at school? After mulling that over and remembering that my oldest would be quite suspicious if I took him out of school for a little jaunt to the airport, I decided on option B. Surprise them at school. But still....do I call the press? Should I?

So the next day, I dropped them off, ran to the store, got balloons, ran home, threw up a sign (which my sister and I had luckily found in our basement -- a sign that has been used at least twice before) that welcomed Daddy home, and tried to look my best as I drove to the airport...wishing like hell I had at least lost five pounds. Damn you muffins from the commissary! Traitors!

I was nervous. I hadn't seen him in person in five months. We've gone longer before, but the nerves just come anyway. Finally, after waiting and waiting and looking very anxious (I noticed a few security guards glancing my way a few times -- I was pacing around and getting up and down) his plane arrived! I am not kidding when I say to you he was the LAST one off the plane. Seriously. And the first thing he says to me after not seeing me for five months? "Where are the kids?!" Ok. Then he hugged me and asked why I was crying. What?! I felt like asking, 'Why aren't you?!' But I didn't. He gets nervous with PDA....especially in uniform.

I guess I should have brought a sign and some balloons to the airport so it made sense to people watching....but come on. He's in a uniform, I'm crying and hugging him hard. What else would it be? But no one said anything to us, and we did get a lot of strange looks. I guess people didn't know he was deployed. I assumed everyone did. (wink)

We ate a quick lunch sitting across from each other. I kept looking at him and feeling like he had never left. That the last few months didn't happen. How funny that time does that. How marriage does that. I was so excited to bring him to the school, I just wanted lunch to end. I kept looking at him, reminding my brain that this was real.

We got to the school and decided to surprise my little girl first. So we had her called up from Music class. Hubby hid while I stood at the top of the stairs waiting for her. She came up and I started filming....then she saw her Daddy. "DADDY!" she yelled and ran to him. He picked her up and she said, "Wow, you're really high!" They hugged and kissed and she kept staring at ME. Finally she asked, "Can I go back to Music now?" Ummmm....okay? So, off she went. Not the reaction I was expecting. Good thing I didn't call the news crew for that tear-jerker.

Okay, on to oldest son. He came around the corner while I was filming and he said, "What are you doing?" I said, "I'm filming your teeth!" (he had just lost one of his teeth) when he turned the corner and saw his Daddy. He ran up to Daddy and jumped into his arms. He didn't say a word. Just squeezed his eyes shut and held on for dear life. (Should have called the news for this one) My husband was trying to hold it together, so he put my eight year old down and asked, "Were you good for Mommy while I was gone?" (HA! Ummm...not so much) My son looked at me and said, "Was I Mommy?" End scene. Let's keep this on a happy note everyone! (I did respond with a quick, "Yes! Of course!" -- ahem)

So then we all drove over to the preschool (I went down and got my daughter out of Music class) to surprise my littlest guy. He was outside so we had to do a covert mission. We ducked, parked and walked the long way into his classroom. His reaction was precious. He saw Daddy...yelled, "Daddy!" ran and jumped into his arms. When he stopped hugging Daddy, he wiped his eyes with his whole arm and said, "I cwying" then (best part) leaned towards me for a Mommy hug. Made. My. Year. (Someone call the news RIGHT NOW!)

From there it was a blur. We showed Daddy our new scars, our new toys, the sign "we" put up for him, our Tai Kwon Do moves, our gymnastics moves, and generally caught him up with our lives. Daddy decided to take us out to dinner. The kids voted unanimously for IHop. Pancakes for everyone! It's reunion time!

That is where the day was made complete. We were all enjoying ourselves, getting tired from the long day of surprises, when the waitress put the receipt on the table. We thanked her and then a few minutes later she came back and said, "Umm...someone ended up taking care of this for you." We were shocked. This has never happened to us before. We've gone out to dinner with Hubby in his uniform before, but since we live in a military community, it isn't like people are jumping at the chance to pay for our meals. We aren't "special" here like we might be outside of a military community.

Then the paranoia set in. Who paid? Were they watching us? Did we order too much? TELL US WHO PAID!!!! It ended up being a family that was sitting close to us. After dinner, we got up and went over to thank them. They said they just wanted to thank us for our service. (I was thrilled when they said "our service"-- because I do think the kids and I serve too) I let them know that Hubby had just gotten back that morning from a deployment and they were thrilled. They had no idea. They just paid because they wanted to thank us. What a great ending to an amazing day. But wait...it got better.

As I was finishing my conversation with this generous family, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Who was it? My daughter's Music teacher. Full circle I tell you! She was laughing and said, "I didn't think she was supposed to stay in class once she told me that Daddy came home, but she was in such shock, she just sat down and started singing!" I think that made my husband feel better...knowing that his six year old daughter didn't love music more than him, it was just the shock of it all.

That night at the IHop, everyone was welcoming him home, congratulating the kids and I. Making us feel so very special. I thought that would happen at the airport or at the school. The way I had planned it ( or, more precisely, imagined it) But it didn't. It happened at the IHop, an unplanned, spur of the moment decision that ended up flooding our family with well wishes and heart- felt thank you's from strangers.

I guess I should have alerted the press to meet us at IHop.

Spin

2011-10-11T10:34:00.000-05:00

This weekend was hard. It was a three day weekend; one that is given to military families on our Post to enjoy together. Well, when your family isn't "together" like ours is -- it makes for a really long weekend with lots of voids to fill.

I decided to treat the kids to a movie. The movie I took them to? "A Dolphin's Tale" -- which would have been great except there was (spoiler alert!) a soldier who comes home from "a war" injured. Well, that got my littlest one going. My oldest two were like, "Oh, we know that won't happen to Daddy, he's just working in an office." Which is what we told them before he left. Did we do the right thing by painting this picture of Daddy sitting behind a desk to quell their fears? I don't know. And that is one of the biggest problems with deployments-- never knowing if what you are telling the kids is the right thing or not. I know my husband has "fudged the truth" to me in past deployments, to keep me from worrying, so I suppose doing the same for the kids is okay.

After the movie, I brought them to watch trains pass by, waving at the conductor and listening to the whistles. I could see on their faces how they wanted to just jump on that train and feel the wind rush on their faces -- to have it take them far away from this life we were living on this long weekend (or, maybe that was just me.) So, instead of throwing everyone on a speeding locomotive, I did the next best thing. I took them to the Carousel Museum across the street.

They had a blast, listening to the blaring carnival music, riding the horses, bunnies and tea cups. I wandered around while they rode (my almost forty year old stomach cannot withstand the joy of this carousel anymore.) I am always drawn to this one particular horse at the museum. It is wooden, known to be one of the oldest of its kind -- pre-Civil War era. I stared at it, thinking of how many wars this horse has seen. How many soldier's kids have ridden on its back - and out of those countless kids, how many of their Daddies made it back home.

Later that night, my oldest asked me why Daddy had to do a job that didn't make us rich. I tried to explain the difference between a calling and a job. And that Daddy's particular calling doesn't exactly make big bucks. I tried to explain why being a soldier for nearly 26 years is something honorable, courageous and worthy. But to an 8 year old whose life dream right now is to own a DS, honor and courage don't mean much. I hope someday he realizes that my husband's job meant more to our family- our country- than a lot of other jobs that pay a lot more. I hope someday he realizes that honor doesn't buy you DS's, but it does fill one with pride and self worth.

I suppose someday he will come to realize that being a military kid of a deployed Daddy is also is a job of honor and pride. Because while everyone else is on a trip as a "whole family" and we are "just" watching dolphins try to swim with no tail, trains ride by with no seats for us, and carousels spin with antique horses who have seen many wars through wooden eyes -- we are making our way through this deployment with courage.

Just no DS.

Getting Prickly

2011-09-19T10:08:00.000-05:00

We passed the 100 day mark, and I thought it would be a day of celebration. Hooray! 100 days! Whoo hoo! But, like a lot of things I expect out of my kids, it turned into the exact opposite. Instead of cheers, I got tears. I really thought they would be excited that we were (almost) a third of the way "there." My son, however, quickly did the math and realized that 100 days only meant that we still had 265 days left. Wah wah wah....disappointing to say the least. I still brought them to McD's for a celebration dinner. (More for me, so I didn't have to cook)

I've been trying my best to go with the flow, to let things be, to not get angry over the little things, to not stress over the news, to just take it hour by hour, day by day. Yeah....not going so well.

We've had flooding. We've had precious loss of life. We've had knock out, drag down fights (kids vs. kids). We've had illness. We've had schedules that would make your head spin. We've had visitors cancel. We've had car troubles. We've had nightmares. We've had many, many tears. (mostly mine) And still, I'm trying. I just keep going. Because, really, what choice do I have? I keep joking with my husband (when I hear from him) that even divorced people have every other weekend off -- that this is just ridiculous! I know. Not the nicest thing to say to a deployed spouse, but he caught me on the day that "nobody" stopped up the toilets (again) and "nobody" spilled a container of orange juice all over the floor.

And then came yesterday. After dropping off my daughter at a lovely birthday party, I took the boys home and -- after giving them sufficient amount of time to 'relax' (why at 8 and 4 they need to 'relax' is beyond me - but hey) -- I told them to clean up the family room. You know, the room the kids destroy on a daily basis. I told my 8 year old to vacuum. (I had read somewhere that he is, indeed, old enough to handle this job so I felt quite comfortable telling him to do this without the guilt of child labor hanging over my head) Well, 8 year old looked at me, sat down on a chair, folded his arms and said, "I am not going to clean." Huh? Whuh? "Excuse me?" I said. "I am not going to clean." he replied. I sat there, quite calmly, while on the inside I was seething. Thinking of all the instruments in my reach of which I could spank his tush with. "You aren't going to clean?" I asked instead. "Nope." again he replied.

So I vacuumed. I vacuumed like this child's face was the carpet. I know, I know. I am sounding very unlike the previous paragraph where I was "going with the flow" and all of that bull. But really, who can "go with the flow, take it easy" when you've got attitude like that being hurled at you at the speed of -- oh I don't know-- an 8 year old? I was ready to scream. I was ready to punch a wall. Instead, I vacuumed.

And then, it was time to go pick up my daughter. In the car, I informed my 8 year old that he wasn't going to the movie night party a friend had invited him to. "BUT WHY?!" he cried. Please. Really? You can't figure this out? You, who could stomp on my 100 day parade with your lightning fast math skills? You can't figure out why? "Because you didn't do what I told you to do, therefore you don't get to go to the party." Ha. That's what I felt like adding. Ha. ha. ha. Can't beat me at this kid.

And then I felt the first blow to my head. (as I was driving mind you). He had thrown something at me from the back seat. He was screaming. He was exorcising a demon, really. To look at him, he could be cast in any horror movie. Writhing, squirming, squealing. And then I said, "And now you won't be going to Cub Scouts." So there. Nanny nanny boo boo.

Fast forward to me, going to bed last night. I find a note on my pillow. A kids video camera next to it. The note says, "Mommy, please watch video #41" So I did. And it is my 8 year old via "The Blair Witch Project" filming himself, begging for mercy. Promising to make his bed, promising to clean up, promising his 8 year old world and everything in it. And at the end he said, "And if you still don't let me go, I guess I'll just think of Abbie." Abbie is our sweet 8 year old friend who lost her life last week.

And I went to bed thinking that I must be doing something right. Because if an 8 year old, who was a demon for the day, could reflect on his behavior and come out in the end thinking of a little girl who would love to do anything, let alone vacuum, for one more day....then the next 100 days wouldn't be so bad.

Bunkers

2011-07-25T12:21:00.000-05:00

After a long week of hot weather and camps my kids decided to sleep in the hallway upstairs, side by side, surrounded by stuffed animals and blankets. I stumbled upon them while heading to bed, not bothering to move them back to their rooms...let sleeping children sleep (as long as they aren't in my bed) is my motto! However, when I asked my 7 year old why they decided to do this his reply was "Oh, we wanted to be like the soldiers in WWII...you know sleeping in bunkers." and then he walked away. Huh? Then came his questions.

At 7:10AM I am stumbling around my bathroom trying to brush my teeth, pluck stray hairs and generally trying to be awake when I get: "Mommy, where do babies come from?" Huh? I was a blithering idiot at first, "Well, where YOU think they come from?" and so on. I pretty much told him most of facts, but he got very pale and said he didn't want to hear anymore after I got to the Mommy having to push the baby out of her private parts-- he reminded me a lot of my husband at that moment. (When I told my husband, nearly 9 years ago that I was pregnant, he went white as a ghost, leaned over a chair and said, "We have to call the cops.") Obviously, the men in this family don't take to bodily functions of the female variety very well. Now, start talking about poop and such, they are all over it. Moving on.

Another question: "Mommy what does MIA mean?" This was a day or so before the WWII bunker in my hallway, so I was beginning to wonder where this was all coming from. I explained to him what it means to be MIA at war but that he didn't have to worry about Daddy (I'll do all the worrying here kid!) He didn't let it go at that. I heard him talking about it to his sister who doesn't like talking about Daddy. She replied, "Ummm...do you want to play superstar?" The women in this family apparently have avoidance issues as well.

I came to find out later that at his summer camp they played the movie "Nanny McPhee Returns" (or whatever the title is.) I can't get over the fact they played this movie for a bunch of military kids, some of whom have fathers and mothers deployed right now! If you don't know about this movie, it is about a father who goes to war, during WWII I presume, and is MIA! Nice summer camp....nice. Needless to say, I will be having a discussion with the camp's director. I'm not angry really. The movie fueled some questions for my 7 year old, and that is fine. But then I got this letter on my desk last night (without editing):

Dear Mommy,
I miss daddy so much do you? I feel lik thare is a part of life that is not there. Do you? Well I do. From _____

Oh, it killed me to read that. Why should a 7 year old feel like there is a part of life not there? His life should be right in front of him in all of the glorious kid-like ways! There shouldn't be "parts missing", it should be filled with curiosities of nature, making new friends, feeling the sun on your back, trying to ride your bike with no hands, laughter! Instead he is focused on war, being missing in action and sleeping in bunkers (and somehow having babies fits into this mindset -- though I haven't figured that part out-- did someone have a baby in the movie?)

So how does one explain to a child that MIA won't happen to Daddy when in his eyes, MIA is happening right here at home. Daddy is MIA! Daddy isn't here! I tried to fill his absence before my husband left by providing the pictures, the daddy dolls, the recordable books. But I know nothing fills that part of my son's little seven year old heart that is missing his Daddy. But deployments are just that: a void. One that lasts too long and one that can sometimes be put to the side during a good day, but never forgotten. A looming question mark that punctuates our daily routine. What if? When? How much longer? If I can't grasp it at times, how do I expect my little ones to understand?

And I thought explaining the birds and the bees was going to be hard.

Itch

2011-07-15T11:35:00.001-05:00

So lately I've been itching. A lot. I can't explain it. Last week it was just my ears, now it's my arms, legs, back...even my trainer asked what was up with all the scratches on my legs. I told him, "I'm just so itchy!" Got a weird look from him. While I've been trying to figure out what is causing the itchiness, (are you getting itchy just reading this?) ruling out changes in soap, detergent, sunscreen, etc., I've begun to think that it is psychosomatic. We are, after all, half way through month two of the deployment and if memory serves correct, that is one of the harder months.

Other signs of wearing down: My hair is falling out. I brush it, and clumps of it remain on the brush. I wash it and out it comes. It's really gross. One of my biggest pet peeves is wet hair-- ugh...can't stand it. I've read that stress can cause hair to fall out. I should be bald by now.

My face looks like I'm a fourteen year old going through puberty. I can honestly say I never really suffered from acne. A few pimples here and there, yes. But until I met my husband and joined with his merry men (the Army), I never had skin problems like I have now. My four year old keeps poking my face and asking, "What's that Mommy?" I tell him they are dots that appear when he doesn't stay in bed at night. Got a weird look from that as well -- and he's still getting out of his bed.

Then there are my nails. Or should I say, stubs where there should be nails. Now this has always been a problem my entire life. I bite my nails. I have tried to kick the habit, but it just never works. I'm really trying not to, especially since my kids will likely pick up this habit if they see me constantly gnawing at my fingertips, but I don't even know I'm doing it most of the time. During this deployment, I know I'm doing it...and doing it a lot. I've tried everything like putting that disgusting tasting oil on my nails -- ate right through that. I've gotten manicures with pretty colors painted on -- ate right through that. In fact, I probably have enough lead in my system from all the nail polish and disgusting oils to set off the alarms at the airport screening lines.

Don't get me started on the lines that are appearing on my face. I guess I can't blame the deployment on those, as lines usually come with age...and I am aging. But I have to wonder, would those lines have appeared later in my life had I not married a soldier? Someone needs to develop a military spouse lotion that takes off a year for every deployment or separation. They would be rich and I would look ten years younger. It's a win/win for everyone.

So, my body is falling apart and is so itchy, I can't stand it! Maybe it has nothing to do with the deployment. Maybe it's just the heat of summer, the age I have become and the fact that I worry about every detail of my life. Or maybe, like many things in life, it's unexplainable.

I just wish my hubby were here to scratch my back.

Left Behind

2011-07-06T18:20:00.000-05:00

I've come to realize lately how "out of it" I have become. Meaning, I don't keep up with the trends. I don't watch the latest, greatest things on TV and I certainly don't keep up with the music scene like I used to. In fact, to further corroborate this, there is the realization that I'm beginning to like television shows that people were "into" a couple of years ago, or even several years ago. The reason? Boredom and the fact that I am a milspouse.

Yes, my kids are driving me nuts when they are here. Yes, I am running around like a crazy woman trying to get them from swimming lessons to summer camp, from playdates to library days; however, when they are at said places, I am bored. I flip on the TV -- mostly to avoid any sort of housework. I see that old reruns of "Sex in the City" are on and I think, I remember people talking about this, I'll give it a try. And many episodes later, I am wondering where the heck was I in the late 90's and early 2000's? Ummm... working. A lot.

I was working at five different breweries on the east coast, marketing them and their beer and food. And then I was swept into the the arms of a soldier, and it all came to a screeching (well, not really screeching, more like a sputtering -- we dated long distance for a year) halt. We married, moved. Got pregnant. Moved. Birthed baby. Moved to a second world country. Got pregnant, (not much else to do there) moved. Unless it was on Armed Forced Network, I wasn't watching. And there wasn't a lot on AFN...unless you wanted to learn the benefits of eating healthy from some lady who commanded the International Commissary Battalion, or where ever she was from. (I remember she had a mushroom-type haircut which my husband and I mercilessly made fun of).

I do remember my parents mailing me VHS tapes of "The Apprentice," a show that I so enjoyed-- reminding me of the crazy part of America that I missed so much. I looked forward to those packages filled with VHS tapes, mac and cheese, peanut butter and formula for my baby. Things I just couldn't get in Slovakia (or at least I couldn't recognize on the shelves in Slovakia.) In fact, one promising package from a certain drugstore online closed the US Embassy down due to the fact that the formula they sent exploded in shipment, sending white residue all over the postal area. This was in 2004, when white powder in a mail room was cause for huge concern. (probably still is) I'll never forget the call, "Mrs _____, we've received a package addressed to you, white powder everywhere, blah blah blah, evacuation, blah blah blah, come down immediately, blah blah blah" you get the idea. Totally embarrassing. If I didn't say it enough at the time, it wasn't anthrax! It was baby formula! And I'm sorry US Embassy workers in Slovakia!

Then came the first of many deployments.

And there I was with a 12 month old and a big old pregnant belly. Not so much time for TV watching. Then came the baby. Four months later, another deployment. So, a new baby and a toddler equaled no television pleasure for me. Unless you count endless hours of Thomas the Tank Engine being pleasurable. Which I do not.

Years pass and though I enjoy and appreciate PBS, that is all I got to watch, or in my case hear, since I couldn't stand to stomach watching the endless "Cliffords," "Caillous" (quite possibly the most annoying character on TV) and "Barneys" (second most annoying character on TV).

Years pass again and now I find myself battling for position with older children. Children who want to watch "iCarly" (no), "Wizards of Waverly Place" (uh- no) and "Big Time Rush" (mm-mm). I know, I know...everyone is watching those shows (or are they?)...and I am probably setting the kids up for culture-failure when they go to school and everyone is talking about the big ta-do on whatever show they aren't allowed to watch. But I've survived without "Sex and the City" for the last decade, and now, after a gift from my sister, a year's worth of "Glee" is sitting on my desk waiting to be watched. Yes, I admit, I have not watched "Glee" -- am I the only one? So, I figure my kids can be denied whatever "in" television program is on. Get outside! Play! Let me watch Carrie and Aidan! (yes, I am a hypocrite!)

So boredom has taken over going into the second month of deployment. And I think I've gotten the gist of "Sex in the City." I'm kinda over it...they make me feel even less trendy even though twelve years have past! Maybe I'll pop in the "Glee" dvds and see what I've been missing. Or, maybe for old time's sake, I'll flip on over to PBS and see what Clifford has been up to. Something tells me, nothing much has changed on Birdwell Island.

Which, in some ways, is very comforting.

Whine

2011-06-26T20:07:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was a tiresome day. The kids were pushing every button I had, and ones I didn't know I had. Everyone was whining and fighting. I was ready to walk out. After telling them we were going to have movie night, they finally calmed down. Then I let the "other shoe drop"...movie night was going to take place after we went to church. Well, you can imagine the response I got for that. Three kids under the age of seven and Church on a Saturday night don't mix even on the best of days (as in, when Daddy is home.)

And so I told them: No church, no movie. What I should have said was, "Best behavior at church, or no movie." Everyone complained as they got ready. Why do I have to wear a shirt with a collar? Why do you have to brush my hair? Why can't I bring my Leapster? Why why why??? I was so DONE with the three of them by the time we got to Church, but I figured...we can just blend into the crowd and then the kids will understand what is important: church, then movie. I just wanted an hour where I could listen to another adult, perhaps even watch other kids misbehave (rather than mine) and just be a part of an audience.

But, no. The Church had other plans. The three kids and I walked in, grabbed our books and were about to douse ourselves in Holy Water (I felt like dumping the thing over my eldest's head for being so rotten that day) when I hear, "Ma'am...would your family like to present the gifts for this evenings Mass?" Oh dear God. No...no, no,no. PLEASE don't be talking to me. I even tried to move away from the man who was asking me but he asked again, "Ma'am, would you like to --" I cut him off, "Ummm...I don't think we're ready for that, I mean he's only 4, she's 6 and I'm alon--" By then my kids were literally jumping up and down yelling, "YES YES YES!!! WE WANT TO!!!" Oy vey.

So. We were the gift presenters. And for those of you who aren't Catholic, that means we have to bring a basket of money, a jug of wine and the Communion Wafers up the aisle of the church, in front of everyone, to the priest -- without dropping anything or making total idiots out of ourselves. After the day I'd had...I didn't think this was possible. These little children, who had been complete monsters to me all day...caring for wine, money and Jesus's body?!! Seriously???? I worried the entire first half of Mass. I just knew my four year old would take off with the money. My six year old would see someone she knew and drop the wine. My seven year old would trip and communion wafers would fly everywhere. Why us??? Why now???? Why couldn't they have asked us to do this when my husband was here?!

So the time came. The kids RAN to the back of the church to gather the items. Everything went smoothly as we walked down the aisle. I carried the wine (thinking, I could use a shot of this right now) and the little ones carried the basket full of money. The eldest carried the wafers. He was such a little man, grasping so tightly so as to not drop it. We handed everything to the priest and then we were supposed to bow. Well I bowed, the oldest child bowed, the youngest kind of did a squat, and the middle, being a dramatic girl....gave the biggest curtsy -- aaalll the way to the floor. Even the priest was giggling. But it was over. I had to just herd them back to their seats and I could breath again.

They ran back to our seats. They all started chattering at once how well they did and how they loved doing it...I hushed them up thinking, "OK. We did it! There was no major snafus and I didn't look like a total nut job single mom!" And then it was time to stand up and pray. I stood up, feeling proud, feeling a little less like I wanted to sell my kids to the gypsies for the day.

And then... I realized my fly was down...and probably had been during our walk and presentation in front of the congregation.

I should have grabbed the wine and ran.

Mail Call

2011-06-23T19:48:00.000-05:00

My husband tends to keep things from me. Awards, commendations, medals and such. Once, after he came home from one of his deployments and we were unpacking from yet another move, I found a Bronze Star Medal in one of the boxes. I asked him what it was. He just said it was something "they give out to pretty much everyone." Now, I didn't exactly believe him, but I did have to wonder what it meant. And yes, I know that many of you military wives out there are shaking their heads at my ignorance. But, I honestly didn't know what it was! I eventually googled it and found out it was something to be proud of.

I've learned early on in this marriage not to ask too many questions about my husband's job. Mainly because I know I won't get too many answers. The deployment before this current one was - to say the least - under the radar. I had no idea where he was. He wasn't allowed to tell me. There was no contact for months. Once in a while I would get an email from a strange email address, letting me know he was alive. There was no skyping, no letters, no emails. In fact, I had to write fake "Love, Daddy" letters to the kids so they didn't wonder why Daddy was forgetting them. I wonder what I did with those letters. I wonder if they even remember them. Probably not. Like so many things military wives/moms do, we are even more-so "under the radar."

I had to lie to the kids so many times during that deployment. Things like, "Oh Daddy called, he said he was fine, but he didn't want me to wake you!" Meanwhile, I hadn't heard from him in two months. "Daddy is so proud of you learning how to tie your shoe!"...and I had no idea if Daddy was safe, alive, hurt, or -heck - living it up in a hotel in Monte Carlo. The things we do for the kids to protect them from the unknown...

So today I got a package in the mail addressed to my husband. Tucked between a Kohls Catalog and the water bill. I opened the package in my car, on my way to bring the kids to swim lessons. (What a glamorous life I lead!) Inside the manila envelope was an award for my husband:

"To all who shall see these presents, greeting: This is to certify that the President of the United States of America Authorized by Executive Order, 16 January 1969 has awarded

THE MERITORIOUS SERVICE MEDAL to (insert Hubby's name)"

I had to laugh. I mean here I am, in my car with swim suits, towels, snacks, water bottles and bills piled on my lap holding a medal for my husband from the President. The certificate went on to list his accomplishments -- which were impressive, though he would never agree. In fact, he would be horrified that I'm even writing about it. I'm proud of him, and glad that I was the one who found this in the mail. Had he been awarded this prior to deploying, I probably wouldn't have known about it.

But it begs the question. Even with all of his accomplishments, could he do what I'm doing? Could he scramble around town picking up three kids at three separate places with three bathing suits, three towels, enough snacks, remembering to pay for camp next week, solving the mysterious noise coming from my bathroom (thanks to my Mom for figuring that out), kissing non-existent boo-boos, soothing achingly real boo-boos (from missing Daddy), keeping up with the bills, killing the bugs, wiping the tushes, cooking the dinners no one will eat, staying up with those that have nightmares, driving his car around so it won't die, bringing kids to the ER, cleaning up vomit, biting my tongue when I would love to just let loose on one or all of the kids, loving them when they are sometimes really, really hard to like. The list just goes on. Every single-mother out there knows this list. But do they get to open a package in the car containing a Medal for Meritorious Service? Probably not.

I wonder. When will the military start handing out awards to those who are holding it together on the home front?

I'll have to check my mail tomorrow.

Flags

2011-06-14T11:54:00.000-05:00

After a long weekend, I was excited for Monday. Kids are going back to camp, I can get some errands done and maybe, just maybe I can hear from my husband without the kids interrupting. Not that I don't want them to see and talk to Daddy, it would just be nice to have him to myself for one conversation. You know, to ask him how he's doing, what he may need, what the !#@% is his pin number so I can pay the bills online? (yes, we did cover this pre-deployment, but I have since lost that particular piece of paper...or perhaps it is now covered in hearts and rainbows as my 6 year old daughter has taken to drawing all over my papers as of late.) The little things.

So, as I rushed the kids into the car, bags packed with the endless items that each different camp requires (towels, sunblock, water bottles, cash, water shoes, regular shoes, socks, hats, etc.) I was ready for my "day off." It had been -- well, a weekend. I can not stand weekends during a deployment. They drag on forever, even when one of the days are filled with pre-planned activities (birthday parties or play dates.) Sundays are the worst. I think time slows down on Sundays, perhaps even goes backwards. How else to explain the phenomenon of being woken up at 0630 only to look at the clock three hours later (or what feels like 3 hours later) and it glares: 0715. Ah, Sundays. At least this Sunday, there was no ER trip worked into our schedule.

So Monday morning, backing out of the garage, something caught my eye out of the rear view mirror. A fluttering of sorts. I stopped the car and said, "What the heck?" (Which I still need to learn, to never, ever say that in a car full of young ones-- it only promotes the: What Mommy? What do you see? Can I get unbuckled so I can see too? What's wrong Mommy? Is there a tornado? barrage of questions) I got out to see what the fluttering thing was.

It was an American flag. Someone had placed an American flag in my yard. I was caught off guard. You know that feeling like someone is watching you? I felt that. I saw that a note was attached and it was a paper with "flag facts" on it, apparently put there by one of the local real estate companies. As I looked around the neighborhood, I noticed that most houses had one flag in their yards...but not all. Curious, I turned the other direction and that is when I saw the other three flags planted on the other side of my driveway. These didn't have the notes attached. They just stood there flapping in the breeze, side by side.

Now, I can only assume the real estate people don't know that Hubby is deployed and that we have three young kids. What I don't know is who put the extra flags in my yard. I glanced around some more (feeling a little paranoid) and saw that in my little cul de sac, some houses were missing flags. Did they pull theirs out and place them in my yard for the kids? Did they all get together at 0700 and decide to do this? Or was it a ripple effect, one person did it, so the others followed suit? Or, maybe it was just the real estate people had three extra flags and stuck them in my yard. I'll probably never know.

What I do know is that it gave the kids and I a little burst of excitement that morning. The fluttering of the American Flag...the red white and blue that my husband has sworn to defend (and me, marrying him, has sworn not to swear about his commitment too much) eased us into our second week of deployment with a renewed sense of neighborly love -- or at least recognition. Or, at the very least, the realization that there was a very nice real estate company in town.

It's Flag Day today. It's the Army's birthday. And there are four little flags flapping in my yard. And maybe, someone out there is watching out for us right now. And for all of that, I am grateful.

Climbing

2011-06-10T10:57:00.000-05:00

As I reflect on the last week's events...I am, well, exhausted. Between my oldest child's tantrums (resulting in a grounding where he couldn't attend a very special event) to the healing of the gash in my youngest child's eye, I realize that things can only go up from here. Right? Or...

I can go up. Into a tree.

I noticed the browning of one my eight white pine trees that were planted in my back yard a few months back. We have not had luck with trees in this particular house. We've managed to kill 11 of them so far. We've planted, un-planted, planted again. It's tiring. This time we were convinced we were going to do this right! We weren't going to let anything take these beautiful, tall "neighbor blockers" away. So, when I noticed the burnt orange of some of the branches, I shuddered.

Being the only adult in the house right now, I grabbed gloves, a ladder and pruning shears and went to inspect. Up, up, up into the trees. (Have I mentioned these are tall trees?) I had to pick bag worms (shudder). I had to dodge wasps (ack!). I had to keep from falling off the ladder and stabbing myself with the pruning shears. I could hear faint laughter from neighbors viewing what must have looked like a ridiculous sight.

You see, I am not a nature person. Sure, I like beautiful scenery -- from a car. I love the beach, the ocean (as long as there are no jelly fish or green flies.) The idea of sitting under a large shady elm tree having a picnic sounds delightful...until I get there and am besieged by ants and bees and itchy things. A hike? A hike sounds wonderful. Until I am climbing up a mountain and fearing for my life once I notice bear scat. (my sister in law can attest to this)

This week I've had my share of nature. Checking for ticks on my son's head every night he came home from camp. Killing spiders because the kids won't go downstairs into the TV room (thus giving me peace and quiet for a minute) unless the room is void of any spidery looking things. (Have I mentioned how much I despise spiders?) Our pet frog floating at the top of his aquarium. I actually yelled at it: "Chocolate!" I said (yes, that his name), "Chocolate, you better not die this week. Not this week! I WILL put a rock on you and hold you down!" I must have scared Chocolate, because he is now at the bottom of his aquarium...where I am blissfully ignoring the fact that he may or may not be "well". He's fine. The end.

I had to go back up into the trees last night before the big storms came (tornado watch), so I could try to get the bag worms that I couldn't reach earlier in the day. My kids decided to follow me -- one, because they were scared that a tornado would come and I wouldn't be able to see it coming, and two, because they've never seen Mommy climb up into a tree before. Fun for all!

And on this, my last attempt, I did not get the bag worms. What I got was a ticked off bird who literally flew out at me, squawking and flapping and scaring the bejeezus out of me. I fell back...as did my kids (from laughter). It is now a story that will be told for many a days to come, I am sure.

As I trudged back into the house, I noticed little trails in the grass, weaving around the yard. I tried to follow them circling round and round, (again, neighbors shaking their heads in wonderment, I am sure) until they lead me to our patio. Where I found hole upon hole under the concrete. Moles? Mice? Snakes? Oh Good Lord. Ignore! Ignore! Ignore!

I am done with nature. Tornadoes, worms, trees, birds, frogs, ticks, moles?, mice?, snakes? and spiders...I wonder, if Hubby were around, would all of these things be 'happening?' Or is it Mother Nature having a fun go-round with me? I guess I'll find out soon enough. The kids are begging to go camping (in the back yard) this weekend. If you hear screaming, that will be one or all of the kids...because my answer to going camping this weekend is a big, fat NO.

I know my limits and this is it. I can't be super mom and pretend that I enjoy sleeping outside with all those creepy crawly things and ticked off birds. Instead I will bribe the kids with a movie and perhaps a trip to the pool. That's nature vs. nurture. Mother Nature vs. this Mother. This weekend, I win.

Six

2011-06-05T19:15:00.000-05:00

And so it begins. The trials and the mishaps that come with a deployment. Children unable to sleep. Children throwing up in the middle of the night. Children being rushed to the ER. All within six days of Daddy leaving. Of course!

Private Murphy is always standing guard at deployed spouses' homes. Ready to slither his way in during the most inappropriate time. (For you civilians reading this, Private Murphy is our equivalent to Murphy's Law) He certainly made his way into my house this weekend.

Sleep? Why would I want to sleep? I've gotten plenty of sleep...if two hours is enough for a not so young woman. Alone? You mean without children in my bed? Hasn't happened yet. Every night I have to rearrange three little bodies that made their way to my bed even though I placed and tucked them into their own beds some hours before. And it isn't just them. They come with bears, Daddy Dolls, blankets, books...the list goes on.

Imagine if you will, me -- carrying these children, their bears and books, out of my room and into theirs, having to twist them around in my arms so I don't bonk their heads on the door ways or walls. All the while trying not to trip on the multitude of toys and clothes that are strewn on their floors (even though I literally just picked up every one before I put them to bed just hours before-- I am one of those people who believes Toy Story is a true story or at least based on a true story.) Now. Listen. Listen to the sudden THUNK of the head that I managed to bonk or the KRINK of the foot I twisted on the toys on the floor, or even the "shmpfk!" as I cry out from stepping on a Playmobil carcass. If you listen harder, you can hear Private Murphy giggling quietly.

Now that the kids are in their own beds, a little worse for wear, and I am in my own bed, nursing my foot, I can finally rest. Until. "Mommy....I don't feel so (bleeeeccccchhh)" All you parents know that dreaded sound. And it sounds even worse in the middle of the night. Again, Private Murphy giggling (though it sounds a little distorted since he's holding his nose at this point).

And to end the weekend, (I won't go into the many, many, MANY fits and melt-downs that dot the landscape of my days) I am treated to a run to the ER. Why wouldn't a four year old want to dance with his sister? Why wouldn't he trip and fall into the coffee table thereby cutting his eye open? It is, after all, our first weekend into this deployment. A trip to the ER is pretty much expected.

Oh, and Private Murphy? He was giggling for that one too. Just not a lot...more like gagging. He doesn't like the sight of blood.

Shields

2011-05-31T10:29:00.000-05:00

And just like that, he's gone. The gray bearded man driving a green minivan just whisked my husband away as if he was just running an errand. Off to the airport and out of our lives for a year. The kids did a lot better than I thought they would. The oldest just nodded solemnly at the whispered last words his Daddy spoke as he held him close. The youngest clutched his Daddy Doll and said "I miss you" over and over. The middle, in her usual way, tried to make light of it all, giving her Daddy a quick hug and a giggle.

Me? I was running around trying to find a fat Sharpie marker for his duffel bag, water bottle for his trip, and cash for the cab. It is amazing how time just sped up in these, our last few hours together. One minute we were celebrating the last day of school - last Friday - the next, it's 0940 and the gray bearded cab driver is standing at my door waiting to take my husband away.

I know I should have said something profound to my husband. Something Military like. "Come back with your shield, or on it" like those Spartan women would cry out to their men before they left for battle. But I'm not that tough a woman. Nor could I cry out "Come back with your duffel bag, or on it" since, really, that is all he has right now. I know when he gets to where he is going, they will provide him with "shields." I've seen the gear from the last four deployments. Bullet proof vests, helmets, guns, etc. But as he walked away from me and our life all he had was a duffel bag. Not so dramatic as the Spartan warriors. Everything now is under the radar. Shielding the families from things we don't really want to know about.

So many thoughts ran through my head as he pulled away, down the street and around the corner. I should have thanked him again for working so hard on the pergola. He wanted to keep his family in the shade, out of the sun -- opposite of where he will be for the next year. I wanted to tell him that I loved him one more time -- just in case. I wanted to make sure he was wearing his scapula and dog tags with the St. Michael Medallion that will lay on his chest, protecting his heart, his soul. Did he remember the Joan of Arc statue that my youngest picked out for him? Did he remember the Patrick figurine (you know, from Spongebob Squarepants) that the kids wanted him to bring? Did he remember to kiss us enough...did we tell him enough that we love him?

My last words to him: "Come home to us." I've said it numerous times to him. Too many to count in this last decade of Military life. I push out the "what ifs" and the "I don't think I can do this" thoughts that currently are racing through my unguarded head and heart.

Why are shields more important than helmets? Why protect the heart instead of the head? To ask a Spartan warrior from thousands of years ago, you'd know that the helmet protects the self, while the shield protects the common good of all.

My husband, my shield...come back to us. And don't forget to bring Patrick.

Thrones

2011-05-09T11:05:00.000-05:00

So yesterday was Mother's Day. And in the usual spirit of my family, the kids were terribly excited. We were going to see an exhibit of Princess Diana -- surprise Mommy! Isn't that exciting? Yes, I was surprised and excited. For two reasons: One, I really wanted to go see that exhibit and have for a while (I was only two years old-- ok nine, can't deny my age-- when she got married and still remember being transfixed watching her on the television) and Two, I was stunned that my husband came up with this gift.

He isn't good with gifts. I've gotten cash before on Mother's Day past. I've gotten a Happy Happy Headscratcher on my 30th birthday. I've had Christmases with no filled stockings. He just doesn't get it. And I can't really hold it against him. He had no women in his life to show him these things. My mother in law died when my husband was twelve. With four brothers and a Dad, he was left to his own gift-giving devices. Considering what he received as gifts through his late childhood, I can't blame him for screwing up here and there. I think he and his brothers gave his Dad a ladder that they made with wood they found one year...you get the idea. His going away to college gift was an alarm clock (which we still have and use). So, gifts were not at the forefront of his life. And neither was a Mom.

This Mother's Day the children were asking a lot of questions about Sharon. They wanted to know why I never got to meet her, why they never did. I told them the truth -- that she died when Daddy was young and she never got to know Daddy or their Uncles either. It breaks my heart that this happened to their family, and to ours. The kids never knowing Sharon, and she not knowing them. Of course, she is remembered as a Queen/Angel/Best Mother of All Time to my husband. Luckily, her mother, Hubby's Grandmother, approached me when he and I were engaged and filled me with the following knowledge that has helped me get through a lot of eye-rolling moments with my husband: "Those boys thought of their mother as an Angel...as perfect! Well, she wasn't. I just thought you should know that." Thank you Sally. Seriously, you have saved my marriage in many ways with that one statement. Sharon will always be the Queen in Hubby's eyes, and I am perfectly fine with that, because I got a glimpse of her through her own mother's eyes, she was just like me...not so perfect.

Just like Princess Di...and just like how my Mother's Day ended up being...not quite perfect. We got to the exhibit and it was essentially sold out. Hubby had not bought tickets beforehand and was really embarrassed. And yes, I did pout (as did my daughter -- she wore a tiara and everything!) but then I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. At least this year he had a plan. A flawed plan, but a plan non-the-less. It wasn't cash. Amen.

The kids kept calling me Princess all day yesterday, saying "Mommy, you are our Princess today!" and in the back of my head I was thinking, I'll definitely be the Princess tomorrow as I prepare for the colonoscopy. I will be as close to my personal "porcelain throne" as I can be as I chug the disgusting concoction they force you to drink allllll day long the day before the procedure. And, from what I hear, the bathroom and the throne within it will be my little home for about twelve hours straight.

Just a Princess and her throne. The day after Mother's Day. Timing is everything.

Mass

2011-05-04T18:24:00.000-05:00

There is nothing worse (ok, there are) in the world than seeing blood coming out of your body where there shouldn't be. When this happened to me, I went right into the land of denial. Hmmm...that's weird....on with my day.

But when it happened four more times that morning, I realized that it was beyond "weird" and something needed to be done...and by someone who might know what to do (rather than me-- or say...google.) So, I boldly attempted to get an appointment with my Primary Care Physician (and yes, I can hear all of the scoffs and laughter from my fellow military wives) who apparently left the clinic some months ago. And no, they haven't found a replacement for her yet. So...no doctor. Really? None? Can't you find somebody that will look at me? I'll even take my narcoleptic doctor from the last Duty Station (unless they still haven't located him...in that case, let him rest.)

At any rate, no doc....so off to the ER I went. With my four year old in hand. Scared, in slight pain, but more feeling like, "what a pain in the arse this is!" How true these words will become in the next few hours.

I won't go into details. No one needs to hear about them...and I certainly don't want to relive them. Let's just say I was battered, bruised, poked, prodded and left out to dry. Literally. My forearms look like I am a heroin addict. I think I must have been the very first patient of the young nurse that tried to get blood from me. Seriously, bruises the size of index cards.

The good news: You're not pregnant!
The bad news: You're going to need a colonoscopy!
Wait...whuh? Where they stick a....and they put a ...and whuh?

I am completely stunned. My husband is about to leave for a year and you are telling me there is a mass in my ass? Seriously? If it weren't so true, I'd be laughing right now (ok, I did laugh..mass in my ass...I still giggle every time)

I know we all basically have the same body parts. We ALL will have to get colonoscopies one day (yes, you will too)...but I really didn't think it would be needed so soon. I'm still (somewhat) young. I haven't felt any differently in the last few days. (I'm still the same neurotic person I've always been) So what the heck is going on with my body?

The ER doc says not to worry too much. I say, "whatever doc" and let my imagination take me where it wants. Which is not Disneyland. It's Cancerland. And Cancerland before Deploymentland is not a good combination. Why does my body have to overreact to every deployment? It's like a two year old having a tantrum: "I don't want you to go to war, so I am going break down!" or "If you go, I am going to have Trigeminal Neuralgia or, or, or CANCER! So there!"
So, yes, I am heading in for the one thing that most people don't even like to think about, let alone read about (so apologies are in order if you haven't stopped reading by this point).

The saga continues...and this is what it is like getting sick, stressing out, and finding blood where there shouldn't be. Welcome to Gettingoldland.

2011-04-28T09:01:00.000-05:00

So I took a big step yesterday. I started new meds for the not-so-new pain that has been penetrating my face in the last few months. I guess even the "new" meds aren't so new. I've had them before. Three years ago to be exact. When my normal stopped and my new normal became.

The pharmacist I picked the meds up from probably thinks I am in need of therapy. I asked for a consult. They asked if I had taken the meds before. I said, in stilted breath, "Ummm..yes, but I would like to speak to someone about them anyway." So, the very harried pharmacist comes over and (very loudly) announces to the entire population of the pharmacy section of the store "OK, SO YOU'RE ON CARBAMAZEPINE." I reply, very quietly, "Well, yes. But I really don't remember how this effects me...I'm not sure I want to take this again." He booms: "WELL IT'S THE LOWEST DOSAGE, SO SIDE EFFECTS WILL BE MINIMAL....OK?! GREAT, HERE YOU GO." And walks away to attend to more important drugs...like Viagra.

I'm not sure what I wanted from this guy. Did I want sympathy? Kinda. Did I want him to look at me and say, "What in God's name is someone as young and healthy and gorgeous (my fantasy here people) as you doing on this drug? No, no, no...you do not need this drug. This drug you do not need." (I don't know why he suddenly turned into a Dr. Seuss character-- again, my fantasy.)

So I crept away from the pharmacy counter with tears in my eyes. Angry at my stupid Trigeminal nerve (the nerve of it! ), angry at the (innocent really) pharmacist, angry at the price of sun block (I passed a stand of them.) Just angry.

And later, when I got home I stared at the bottle, felt the pain in my face and decided: yup, gotta take one. So I did. And now I sit here in the morning, debating on whether I should take the second dose. What is wrong with me? Why don't I just take the stupid meds that might just help me? Is it because I can't admit that my condition is permanent? That it waxes and wanes and I will deal with this forever? Because I can't imagine what the side effects may be? (trust me, if you saw me the last go-round, you would realize these side effects aren't pretty)

The bottle sits there, waiting for me to make my decision. I sit here waiting for the pharmacist to call and apologize for not complimenting me enough. And my life waits around for me to pick up and get going again. OK, then. On with it.

Breaking

2011-04-17T19:27:00.000-05:00

So we just told the kids that Daddy will be leaving. We keep waiting on his orders, but none have come and since we are now planning out summer, we felt this was indeed the right time to "drop the bomb." It wasn't pretty.

Child #1 immediately started crying hysterically; asking all kinds of questions that a seven year old would consider important stuff: Will he be here for my birthday? (no) Will he be here for Christmas? (no) Will Santa find him? (yes) How will I get through each day without Daddy coming home at 5:30? (To this, I answered, "I've been asking myself the same thing.") He cried and cried.

Child #2 took it a bit differently. She immediately started telling us about her friends whose Daddy's were gone and how she wants to join "Hearts Apart" -- a program for Military Kids whose Daddy's are deployed. This started Child #1 to cry harder because he's afraid he won't like "Hearts Apart"

Jump to Child #3, who sat there, watching this all unfold, quietly eating his hot dog and carrots.

Back to Child #2: She said she could feel her tears in her tummy and they were about to come up. I immediately thought, "Crap! Get a bucket!" but suddenly, she started wailing and ran to Daddy to sit in his lap.

Jump back to Child #3, who still hasn't said a word. He looks at both the other kids who are sitting in Daddy's lap sobbing. He looks at Child #2's dinner plate and helps himself to her food. Somehow, I don't think he "gets it" yet. But he will.

I know this because the last four deployments have taught me that delayed reactions from the youngest child are inevitable. A week from now, a month from now, four months from now, Child #3 will suddenly break down and won't be able to sleep unless he is in bed with me. It won't be pretty. But, at least for now, he has a full belly and is comfortably numb with ignorant bliss.

This part of the deployment is hard. To say the least. Trying to get everything done before the big day of departure. Trying not to think, "This is the last time he will be here while we (fill in blank)." Telling the kids.

I know the kids will be fine, eventually. I know I will handle it with my usual and frequent wild swings of emotions. Strong one day, a complete mess the next. Some people think that because the kids are older now, it will be easier. I do have to wonder if there is a little truth and a lot of hope to that statement. I mean, they know the dangers over there. They see the Military Graveyard near our house. They know that when a Military Funeral Procession drives by their school, they are to stop what they are doing and put their hand over their hearts. And I know those are the images they will be thinking about when we say goodbye to Daddy.

On the other hand, Child #1 just came down to ask me, "Mommy, when Daddy is gone, can I get the newest Squinkie Skull toy?" Somehow, I think he will be just fine.
The only questions are: Will their Daddy be fine? Will I?

Limits

2011-02-23T19:48:00.000-06:00

I am trying to get in as much TV as I can, before the impending departure, because, as all Army wives know, TV is not our friend after Hubby leaves. Oh, the brain-candy type shows are fine, but I'm talking about the news, the violent shows, the news, the military channel, the news, the news, the news. I'm all about watching the House Wives of Wherever, or the Jersey Shore making my peeps looks like idiots, but the news is off limits when he is gone. However, another genre of TV has en captured my viewing pleasure. And it is like a train wreck...I just can't take my eyes off of it, even though it is scaring the crap out of me every time I watch it. This show will definitely be on my "do not watch while he is gone" list.

What show you ask? "Mystery Diagnosis"...you know, on Oprah's new network. I swear, I sit there and take notes. "OK, if my left arm suddenly starts going numb..." or "If I suddenly grow three feet and my hands are six times bigger than they were three months ago..." I will now know what I am suffering from, and what doctors to call. What really freaks me out about watching this is the fact that I could be one of those people! They could do a whole segment on me!!

I can just picture it. A skinny, modelly-type, young girl, waiting in the ER four times, only to be sent home with more narcotics than should be allowed. "I just knew something was wrong with me, but no one would listen," the skinny model playing me would weep to the camera (I would not allow myself to be interviewed on camera of course, being a not-so modelly type person). The skinny model (me) would tell of her struggle of trying to find the one doctor who would solve her mysterious pains. She would tell of her multiple trips to the dentist, oral-surgeons, ENTs, and finally, (right before the commercial break) she reveals that at one point, a nurse actually accused her of making up stories. (The model playing me will let a single tear roll down her face -- cut to the Tide commercial).

Cut back to "Mystery Diagnosis" and the viewer has to hear the whole thing over again, like somehow we've forgotten what we just watched three minutes ago (but since in this episode we're talking about me, that is just fine). Finally, they introduce the person who diagnosed my mystery: Nurse someone. Interesting that I can't remember her name. But, I think this is a defense mechanism since I am totally still pissed at her for diagnosing me, then handing over more narcotics (which don't work for a nerve condition- duh!) Oh, I will totally make the skinny-model-me say that!

So I will watch the show that is completely nerve-wracking (no pun intended), making the watcher think they have every disease under the sun, or to some extent thinking, "OK, if I ever have that I will know who to call." Scary stuff. I will watch it until Hubby leaves, and then, no more! I can't watch anything that will make me even more paranoid while he is gone. I can't exactly go hypochondriac when I am the only adult in the house. That will have to wait until he gets back. I mean, I can't exactly call my mom every time I think I have some wacko disease or if I think one of my kids is suffering from some rare condition.

Oh, maybe I'll take a peek or two during the deployment. And if I need to vent...I'll just call Oprah. After starring on her network, she and I (as the skinny model) will be best of friends. That I am sure of.

Crush

2011-02-20T17:54:00.004-06:00

Lately as I have been driving the kids around I have been doing that desperate thing that desperate Mom's do: put on a show in the dvd player. As I listen to the shows, I realize that I have NO idea what any of the characters look like or how the scenes are set up. I am in the front seat, driving. So hour upon hour (broken into twenty minutes here, fifteen minutes there - gas station, grocery store, waiting for school pick up, you get the idea) I listen to the same movies or shows over and over again, picturing what those voices coming from behind me look like. But more importantly, and yes strangely, I have developed a crush on some of them. Ok, one of them. And that made me start thinking.

In preparation of our impending separation, I have been looking back, remembering how it was, how it is going to be. With each of the deployments, I found myself having crushes on certain men, mostly famous, some not-so-famous, but none that were "real". During the first deployment, Conan O'Brien and I had a little something (though, he had no idea). During the second, it was the guy from "Reading Rainbow" (Don't judge. He was smart, educated my kids, AND kept them preoccupied for hours at a time). The third deployment, hmmm. It may have been one of those guys from those make-over shows. But, as we all know, that was DEFINITELY one-sided, since 99% of those guys are gay. Oh yes, the fourth deployment, was the magnificent Gerard Butler. Mostly from the movie "PS I Love You" (which many will dispute was a horrible movie -- how dare they speak of my deployment boyfriend that way!) Somewhere, deep inside, I think my crush may have been reciprocated on that one. Just the way he looked at me during the movie....moving on.

So. The question now is: who will it be this time? Who will join me on a daily basis and let me enjoy them via the television, movie, book or a radio?

I never know who is going to catch my eye, as I wait for a letter, phone call (ha!), or email (haha!) from my one true love (my hubby). But I have some early contenders (a woman does have to be prepared for these long, lonely deployments-- it says so in the Army handbook):

1. The guy from Cash Cab.
2. Mike from the show Pickers.
3. Ruff Ruffman. Ok, the voice of Ruff Ruffman. I'm not that weird. I KNOW he is a cartoon dog for God's sake.

Which brings me to the current crush brewing in my brain: The voice of "Kenny the Shark" whom I have had the pleasure of listening to for the last five grocery shop runs and school pick ups. Yes, I know in real life he is a cartoon shark. But as I am driving and following all traffic laws, the voice coming from behind me is a handsome, sarcastic Scottish dark haired man with a very keen sense of humor. (I never really got over my Gerard Butler crush, I admit it.) And come to think of it, I think Ruff Ruffman and Kenny the Shark are the same guy.

So listening from behind me, I am finding crushes. Looking ahead of me, my heart starts to feel the crush of the soon to be departure. I don't want to say good bye to the love of my life. I don't want to. But at least I will have my pretend boyfriends-- gay or cartoon -- to keep me company.

It's Time

2011-02-06T16:27:00.005-06:00

It's been a year. I know. For a writer to not write much of anything, nary a word, is sacrilege. Perhaps I will be forgiven if I account for my departure of the writing world. So we go back.

The Monster did come back, but not nearly as voracious as I thought it would. I found a doctor, close by, whom I am not exactly thrilled with, but supplies me with the meds that keep the pain at bay. He still doesn't actually believe that I have TN, but - hey - you can't have everything. A doctor that actually believes you AND prescribes the right meds? Puhlease.

Fortunately for my writing (and perhaps for my readers), this year will prove to be prolific in giving me plenty to vent, rant and rave about. Yes, the Army has wrapped it's long spidery arms around my husband again, and he is off to pay his dues in the sun and sand. Sounds lovely doesn't it? Sun, sand? Oh, to be truly a vacation. Not war. Not danger. Not....what it is.

And this time around (is it the fourth, fifth? I can't even keep it straight anymore) the deployment will bring new challenges as the kids are older, wiser and won't be placated with "Daddy's at work" anymore. They will know. Well, the older two will know. Not only because they are older and go to school with other Army kids with Dads and Moms "over there" but because we have seen far too many military funeral processions pass by our school, our grocery store, our church. They know to stop what they are doing and just be quiet. They know that for every white stone we pass on our travels across Post, lies a soldier who "went to work" and never came back.

Oh, how to get through it AGAIN? How to say good bye, turn to my children with a plastered-on smile and say, "Ok guys, let's have some fun." It worked the first three (four?) times....not sure it will work this time.

And so I will write. The ups, the downs, the in's the outs. And along the way...perhaps I will find a way to get through it -- again. For the fourth (fifth?) time.

Until

2010-02-12T14:09:00.003-06:00

Can you hear that noise? A slight, slow scratch. A deep and low groan. Beneath the surface, the electric pain is starting to erupt. Two years to the day the monster reared it's ugly head and threw my world upside down. Then -- reprieve. Almost a year and a half of glorious days with nary a twitch. Until last Saturday, when the first twinges woke me up in the middle of the night.

No. No way. Just a twinge. Must be the weather. (Yes, when the weather is changing, I can feel it in my teeth.) But then Sunday came, then the next day, the next. Oh no. What have I done? What can I do? I look back at my records. My multiple notes from the neurologists. I dig out from my safe, my last remains of my meds -- are they expired? Will they work again? I cry. I pray. I beg -- please no! Not again! Not now!

And so I wait for the beast to show full and strong. I remain quiet, waiting for my face to contort to the pain mask that I wore. I am already saying goodbye to the life I have built here, to the Mom I have been. Because when the trigeminal neuralgia monster awakens fully, it consumes everyone and everything in it's path.

Will I survive it this time? Will my family? Will I find a doctor here that will believe me? And isn't it ironic, that on February 12, 2008 I wrote a very similar note on a scraggly piece of paper. Only then, I didn't recognize the monster. We hadn't yet formally met.

Fringe

2009-09-15T13:37:00.004-05:00

Ahh..the military life. There is something to be said for those of us caught up in 'life on the fringe.' Where our existence is known "out there" but no one really knows what goes on "in here". There are definite differences. For instance: we become friends much quicker than civilians. We move somewhere, start unpacking and before the kitchen is filled with steins, plates and strange looking utensils from all over the world, there is a knock on the door from our new (best friend) neighbor, dropping off a bag, basket, or dinner. Because she has been there. She has been up to her neck in moving boxes, every other year for the past ten years. She has moved to a neighborhood site unseen, trusting her husband (or his buddy, or -- God forbid -- the lady at Housing) to okay the house and all if it's glory.

Another example, we sign up our kids for anything and everything since we don't know how long we will have the chance to learn: wrestling, bowling, basket weaving, princess wand making, horse back riding or a plethora of other MWR classes. Not much research into any of these sports...not enough time to do that! Sign them up, hope they like it and hope the times work with the rest of the family.

Church? Welcome one and all! By the way, I see you in church...could you be my kid's Godparent? We have no family nearby. Or....can you be my Sponsor? I am converting...and I see you around Church and the mess hall. The wonderful thing is: no one even hesitates. Sure! No problem! Do you need me to pick up Grandma from the airport?

The Military Life is a complex system of emotional highs and lows (a lot of lows!) that many outsiders don't get. I am still trying to get it all. I've only been at it for ten years! (My husband has never known anything else) I am beginning to learn that once it is in your blood, it is hard to get over it. Witness my husband, who is supposed to be retiring in two years...and is now hemming and hawing about staying in for a while longer. Which means another deployment. Which means some more moving around, unpacking and all the rest that follows.

Luckily there will be that knock on the door from my future new (best friend) neighbor .

Standing

2009-09-14T12:31:00.004-05:00

I don't get people sometimes. People who treat others like dirt, just because they can. People who talk down to, or patronize others are so annoying, and really not anyone I would want to hang with. And yet, there are a few people like that in my life that I can not seem to get away from! Does everyone have "one of those" in their life? And do you run into him/her everywhere you go? EVERYWHERE?

It is really quite embarrassing when the attitude flares when you are "with" this person, or even just standing near them. Everyone around just assumes you are the same way. I try to smile and look away, like I have NO idea what this person is talking about as she bitches and talks as if everyone was so very beneath her. Oh, the nerve.

I remember the male nurse who still haunts me to this day. I have fake conversations with him in my head -- now that I am healthy and able to defend myself. He was one of those types. Attitude, degrading...you know. As I sit there in his little pod of an office, my hands holding my head, tears streaming down my nose, dripping onto my sweat pants... I get, "You should really figure out who is going to manage your health care." I was in so much pain at the time I couldn't defend myself, so in shock that someone would think that of me, I couldn't respond at all. Now...now I review that conversation in my head every now and then and I have all sorts of replies.

But what good is it now? What is it with us polite, nice people who sit in shock when the male nurses of the world have the upper hand in banter? Why can't we just tell them to shove it? To stop talking that way to others? Why let them get away with it over and over?

And why...why must I always be standing in line with them when it is happening?

Looking

2009-09-08T13:08:00.006-05:00

This time of year always calls upon a memory of mine. A little girl from 30 years ago awakes in me and her body gets dug up again and again. I don't remember her name. Lisa, Jennifer... one of those 1970's names. The crisp fall air, the sounds of kids playing outside, the noise of a helicopter nearing, then leaving, then nearing again. Where is Lisa? Anyone....anyone....where is Lis-- and then nothing.

It happened while my cousin and I were playing "Love Boat" (I was Vicki, she was Julie) in her backyard in Connecticut. My how our imaginations worked back then! All there was: a field, a bunch of trees, a garden of some sort. But we turned it into a luxury ocean liner on its way to Alcupulco, ready and filled with guests from all over the world. My brother would skimper his way to the back yard, and he was suddenly Gopher. Or Isaac. Didn't matter, he never stayed around long enough to play.

We were trying to solve some water bound problem of one of our guests when we heard the helicopters in the distance. This was a foreign noise to the sleepy town. A town that had one flashing light in the one intersection on the one main road. Fump, fump, fump, fump, fump. We shaded our eyes to the sun, looking to see where this noise was coming from, where it was heading. Suddenly, over the tops of the trees, the helicopter. We waved, jumping up and down...hoping that the people on board could see us! Maybe they would land and tell us what they were doing! They were so low to the ground...maybe they were looking for something fun to do! WE were fun!! Wait for us!!!!!!!!!

Fump fump fump fump fum.......off they went. We stood with our eyes still shaded. Looking towards the dying sound. But then...the sound started getting closer again! They are coming back! We ran inside this time -- surely our Moms would want to witness this extravagant event! A helicopter wanting to land in our story land backyard. We told our Moms, they looked out the window at the returning copter. They exchanged glances. We were so excited...they were not.

"Girls. That helicopter is looking for a little girl who has been lost." Lost? What? Like can't find her way home (like I got lost in Jamesway and the nice lady lead me out of the sock isle and stood by me like a soldier whilst calling "if you are missing your little girl wearing a blue shirt please come to Guest Services" over the mushy sounding speakers)? My cousin and I suddenly are not wanting the Helicopter to land. We want it to find the little girl. WE want to find the little girl. We went looking.

For what seemed like hours we went looking, but probably was only a few minutes. We sunk the Love Boat, put on our hiking boots and searched for Lisa or Jennifer. We couldn't find her in the area of our house. Poor girl. Poor poor girl. How we wished she had wandered into our yard and we could help her get home.

They did end up finding her (we found out the next morning). She had drowned in a grain silo a few towns over. I couldn't comprehend how someone could drown with no water involved. Since then, I have always looked at silos as nothing but dangerous and foreboding. But beautiful nonetheless.

I think of the little girl this time of year. She has been living with me for the last thirty years, this Jennifer, Lisa. We never saw another helicopter fly so close to my cousin's yard after that day they found the girl's body. Yet, somehow, I never stopped looking for her...

Isle Seat

2009-02-22T21:22:00.004-06:00

So the Oscars are on again...and they get me thinking. Beyond the glitz and the glam, beyond the self indulging proclamations, the self congratulating is recognition of art...or at least serious events that inspire art. This time last year I sat in pain watching the Oscars, crying to myself because my husband was about to leave me to go to war, my body was rebelling against me and I was on the verge of brain surgery. I couldn't think beyond one trophy, one commercial, one sparkly dress.

This year. This year I am at rest. I am in no pain. Husband is upstairs snoozing away. Kids are safe (22 month old vs. coffee table ended in a six stitch win for the table, but 22 month old is safe now). No surgeries on my calendar. And I am still annoyed by all the pomp and circumstance by these "artists". Until...until I see Werner Herzog on my screen. I feel like I have a bit of a connection with this director. It is a stretch of a connection, but it is there.

My father in law was best friends with a man named Dieter Dengler. Dieter Dengler lived an amazing life that was brought to light by a documentary by Werner Herzog called, "Little Dieter Needs to Fly". This man survived incredible odds, witnessed horrible bouts of humanity and befriended someone in my family. Then Hollywood grabbed hold of the story and made it into a Christian Bale movie called "Rescue Dawn." My father in law actually had a character in this movie (actually two-- one his first name, one our last). It is not a happy story mostly, but if you were to ask my father in law about it, he only tells of the good stuff.

The thing is, it was someones real life. It was my father in law's life. It wasn't just a story. And after the credits and all of the hype, there was still the real memories, the real scars, the real pain. I remember people like Dieter, like my father in law...I remember my pain from last year. And I guess the connection I feel with the director in the crowd of the Academy Awards is a stretch (a long, long stretch), but at least I feel something more than pain this year -- and isn't that the true goal of art? To feel something?

Channels

2008-12-10T09:19:00.004-06:00

So I had the worst dream last night. My husband was killed overseas and they forgot to tell me. Which, now in the light of day, is laughable -- especially to my fellow military wives -- because how like them to forget to tell the wife! But when I was in the midst of the dream, it was horrible. The weight of the grief and the loss of our future was palpable. I remember just walking in circles in my dream trying to understand it all. And then the doorbell rang and he was standing there in a fast food type uniform so, obviously the serious part had given way to the Gatorade I had consumed before sleeping last night.

But I can't shake that feeling of grief. My husband, of course is milking it (when am I going to learn to not tell him dreams where he comes out a hero?). I think a lot of closure is happening right now in my life. I am feeling a bit more settled. I am not in constant wonder if hubby is going to be sent somewhere for months. I feel like my kids are in a safe school. My best friend's husband is finally home from a 15 month deployment. My family is all relatively healthy (if only my parents would stop falling down stairs!) The Monster 'Neath the Skin is a memory that I push out of my head so as to not wake it.

So I guess the dream just needs to dissolve a little more through the day. You know how dreams are...one minute they are messengers of a different outcome- a different world, the next they are excerpts from a short lived show. I just hope tonight's show is a comedy.

Domes

2008-11-07T13:04:00.004-06:00

I've been thinking a lot about my hometown. The town I grew up in and spent eighteen years in and visited often for ten years after that. My family has moved away from that town so for me to go back and visit would be a real process. It is a far, far away place now.

One reason I have been thinking of it is because the town I am now residing in reminds me of H'town. There are hills and valleys, there is a downtown with shops and restaurants. There is a dome that shines through the trees as the car coasts to the bottom of the tall hill, bringing you into town. Geographically it feels like home here. But I have yet to feel it in my heart. I wonder how long it takes to feel a place in your heart?

It amazes me how quickly the kids adapt to and adopt their new town. If you ask them where they live, they quickly (butcher) say the name. Yet, there are still mornings I wake up and I have no idea where I am. I know, I know. It has been a hell of a trip for the last five years. Especially this last year. And, in fact, it has been a year almost to the day that the nightmare started.

I finally summoned the courage a few weeks ago and gave up my last dose of medication. One year ago I was literally begging for a cure, ready to end it all so I could be done with the pain. And now, I am medicine free, pain free and wandering around a town in the middle of nowhere, with no one knowing me or my history. A miracle? I don't know. I don't even understand what happened. I hate to even think about it. Because really, it's only in remission....I think. I guess I will never know until it happens again. I have a stockpile of the meds ready to go, but I have stopped packing them and taking them wherever I go. I think that is a good step. AND I am finally writing about it. Which I have been afraid to do...you know superstition and all. (So don't read any of this out loud lest the Monster 'Neath the Skin hears you)

And so I drive around this new town, I live this new phase. I think about my hometown and hope that my kids have good memories of this new place. I hope these good memories override any memories from the last year-- no one wants their kids to remember that. This new place doesn't smell of chocolate or have brightly lit stars atop mountains at Christmas (shout out to H'town), but I can make it just as a happy place for my kids...Daddy is not at war and Mommy doesn't need brain surgery...so all is good, right?

Jump

2008-09-25T13:05:00.005-05:00

Have you ever felt like you were standing on a precipice, ready to make a decision, take that leap, change your life forever? Doesn't it feel like our country is about to do the same thing? The funny (not really) thing is, I don't understand a damned thing that is going on the news. Am I alone here? I know I should be concerned. I know I should know what they are talking about. But all I keep wondering is:

Should I start stock piling food, water, etc in the basement?
Should I start saving aluminum foil like my Mema did since the last "Great Depression?"
Should I really be buying a bunch of things for the new house ( and how like me to finally own a house when all is about to go to hell?!)

Should I be getting a bunch of cash and sticking it in crevices in the walls (or a hole in the ground?)

Is anyone else looking around like me and wondering what is going on here? I don't GET it. I am not a stupid person, but I don't GET it.

I also took another leap this week. I cut out my morning dose of oxcarbazapine. (I finally learned how to spell and say the damned thing and now -- hopefully-- it will be exiting my life!) And of course, like the last ten doses of meds, my teeth started "twinging" a little, but so far I am doing ok with just ibuprofen -- whoo hoo! Three more doses to go and MAYBE I will be meds free.

I will always be suspecting that monster to claw its way into my face again. I will expect it to show up at the worst moment so as to not be totally comfortable in my life -- and at the same time I will be appreciative for not having pain in my life. What a horrible year I have witnessed.

And so I am standing on a precipice, scratching my head, looking around at the world with a perplexed mind, but I am pain free and willing to take that jump into the non-med life.

Even if it is from under the house with my ramen noodles, cash and a big ol' ball of aluminum foil.

Sleep and Such

2008-09-16T09:14:00.003-05:00

Interesting. How else can I put the last few weeks? Living in hotels, living in the car, eating fast food for lunch and dinner (breakfast was the healthiest meal as the hotel quietly set it up just to have my kids run in and cause a ruckus). Our outlet for a restless day stuck in a car? McDonald's Playland (an inside one! whoo hoo!)

Everyone, at one time or another, had their meltdown. Including me. Especially after the "Front Desk" (remember The Desk? Apparently there are these all over the world!) called me to tell me of a Noise Complaint from our seemingly sleepy neighbor. Never mind that it was 8:30 in the morning. Never mind that I heard kids running around the hallways at 2 AM but didn't complain. Never mind that I had HAD IT. They were sleepy. Oh...I called that Front Desk back and gave them a piece of my mind. For whatever that matters. So, yes, I had my meltdowns. And new lows. (walking down to breakfast I spoke very immaturely loudly in the hallway-- I am such a bad influence)

Of course, hubby didn't have meltdowns or lows. I think they train soldiers to be completely numb to everything, but come on. This is considered torture. Three kids in a hotel, for weeks, in a car for days, and trying to buy a house in a town we don't know at all? And still....nothing. He sits with his eyes focused on the road in front of him. Listening to "Geronimo Stilton and the Cheese Pyramid" for the 642 time (yes I am glad my son likes audio books instead of movies...but come on. A little "Toy Story" or "Ninja Turtles" wouldn't hurt anyone right?)

He is a stone cold killer. His eyes sweeping the horizon. Ignoring the cries of desperation surrounding him (coming from me) he searches for his target. Nothing phases him. And then...there it is. A gas station with a slushy machine. Yes. Another mission completed. (as for me...I had to ONCE AGAIN drag my daughter with the smallest bladder in the entire world into another filthy gas station bathroom. Oh the horror. )

And then we get to our destination. Another week in a hotel/barrack. Post housing is what it is called. A tiny, tiny apartment. Two rooms and a closet for a kitchen. It smelled. I can't describe it. But the final kicker was when my oldest son came into "my room" and told me about the "sleeping mouses" he found in his room. I think I held it together very, very well.

I asked him to show me the "sleepy mice" and he did. And there they were. All curled up under the air conditioner stuck to a sticky trap. I had had enough. I called down to the desk and told the chirpy, helium sucking, brain dead girl unlucky enough to answer the phone at that moment to get someone up to the room to remove the sleeping mice.

I had had enough. (Never mind the fact that my son found the mice in the morning and didn't tell me until that evening because he thought he would get in trouble. What is up with that? Am I that horrible of a mother that he thinks I will punish him for putting mice to sleep?)

And then we finally get the house. And the house is beautiful, big -- not without problems -- but it is ours. Finally a house we can call ours. After nearly seven years together, all over this world, we have a home. Well...almost a home. As soon as we unpack and figure it all out it will turn into our home. But we have our own house. And that was my mission all along.

Now I am not saying the meltdowns have stopped (especially mine -- I can't find anything!) but at least I don't have to worry about the guy in the next room calling the Front Desk. I am the Front Desk in these parts. And my husband? He is still searching for the illusive slushy machine closest to the house. Life is getting back to "normal".

Moving at the Speed of 40w

2008-08-22T00:56:00.009-05:00

I. Can't. Sleep.

No, it isn't the book about vampires that I just finished, though I keep jumping at every sound and have turned on every light in the computer room (You know that does keep them away right? They hate the blaring light of a 40w bulb)(And never mind it is a book written for teenagers and is supposed to be a love story. I am still freaked out.)

No, it isn't my husband being in danger (unless the vampires ARE waiting under the bed like my mind keeps whispering) because he is home now.

And no, it isn't the excruciating pain that once held me captive at this time of night/morning.

I am popping Benedryl to aide in my sleep because I am moving in less than a week and I am not prepared for this at all. I am moving. In four days. Into a hotel. With three kids. And then out of the town I have known for the last four years. To move back into a hotel. Into a town where I know no one.

No, I can't sleep. And I should sleep because it will be the last few nights that I will have comfortable, private sleep in the house that I am used to. But, try to tell my mind that. Instead I am waiting for the soft blanket of Benedryl to cover me and lull me.

During the day I am the Happiest Mommy in the World! I CAN'T WAIT TO MOVE! Man, where we are moving is the BEST place to be, so Mommy says to the little faces peering up at her when she tells them they can't go to their school's welcome back day. Because it isn't their school anymore.

Their Concerns:

-How will our friends come over if we are there and they are here?

-Will Santa find us?

-Will our toys come with us?

-Will Aidan (the one year old) come with us?

-Does it snow there?

-Can we chew gum there?

And Neurotic Happy Mommy chokes out answers with a big, dumb smile, practically screaming:

"WE'LL CALL YOUR FRIENDS AND MAYBE THEY WILL VISIT! HURRAH!"

"OF COURSE SANTA WILL FIND US! "___" IS HIS FAVORITE TOWN IN THE WHOLE WORLD!"

"YES! EVERY TOY IS COMING ALONG! WHOOPIE!"

"YES! EVERY BROTHER IS COMING ALONG! YIPPIE!"

"YES! IT SNOWS ALL THE TIME! WHOO HOO!"

"YES! PEOPLE LOVE CHEWING GUM THERE! WHOOPIDOO!"

So I wait for the Benedryl induced sleep. And I wait for the 40w bulb to burn out. And I keep my crazed happy face on for the kids. And in four days I will be moving on....sitting in a hotel lobby so I won't keep my entire family awake in the middle of the night. Maybe I will run into a few vampires to keep me company...

Weeks

2008-08-11T22:55:00.003-05:00

Where have I been? What has taken me away from my rants and raves? Let me see....

The Last Two Weeks:

All three children have strep. YES! Another ten days of forcing thick, nasty antibiotics down their throats every twelve hours!

Hubby comes home...in the middle of the night! All of those hours of working out, getting my roots "done" (you ladies know), eyebrows plucked, lip waxed, the perfect outfits for me and the kids (a subtle mixture of red white and blues), sign ready to be held at the air field or airport....all that and he walks in at two in the morning to a wife sleeping, no make up, hair in a pony tail/bed head, no cute outfits for the kids, no signs, nothing. One child wakes up and is so freaked out by seeing her Daddy in the bedroom she gets a strange look on her face and starts clacking her teeth together. Said child is so freaked out for the next two hours, wife (me) has to go and sleep with her in guest room. Welcome home honey!!!

I get a letter from the Mammography department saying I need to come back in due to irregularities in the last mammogram. Yeah...I don't really have time for breast cancer right now. Ok...push that letter and all that it entails to the very very back of my brain.

Hubby flies to the next duty station place and tries to find us a house or at least shelter to live in for the next few years. (yes, four days after he came home). He calls three days later, we bought a house. Ohhhhhkaaaaay.

Throw my son his 5th birthday party (phase one). Continue to plan and execute my husband's surprise party that I have been planning for the last couple of months. 17 men coming in from all over the country to celebrate him.

Go back to hospital and get my boob squished again. Half hour later, they give me the green light. No worries....just some tissue. Good! No time for anything but tissues. Continue to plan and hide party from hubby.

Have party. Hubby very surprised. Guys go out and drink. Everyone happy. I get wife of the year award.

Have son's birthday party (phase 2). Host some more people at the house.

Start packing for vacation.

The Next Two Weeks:

Go on our vacation. Have fun-- dammit.

Pack up the house, change address (to a rented PO BOX), cancel utilities, clean house, move into hotel in town (can't wait for that one she said sarcastically)

Three Weeks Later:

Drive to new Duty Station

Live in hotel (yes! another hotel in a town I don't know!! Whoo hoo!)

Enter the kids in preschool. One that I have not seen, nor do I know where it is.

Close on house (that I have not seen, nor do I know where it is)

Move and unpack into mystery house.

Four Weeks Later:

Open a bottle of Vodka. Drink.

I do not know what is in store for us. And isn't that a grand adventure? (have you been reading me long enough to know when I am being completely, annoyingly sarcastic?) I just hope that the new house, new town, new teachers, new doctors are all ready for us to invade. And I pray that the monster that has been quiet for the last few months (!) does not rear it's unpredictable head as I am trying to start a new life....

Vampires of Bergen County, NJ

2008-07-22T19:56:00.003-05:00

Last night I dreamt that I was going through a flea market/garage sale at a huge mansion. At first I was finding all kinds of cute baby things. And then I realized I didn't really need those anymore. Then I was finding all kinds of toys that I had when I was a pre-teen. Barbie type stuff. But I realized that my daughter wasn't ready for that and we move around so much, I can't buy it and hold it for several years.

Then I found some pill cases. All kinds of pill cases. Days of the week. Hours of the day. Weeks of the month. You get it. I started to panic. So I went into another room. This room was filled with DVDs. I started pawing through them and realized they were all horror movies. Now, I hate horror movies. I am a big ole' wimp when it comes to gore and blood and heads being sawed off, etc. And then my dream turned into one.

Suddenly I am being chased from room to room by these vampires screeching at me and I couldn't figure out what they were saying. In every room someone was being chewed up, but no one had faces. They looked like hair on bowling balls. And suddenly I understood what they were screaming. "Call your mother!" What? "Call your mother! They won't get you if you talked to your mother today!"
Jewish Mother Vampires? Now I've heard of everything.

As humorous as it sounds now, twelve hours later, when I woke up I was frozen with fear. You know the feeling. Logically, with adult reasoning, you know there is no vampire standing at the foot of your bed, or in the doorway to your bathroom (and being the Jewish Mother type, wondering when the last time you cleaned said bathroom) but it takes you minutes to calm down enough to turn around. Right? And then it takes a few more minutes to get your heart calm enough to go back to sleep. Frozen with fear, but heart pounding.

And that my friends, is how I am feeling all of the time with the reduction in my meds. I am frozen with fear. I can't get beyond the fourth reduction. I am so scared of the pain that I may feel if I take another pill out of the equation, I just can't do it! I know I have to.

But I can't turn around and face my demons. I just keep running and denying it all. And no, I haven't talked to my mother today. I have, however, talked to my Dad and my sister. And that counts, right?

Dose Three/Four

2008-07-11T11:55:00.003-05:00

Ok, fair readers, I have been slacking in the writing department. However, in the mothering department I am about to go insane, so take pity on me.

Tonight I am taking the last Neuronten out of the meds equation. Yes, it is a day late but I was too busy breaking up a fight last night to stop and think about what I was doing. And no, you don't want to know what the fight was about. Let's just say, wet toilet paper and coffee filters were involved, never a good thing, especially with a three and four year old. Sigh.

Anyway, the last deduction in dosaging (is that a word?) seemed to go over well. I did have some pain on the other side (lest I remind you, not a good sign) but it seemed to go away. So, I guess we will continue on like a good soldier.

Speaking of which. My hubby should be heading home fairly soon. Can you believe it has been five months? It seems like minutes (she said sarcastically). Do you ever feel like you are connected to someone because someone once related them to you? For instance, when I was young I had one of those street artists do a caricature of myself. He said, "You have Bette Davis eyes" and from then on I always thought she and I were connected that way (and yes, you will be singing "She's got Bette Davis eyes" for the rest of the day.) Of course my parents said "no you don't" when I told them of this interchange, but that didn't stop me from believing him.

And speaking of my parents- when I was little, they told me I was like a little Whoopi Goldberg when I told them a joke. So I, of course, thought Whoopi and I had that connection as well. Yes, I am a mix of Bette Davis and Whoopi Goldberg. What a picture that makes.

For the last four years we have been living in the same town, near the same people and saying goodbye to the same soldiers. I have been told I was a brave soldier's wife. No matter how much in denial I am of living the military life (moving around, husband at war, etc) I feel completely connected to the wives and children of soldiers. I do not feel like I am as strong as they are and I certainly don't feel like my husband is at war (that's what happens when you don't watch the news!) But I do feel a connection.

So today I am down to eight and a half pills, I have only a short bit of time left in this deployment and I am somewhere between Bette Davis, Whoopi Goldberg and army wives. And I am still picking gigantic spit balls made of toilet paper and coffee filters off of my couch. I told you don't want to know...

Dose Two

2008-06-29T20:35:00.004-05:00

I have given up my afternoon dose of Neuronten. So far (in a whisper now) so good. While I still have some weird feelings in my gum lines, there is no debilitating pain and this is a good thing. This Thursday I will give up one of my night time doses. (shudder shudder) Needless to say, I am walking on eggshells and just waiting for the other shoe to drop and all the other cliched sayings.

My ice packs are lined up in the freezer, ready and waiting. I take my bottle of Neuronten with me where ever I go. Neurotic, yes? Not so long ago I waited for four o'clock to hit to see if I was going to have a good night or not. Now, I watch the clock constantly to see if I will have a good life or not. Have I kicked this condition or is it lying dormant beneath the surface of my face ready to shoot fire and pain back into my life once I drop that one pill, that one dose at the one time on the one day?

So I continue to watch and wait. Dose two. Week two. Day eleven. So far: me=2, fire shooting monster beneath my skin=?

Dose one

2008-06-23T20:22:00.003-05:00

I am so sick of hearing about whiny people who have to leave their kids, wives, husbands for a couple of weeks or a month or some short amount of time. I am being disgruntled I know. I just thought I would get it out there that these people (mostly on "reality" shows that I am sucker enough to watch) are weak and whiny and pathetic. There. Now on to more personal things.

So it has been five days since I gave up my 3 o'clock dose of Neuronten. So far, no pain on my left side. However, and really in this condition that is a horrible word, there has been some on my right. As I have mentioned in the past, this is NOT good. But I keep faith that the reason my right side is giving me a little (note: little) pain is because I am fighting some allergens in the air.

I am going to keep on dropping doses until I am free of all medicine and I can get back to the life I lead before this debilitating condition entered my life. And I have the confidence that I can do this. (not really, but don't tell anyone) Come on body. Come on trigeminal nerve, we can do this! (has it really come to this?)

I am also fighting something else. I am fighting the impulse to tell my husband to not come home when he is scheduled to. I look horrible. I mean, really. I am being a realist here and with the help of several people and their reactions to my current state, I realize that I am a disgusting mess right now and will not be able to look better by the time he is supposed to come home. And I have tried to prepare him for the inevitable by describing what effects the meds have had on me. I have not sent any pictures of me since he has left. And I know he doesn't believe me. But everyone around me knows. They all know that I am a mess. So I feel like going away when he comes home. Isn't that ironic?

So I have some things on my mind. (a crazy trigeminal nerve for one! ha!) But for now, I will wait until Wednesday to drop another dose and do a little dance to ward off any pain. And as for tonight, I will go watch "The Bachlorette" and listen to the beautiful people whine about ridiculous things. This is what my life has come to. Oy.

Need

2008-06-15T20:11:00.003-05:00

So my whole life (or at least the last thirty years of it) I have been consumed with trying to get my hands on a mason jar. Yes, my family who are reading this, you know. They know of The Jar of Little Things. When I was young my friend Robby owned said Jar and would charge me a dollar to gaze upon It.

You see the Jar held dozens of "Little Things". Things like miniature finger nails and dollar bills, dolls and postcards, playing cards and lipsticks. I have no idea how Robby got his greedy little hands on it (he would charge my sister and I a dollar just to walk into his room!) but I was fascinated with it. When my parents said we were going over to Robby's house for a visit I immediately started dreaming of going through the Jar of Little Things. I never had a dollar so I never got to go through it. Sometimes Robby would pick out one Little Thing (like fake teeth) and dangle it in front of my eyes. Mostly he would shut his room off and I would have to gaze at the fuzzy Rush poster on his door. You know the one.

And then we grew up. I had dollars. But I wasn't thrilled with life...where I was living, etc. I then started thinking about moving to Washington DC but couldn't make up my mind to do it. And then it happened. Robby dangled The Jar of Little Thing in front of my eyes. He said he would give me the Jar if I moved to DC. He happened to be living in DC as well.

I needed no more reason. I packed my apartment and drove the big yellow Penske truck to Arlington VA. I took the big step. I got a killer job (Director of Marketing at five brew pubs) and a killer boyfriend (now husband) and now I wanted what was mine. The Jar.

Robby gave me the Jar and we reminisced about our growing up together. And then I ran back to my apartment to sift lovingly through every desired piece. For twenty years I yearned for this jar. And now it was mine.

So the years have gone by and I have moved five times, across country, across the world. I haven't looked at the Jar in years. It has been perched up on a shelf in my daughter's room. And the other night I stole a look at it. (I don't want my kids to notice it. They ultimately will destroy it, I am sure) And then, I opened it. The kids were in a different room. I was so excited.

I pulled one Little Thing out. It was a miniature bottle of Coke. I pulled another out, it was a miniature compass. I reached in and then....I heard the kids stomping down the hall. Argh! I quickly put the flat top of the Mason jar on and screwed the lid over it.

Foiled again. Someday I will be able to open the Jar of Little Things at my leisure, like I did that one day in Arlington VA. Perhaps that was the last time I was able to do anything at my leisure. From that point on, I got married, got pregnant, moved to Slovakia, moved, moved, moved.

And the elusive Jar followed me. Never taunting me (as Robby did), but always there. Through childhood, through young adulthood and now through parenthood.

I always get a great feeling when I happen to gaze upon that silly Jar. When I am putting laundry away or picking up toys. I remember the feeling of really wanting something. Of wondering how I could get through the fuzzy blockade the Rush posters offered. And now, now I have it.

No dollars needed.

Loose Change

2008-06-11T20:39:00.003-05:00

Here is one for you: I have no idea where I am going to be living in two months. I know that I won't be living in the house I dwell in now. But I have no idea where I will be, or where my stuff will settle. Not a great notion for sleeping well at night. Right now there is a lot of change happening in our family. Change of location, jobs, schools, medication....

I am especially concerned with that last one. Actually medication and location. My neurologist is leaving the hospital where I have been seeing her. Rather abruptly she told me she is leaving and asked me even more abruptly if I wanted to stay with her or with the hospital. Ummmmm...what? And this was followed by the fact I am going to take a tremendous step in testing the Neuralgia medication. So I guess since I have no idea whom I would call if stopping the meds was a bad, bad mistake, I will stay with her...right?

Yes, I am changing the meds dosage as of next week. Slowly I will lessen and lessen the dosage week by week, pill by pill. Until hopefully...knock on wood, crossing all fingers, kissing all crosses...I see that the pain is gone and the meds are no longer needed. Or....the opposite. Bad, bad idea... get those meds back in me...now now now! And then, I will schedule my surgery with the neurosurgeon. I think.

So, change is upon us. It has blown in and is swirling around and where it deposits us...who knows? Isn't is strange how big changes seem to always come at once? I pray that the biggest change for me is not where I will be living but how I will be living. I could be living in Kansas or Florida, Colorado or Kentucky but as long as I am living without ice packs and twelve dosages a day I will be okay. Throw my husband being home with us and life will be...good. And isn't that what we should strive for, wish for, look for? Life to be...good.

Escaping

2008-06-09T21:04:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow I will be dropping off Symphony tickets to some families of injured soldiers, so that while they are visiting their soldiers they can get a little pleasure in their life...escape for a while. Sadly I am getting used to seeing young men limping around with canes or prosthetics. Do you look, smile sympathetically or nod your head in a weak attempt at a thank you or just completely ignore the canes, the limps, the burns? I don't know. I'm not even sure what to tell my kids who ask in complete innocence "What happened to that man's face Mommy?" I can't tell them the truth because then they will have nightmares about Daddy. I usually just say that man got hurt with fire...don't point.

Today I received a letter from a family member that I unfortunately rarely see. In it she writes of how hard I have it with the three little ones and my Neuralgia pain. It made me stop and think about how I have been able to get through the last few months. I can honestly say that without my family and friends I am not sure I would be getting through it all. They are my "tickets to the Symphony". I definitely have moments that I just want to walk out and never look back.

But mostly I have a desire to see this deployment through. Perhaps this will be our last deployment. I can tell in my husband's "voice" via email, he is ready to come home. Usually it is a "rah rah" email/letter, with: We are doing our part for our country, our kids. Feel proud of what we are accomplishing. We are doing good things here. Now it's a count down to when he will be home.

We are almost done with our fourth month apart. The kids are still drawing pictures, sometimes with Daddy in them, sometimes without. But mostly we just chug along with our daily lives. Me praying that the pain has been cured (we shall start finding out starting next week!), the kids talking about the impending move at the end of the summer.

I think of those families that are visiting their sons, brothers, husbands and the long road of recovery they have in front of them. I also am reminded by the house on the corner who has pictures upon pictures plastered to their fence of the men who have been killed in Iraq. I see women with pins on their shirts in honor of their sons, friends, husbands who have been killed. Suddenly our wait isn't such a huge deal. We can do it. As long as I get an email every day that tells me he is safe. And that is how I get through it.

B is for...

2008-06-02T21:30:00.003-05:00

I find my life ironic on most occasions but this past week has proved it to be true. My birthday turned into several days of celebration with packages from Slovakia filled with a chocolates and a beautiful cross, wonderful people stopping by with a surprise "party in a bag" -- how I wish we were all staying in one place so we could all become better friends! -- and, of course, my lovely children not only inviting every person we came into contact with to a non existent party, but literally serving me breakfast in bed, (an Eggo waffle, a piece of string cheese and a piece of bread that I think was supposed to be toast) and giving me homemade birthday cards. Best of all my parents and my sister and her family came up and took me and my kids out to lunch and then had a party at my house.

Given past birthdays, I think if my husband were here, none of this would happen and my birthday would have been a couple of kisses and maybe a dinner out. Which is the ironic part. Since he is gone, I had the best birthday I have had in a long, long time. What does that say about my husband's birthday skills? They need to be improved. Of course, this is the same man who gave me cash (oh I'm sorry gift certificates) for Mother's Day a few years back. Yes, he needs help in some areas. Take my 30th birthday. A pretty significant date in my book and it was our first birthday as a married couple. What did I get for this important holiday? (yes, holiday!) A Happy Happy Headscratcher. I am not kidding. Have you seen these? They have a straight handle and about fifteen wired fingers sticking out from the base. You stick it on your head and move it up and down and it massages your head. Yes. He needs help in some areas.

Today I spent in my neurologist's office talking about weaning me off some of the meds to test the significance of my wisdom tooth extraction. I am terrified. I just so badly want the cure to this horrible nightmare to be the extraction, and I am not ready to be let down (not to mention the pain coming back...not ready!!) In two weeks, I will be taking my meds down one at a time until either a) the pain comes back or b) I am completely off the meds and cured. b b bbbbb!!!! Please be BBBBB!!!!!!

I pray that irony will not affect the outcome of this test. I pray that the good luck of finding friends in people that I didn't know cared will carry on into this process. I pray that having my family around will give me the strength to face the outcome. And I pray that I don't get cash in a card from my husband congratulating me on a job well done. Oh how I want to wake up with Eggos in the morning and not pain!!!!

Knock Knock

2008-05-28T20:41:00.003-05:00

So tomorrow is my birthday, which I would have completely overlooked if it weren't for my four year old who keeps inviting people to the "huge party" that is supposedly happening. Which it isn't. And it makes me wonder who he is inviting. Lord knows who will be showing up at my house tomorrow as he knows our address. Isn't it strange when you get to a certain point in life and you need someone to remind you of your birthday? I think I will feel saddened when my children start forgetting about their birthdays (if I am still around).

So instead of forgetting about it (which is impossible since apparently I have to plan a huge party) I thought a lot about the last year and what I have learned and what I have dealt with. So here are a few thoughts about my 35th year:

* It can ALWAYS get worse.
* One of the best things about my kids getting older is their ability to tell a knock knock joke that is actually funny. (there are only so many times I can grin and fake a giggle to: knock knock, who's there? banana....over and over and over and...)
* Sometimes getting sick and/or having a condition allows you to conquer fears (like driving into a city you don't know, finding parking and finding the clinics over and over and over and...)
* Living near family is not only wonderful but is a requirement from now on.
* If the above requirement isn't possible, living near military friends is definitely a good second.
* Christmas at home and with family makes for a magical time.
* Somethings aren't as scary when you talk or write about them.
* Exercise is a must. When it is taken away I realize how much I miss it.
* Chocolate is a must. See above.
* Not watching the news makes for a peaceful existence. (what war? my husband is on a business trip)
* There are definite angels in the world (like waitresses who sit with two of your kids while you run to the bathroom with the third kid. trust me, she is an angel)
* Thinking the mantra: "someday I will sleep" over and over while rocking sick children definitely helps.
* After all of these years, I still want a cigarette.
* Sometimes sucky things happen, sometimes great things happen.
* Sometimes you have to make yourself a birthday party so that your kids can have a great day. This is what being a mom is all about.

And so I move on to my 36th year. I will be seeing my husband in the next few months. I will probably be moving in the next few months. I will hopefully make some new friends and keep my old ones close. I might be having brain surgery in the next few months, but overall, I look forward to the next year. Especially the huge party my four year old will be throwing. You are all invited.

Snacks

2008-05-26T20:32:00.004-05:00

Like it isn't hard enough to raise three young kids by myself, have a condition that may require brain surgery and every day worry about my spouse out there, somewhere fighting in the sand, now I have Big Brother of the grocery store yelling at me.

I was pushing this huge contraption, the four and three year olds sitting on a bench-like seat and the one year old in the seat of the actual cart (he seemed so far away) and the kids were all whining and crying. The one year old was drooling, crying and trying to get out of the cart so I grabbed a box of snacks from the shelves, opened it and put them in his hand.....ahhhh silence. I could concentrate once more (for a minute or two)...and then it happened. I was in the soda isle (I am now addicted to diet Mountain Dew) and the loudest announcement came over the loud speakers: "For those of you who are opening food and feeding them to your children, this is strictly against policy and must be stopped immediately." OOOOOKAAAAY. What the hell? Big Brother is not only watching me, but yelling at me!

Now you have to understand, this is the Commissary. This is the store where all of us courageous and strong willed women shop while our men are gone. They know we are single parents right now. They know we are at our wits end. They know we don't have a break. And they still manage to yell at us (me) and embarrass us (me) for trying to get peace while shopping at their store.

And to top it off, when I was paying (yes, I was paying Mr. Big Brother with the big mouth) the cash register lady was saying to the other cash register lady, "Man I can't wait 'til five o'clock, I am out of here!" and me being me couldn't let that go. I said, "I wish I could get off of work at five but I don't get off of work. I work twenty-four hours a day." That shut her up.

I think the bagger man saw my frazzled, pissed off aura or something because on the way out to my car, he said "You are doing a fine job Ma'am. You hang in there. You are doing a fine job. Have a good Memorial Day. It's for you too." I felt like hugging him. Instead I stuffed more of MY snacks into the one year old and strapped in the three year old.

Happy Memorial Day to all of the soldiers who fought, all the soldiers who are fighting and all of the wives who do what they can to get through each day...it's for you too.

Ha

2008-05-20T21:49:00.002-05:00

So I woke up this morning with an ache. A small ache, but an ache non the less. The thing is: the ache was on the wrong side. The other problem is: I don't know what "normal" pain feels like anymore. I don't know what a head ache feels like anymore because every time a bit of pain hits, I wait for the train to crash through my head. I brace myself whenever a twinge finds itself in one of my teeth. Do people have twinges? Do teeth ache for no reason? I can't remember. How very sad that is I think.

The reason I am so afraid that the little ache is actually the monster under my skin, scraping it's nails against my teeth, is it is on the wrong side. The ache is on my right side. I have been dealing with my left side and that monster. If it is scraping along my right side, then that introduces so many scary conclusions. Conclusions like: there is no help, no cure. So sorry. If the TN is on both the right and the left, then the surgeries they are proposing are dashed away. The surgery option is gone. They will not operate. There is no cure. The monster wins.

So I spent the day trying to calm the right side of my face. And I bought myself a very expensive wallet for my birthday. Take that monster.

Clorox, Downy and Dial Oh my!

2008-05-18T20:13:00.005-05:00

Oh the horror. I have been pooped on and vomited on for the last four days. I have been doing laundry every two hours to get said poop and vomit out of several sheets, towels, blankets and stuffed bears. I have cleaned bathtubs, toilets and sinks with bleach and soap. I have rocked children, held children over sinks, Rubbermaid tubs and toilets for hours. Oh the horror. We have got the bug, the virus, the sickness.

And when the bug hits us, it hits hard. And I have never missed my husband more. And I have never cursed out my husband's job more. I can not get the smell out of my nose. I am too tired to change my own sheets. Why bother when someone might come downstairs to tell me "Mommy I don't feel goo--bluuuuugggg" (sound of vomit spewing out of child).

Oh the horror. How do I take care of little ones when I have caught the bug too? We RAN through Kroger today. I was praying that no one would vomit in one of the isles. We have already baptized check out line #8 with pee during potty training. I didn't want to dowse isle 4 with more bodily fluids. Every time the baby pursed his lips and looked up at me, I was ready with my diaper bag held open in front of him. I know I looked crazy.

If anyone looked at what we were buying, they knew to stay far away from us. Gatorade, Pedialyte, Saltines, Ginger ale, chicken noodle soup, etc. I wanted to tell the checkout girl to wash her hands after us. (Do you think they notice what people buy and come to conclusions from the items?) I wanted to wipe the shared pen that everyone uses to sign their credit card slips with a Clorox wipe. (Does it bother anyone else to use a community pen at the pharmacy? I mean, a lot of sick people use that pen. It is one of my pet peeves to use that pen, but I always forget to bring my own. I hope someone invents a germ repellent pen)

I am going to do another load of laundry. The smell of Downy has a new meaning for me now. Blech. My son's teddy bear has never been so clean and so gross at the same time. I pray that no one vomits or poops tonight. Please God. I need sleep with no weird sound emitting from the monitor. I need a night with no visitors in the middle of the night. I need a night to myself.

I have not been alone for more than a ten minute shower for four days. Oh the horror.

Two Weeks

2008-05-13T12:02:00.003-05:00

I've been asked by several different people if the pain has come back. And I have been quick to either dart around the answer or to whisper it, "No, BUT it's only been two weeks...so...." I don't mean to sound like Negative Nelly (she is so annoying) but I have been in "remission" for a month at a time and the pain has reared it's ugly head, so I am so scared to get excited. It's only been two weeks. But it has been a wonderful two weeks. (Though every time there is a twitch, I brace myself for the pain)

The other subject I have been neglect in catching everyone up on is hearing from my husband. Yes, he did contact us! He is safe (relatively) and actually got a chance to send some letters to me and the kids. It took him three months, but he did it. I thought it would make the kids excited and thrilled but the three year old completely melted down last night screaming for her Daddy. I guess not hearing from him cushions her from the ache of missing him. I don't know. She fell asleep with tears on her cheeks and the word Daddy repeated over and over in a moan. It breaks my heart and I know it kills my husband to hear about her.

This week I will be meeting with the Neurosurgeon. Since I am in remission (in a whisper) a part of me feels like skipping the meeting (the positive happy, full of faith, little sprite part.) But the realistic part knows I have to set myself up for if (when) the pain does come back. I guess the questions I have for him are the normal questions you ask someone who is about to drill into your skull.

It has not hit me that I may be having this brain surgery. Me! Having brain surgery! So this week I will ask the doc my questions, wrap my three year old in bubble wrap so she doesn't hurt anymore (sigh) and check my mailbox for more mail (that probably won't come.) I keep telling myself that there is only a few more months of being a single parent. But I am not sure that is the hardest part at this point. At this point, it is the apprehension of hearing from my husband, (last night I got a call from a name and number I did not recognize and my heart just skipped a beat and I started shaking...that doesn't happen in the civilian world does it?) and waiting for the pain to return....those are the hardest things.

How does one live while constantly waiting?

Excuses

2008-05-08T22:08:00.002-05:00

I was told to call a certain person if I hadn't heard from my husband in several days. And there was a stretch there for a while but I just couldn't pick up the phone. I mean, what would I say? Worse yet, what would they say?

I remember during the last deployment my brother and his wife came to visit. They drove a Taurus or something similar. He had Virginia plates. When they parked in front of my house, both of my neighbors, who were not only friends but were wives of deployed husbands, freaked out. They thought the worst had come. They thought this was it for me and my family, "They" had come. It is the wive's biggest fear: an official car filled with people coming to knock on your door to give you the news that your husband wasn't coming home.

We don't watch the news, we don't read the paper, we listen to the artillery going off in the distance and pretend they are fire works. We try not to think about the wives we have had to visit whose husbands weren't coming back. We keep a list of foods we will make when "They" call on us to offer a hand or two to a family who is grieving.

My kids wait every day to hear from Daddy and I have to make up excuses like: Daddy is so busy helping people, he couldn't call today, maybe tomorrow. I don't think they buy it. The hardest part for me is when the four year old draws pictures of his family and Daddy is no longer in them.

Daddy is just a voice on the other end of a phone that has stopped ringing. But I know he will call when he can and that is what I tell my kids and that is what I believe. Soon enough my heart won't skip a beat when the doorbell rings unexpectantly. (I bet the UPS guys don't think about that when they are knocking on people's doors around here) Soon enough Daddy will be the biggest stick figure on the family portrait. Soon enough the phone will ring.

Coins

2008-05-05T21:38:00.004-05:00

Isn't it great when you can buy something and suddenly you feel like a grownup? Today I feel like I took a major step in becoming a full blown adult. I bought a fruit basket tower thingy. (Ok, a few steps backwards now...what is that called exactly?) Anyway, I bought it and put it where I have seen it in other people's kitchen and in magazines -- in the corner of a counter. Ok, so it is a little big for my kitchen, and yes, the three apples that I have placed on it are old and spongy and bruised (note to self -- buy prettier fruit and a lot of them) but I feel very adult-like.

Somehow standing behind it as I answer questions my young ones throw at me during dinner I feel empowered. I am Mommy of the Adult World. I can answer anything without swearing and I can cook meals they will eat without complaining because I have the fruit basket tower thingy. (I need to get a superhero outfit with a picture of that basket thingy on the chest.)

I am a little curious why this makes me feel empowered. I even came up with the Jar of Shame as I stood next to the Tower today. Every time I swear I will put money in the Jar of Shame. "But what will we do with the money mommy?" my kids ask me as I peer through the wires of the Tower. "We will buy treats for children who know not to repeat the horrible words Mommy sometimes says" (when she is far away from her power source the Fruit Tower Thingy)

Now don't get me wrong. I am not a constant swearer. Although I do need to curb it a bit. But come on! Take last night for instance. The one year old broke out in hives after feeding himself-- and slopping the food everywhere in the kitchen--so I took him up to the tub. I was feeling pretty good. The other two are starting to take showers now, so I only had one more back breaking kid that I had to bathe. Two more years of this and I am home free in the bath department. Whoo hooo oooohhhhh shit. He pooped in the tub. And pooped some more on me when I picked him up Nooooooooo. Dammit! And some more on the floor. NOOOOOOO SHIT! (My kids are sooooo damaged from living with me) So, the Jar of Shame earned a bunch of coins from last night.

You see, what I need to do is stand by my Fruit Tower Thingy and decompress. I will not swear, I will not yell. I will be a very calm, loving Mommy. I have a Tower in my kitchen. I can do anything. . My kitchen could be in one of those magazines. I am an adult now.

I just have to buy some fresh fruit. Dammit.

Fairy

2008-05-01T21:11:00.003-05:00

It's funny how much I miss my wisdom teeth. My tongue keeps poking around back there, trying to feel the hard and bumpy surface that once took up space. Now it is just a bunch of stringy stitches and gum hanging on. Remember the feeling of a loose tooth? Rocking it with your tongue, feeling the sharp edges digging into your gum, the trickle of blood that oozed out of the gap? And then out of the blue, the tooth releases and you have a gaping, smooth and spongy hole in your mouth.

It has been 25 years since I have felt that. I used to get excited for the tooth fairy. A quarter under the pillow and the long wait for the "grown up" tooth to come in. I don't remember being quite as excited to feel the replacement tooth as I was losing the baby tooth.

This time, I am excited for different reasons. I am filled with hope (false hope?) that this loss of teeth will bring relief on a much higher level. I pray that there was some connection between my wisdom tooth and the Trigeminal Neuralgia. Needless to say, I did not have an attack after the extraction. I did have one going into the surgery. In fact, the Oral Surgeon was hesitant to even go through with it since I was having the attack.

I hate to even bring it up, so consider this a whisper: the attack went away as soon as the tooth was pulled out. Granted, I was completely out of it during and post extraction. But so far, no pain on that side.

Does that mean anything? Could it be? Should I even wish upon a tooth? Is there really a tooth fairy that will take the pain away? Oh I can only hope. I can only pray. I can only play with the stringy things attached to my gums, search for the teeth that no longer exist and wait for a miracle.

Tickles

2008-04-27T20:36:00.004-05:00

Tomorrow marks another day in my life that I hope to get through with flying colors. Or at least flying black and white....or grey. I am getting my wisdom teeth pulled tomorrow. I seem to have gotten a cavity in one of them and of course, in the irony that rules my life, the cavity is on the trigeminal neuralgia side. So to avoid thinking about any of what could happen (i.e., the possibility of an attack after the surgery) I have been asking my kids all kinds of questions about my husband just to see what they say.

Me: Do you guys remember what Daddy looks like?

Them: Yes!

4 year old: Big and tall and brown skin with not a lot of brown hair. (brown skin?!! for those of you who don't know...he is white, like Irish white.)

3 year old: My daddy is big! And he sounds like this (cue a very high pitched tea kettle whistling) weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! (OK, just be assured he does not sound like that)

Me: Do you know where Daddy is?

4 year old: Yes! Mommy do you have the number to call Daddy? (I wish!)

3 year old: Daddy is helping people. And all the teeth in the world. (my poor kids are so confused)

Me: What else do you think of when you think of Daddy?

4 year old: Big, huge muscles! (if Daddy is reading this, he is smiling from ear to ear)

3 year old: Daddy has tutus! (mental picture of Daddy in a tutu! ha! Daddy's smile is gone)

Me: You mean tattoos?

4 year old: Yes! Johnny Cash on his arm.

3 year old: And a puzzle around his arm. (a Celtic braid)

4 year old: And a chain on his ankle, but I can't remember which one. (pathetically, neither can I...sorry honey. and it isn't a chain. it is barbed wire. )

Me: What is your favorite thing about Daddy?

4 year old: When we wrestle! (I too miss those after-dinner wrestling matches while I do the dishes and listen to the kids laughing and laughing)

3 year old: My Daddy tickles me. (this is where I start tearing up...sniffle sniffle)

1 year old: MAAAAAAAAAA! (In the most obnoxious screeching noise ever...and he is saying "more" I think...this is where the sniffles and tears are gone)

So for a few minutes I forgot about my impending procedure. I wish I could look into the future (like three days...not so dramatic right?) and make sure that an attack is not going to happen. I wish I could look into the future (like four months...again, not so dramatic) to make sure my husband comes home safely.

Tutus and all.

0545

2008-04-24T14:38:00.002-05:00

Apparently I am not meant to have a better day today. I should have known it would quickly spiral down when my four year old wakes me up at 0545 (that is 5:45AM to all of you sane civilian people) to tell me not to open the front door until I turn off the alarm, ok? Ok, so I have set the alarm off a time or two, and yes, by doing this I have ruined my children's ears, but who hasn't.

So somehow I manage to get all three up and ready and out the door to go to CDC (no, that isn't Center for Disease Control, it is Child Development Center -- remember, we are dealing with people who like lots of acronyms, doesn't matter if they have already been used) for which there is an expectant time of 0900 that my children need to be there. About half way there, I realize that I have forgotten all of their bags which contain their EpiPens and diapers and everything else required.

Needless to say, I was late in dropping them off and we got the baby room ticked off at us because they were waiting for my one year old so they could take the babies to see a HumV. That's right. A HumV. For the babies to gaze upon. Moving on.

After I deal with CDC I drive over to the Sports Center where I signed my son up for TBall. And once again have to confront The Desk. You remember The Desk. Apparently, I wasn't supposed to be charged what I was charged, so I had called them previous to going over. "No problem, just come on in, we'll fix it!" No Problem is what The Phone said. But The Desk says, "You need a manager to refund this." I say, "Please get a manager then." The Desk says, "There is no manager here." I say, "When will manager be here?" "Don't know," says The Desk. I say, "But the Phone told me..." blah blah blah. We've all been there. I still don't have my money back and somehow I have to guess when the manager will appear at The Desk. (The Phone and The Desk never have the same answers I have come to realize.)

After a couple of hours of doing dishes and folding laundry (Wrinkled, of course. That is what you get when it sits in the dryer for a few days.) I pick up my kids, "We didn't put him down for a nap, figured you didn't want us to," (why wouldn't I want you to? now I have to deal with cranky baby for the next hour -- thanks!) and went to ....wait for it....Walmart.

Yes, three kids, including a baby, who has not slept in several hours, off to Walmart. The mothers out there are cringing and those who don't have kids are rolling their eyes (ugh...it's that family.) So let me just run through a few of the highlights:

* Can't find what I am looking for, and of course there is no one to help. Every isle is crammed with older people who apparently can't find what they are looking for either.

* I lose my car keys somewhere between whispering threats to my four year old in the electronic section and stuffing snacks into my toddlers mouth in the shoe section. I did not realize I had lost them until I was half way into the food section. Four year old is crying because he thinks we are stuck in Walmart and therefor he will not see his Bear again.

* Two of the three kids melt down in the cereal isle (who is the bastard who designed that isle? I hope he/she is plagued with preschoolers)

* One child wanders off with a different family (Freudian?)

*As we are checking out, the man in front of us wants to purchase some sliced meat. There is no price. Of course this delays the checkout by what seems like hours. Then the same man forgets his wallet. More delay. Finally, our turn. "Mommy I have to pee pee!" oh god, no... She couldn't wait. We are in the middle of our checkout. I don't know what to do. Three kids, half way through check out. A line of people without teeth (not kidding) behind us.

I must have looked frantic because a lady comes up to us and says, "Go ahead and take her, I will watch the other two." I look at the woman with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion. I mean, who is that nice except for psycho killers? She had a Walmart badge on her -- a manager badge! I say, "Thank you! Boys, stay with this (stranger) lady!" and run my daughter to the bathroom:

"Hurry up, ok sweety? Mommy left the boys with a stranger and all of our food!" oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Do psycho killer kidnappers dress like Walmart managers? oh my god, oh my god, My mother is going to kill me when she hears about this! " Are you done sweety? Good, no time for washing...we will Purell later!"

Needless to say, the woman was a manager, we finish up at Walmart and drove home with the keys I finally found (in my pocket). We pull into my garage and the kids run up to the door to go into the house and start yelling "Ewwwww! Mommy quick!" Now why would I want to see whatever it is they are ewwwing about? But I go. I see the entire door is completely covered in ants. After an hour of getting children in the house and killing off the ants I get back into my car to move it again and what song is playing on the CD? "The ants go marching one by one."

I swear I can hear Him laughing when I have days like this.

List

2008-04-22T12:29:00.006-05:00

My friend was teasing me because I am so over the town I live in as well as the people in it. She calls me a "short timer" since I will (maybe) be leaving soon. I don't think that is what my problem is. My problem is: I am fed up with being a single mom and dealing with people. Doesn't matter where I am living. I am fed up with people. Let's give some examples:

My Oral Surgeon. Had me waiting over an hour in the typical doctor's room. Tiny, stuffy, nothing to look at. Usually you can hear signs of life outside the door right? Well, after forty minutes I heard nothing. Not a peep. So immediately I thought: they forgot about me and went to lunch. Now when my mind gets paranoid the thoughts immediately go to reality. Now I am very upset because they forgot me. I got up and went to the front. Nope, still there. The receptionist with the sugar smile. Apologizing and probably cursing the doc out herself since she was missing her lunch hour. The consult was quick. Pull your teeth, blah blah blah. See you Monday. (I will get back to that at another time)

My Lawn Guy. My front lawn is literally a foot high. My kids are out there yelling "look at this one Mommy, this one reaches my belly!" I am sure my neighbors hate me. No one else's lawn looks like this. My backyard is even worse. My daughter took off her Crocs in the grass last night and we couldn't find them. I was on my porch scanning the field (ie, my backyard) and couldn't locate them. I know for a fact my husband set up a lawn service. I even know the guy who does it. He has come to mow my neighbor's lawn twice now. Can he not see the jungle that is my yard? Does he get a kick out of the different shades of green and yellow? I want to throttle him. Worse, I have to figure out how to mow this wheat field (my lawn) with the three kids in tow.

Civilian Workers on Post. Today I thought I would go sign my four year old son up for Tball. I was fairly excited. Why? It is a fairly momentous occasion in any child's life to sign up for "baseball." I should have known that my excitement would be dashed and crushed on the floor by the bureaucratic civilian workers behind The Desk. You know The Desk. If you have ever dealt with the Government, you are familiar with The Desk. And the people behind It. I brought everything I could think of to sign him up: a copy of his last physical, his birth certificate, my military ID, my check book, and my wallet. The lady behind The Desk takes a look at his physical and says: "he's got a heart murmur?" To which I reply, "ummm....no?!" (I mean first of all where did she even come up with that and secondly, why would I sign him up if he did have a heart murmur)Then, "says here he got asthma." (yes yes. My child cannot breathe nor can he run because of his heart condition, but I want to see him out on that field!) That is what I wanted to say. Instead: "ummm....no, no asthma. Where are you looking?" I thought maybe I had taken someone else's (sickly child's) physical. I looked. She was reading it wrong. It read: "Physician Denies: heart murmur, asthma, eye problems..." Denies. Apparently, The Desk wipes out all brain cells upon sitting down behind it.

My Husband. Yes. I know. I should be running around with an American flag and my husband's picture plastered to my heart. But I am fed up. I am done being single mommy. I am done being the good wifey. When my kids get hurt, who do they cry for? Daddy. And yes, I understand they miss him. Blah blah blah. But what would it take to get a letter? It has been two months and nothing. An occasional email. There had better be a good reason (that I will never know) for that. When the kids ask me if Daddy has sent anything, I say with a huge smile, "why yes! let me get it! " and I quickly write a letter and read it to them. They then take the letter that "Daddy" sent and hug it and talk about it for the next day or two.

I am tired of the people. I have great hope that this will soon pass. If it doesn't you can find me and my kids hunting for Croc's, reading pretend letters, and taking it easy due to heart murmurs and asthma for the next several months.

Stage

2008-04-19T22:19:00.004-05:00

So I met with the neurologist again last week. She gave me a bunch of new and exciting ways to take my meds so that I could possibly go a while longer before I had to succumb to surgery. But first I joined the Trigeminal Neuralgia Association. And they sent me a plethora of information some of which struck me as being so out of my realm of being; and yet I am one of them now. In fact, that very sentence was one of their topics. The stages of learning you have this rare disorder. (hey...I've been wondering what to call it, and now I know. A rare disorder everyone! Can I get that Medium rare?)

The first stage to finding out about this condition --oops! I mean disorder! -- is denial. Yeah. I can say I am in complete denial. I keep waiting for the doctor to find something like a really deep cavity and be like: oh my God! All you have to do is pull that tooth and you are good to go! So sorry! And speaking of that, I am going to meet with an Oral Surgeon on Monday. Because, as if my head isn't going through enough....I have to get my wisdom teeth pulled!!! Hurrah! I honestly keep thinking this is it....this is when they will fix it. My tooth will come out and all will be better. Yeah....back to the whole denial thing.

The papers from the Association basically goes through what we all know as the steps of dying (though, luckily, this won't kill me! hurrah!! this will only hurt like a bitch the rest of my life!!!). Acceptance is the final stage. "Finding your new normal" because, like me, most people just want their old life back. The life they had before they started hurting. I remember the day I started to hurt. We were at Lowe's. Just a normal day. And ever since then, I begged God to give me the day before that day over and over again. I am not ready to start my "new normal." I want my old normal. I like it here in denial stage. I am too much of a fighter to get to "new normal" stage.

With that said....I am going to meet with the surgeon next month. I am hoping he can tell me more about the radiation therapy and the MVD surgery (the cutting my skull open surgery.) I am hoping that either the Oral Surgeon, the Neurosurgeon or the Surgeon General (had to throw that in there) can tell me SOMETHING! Throw me a bone here guys. Just something to hang onto. I will be sitting here in stage one. I will be the one holding the Lowe's bag waiting for a cure.

Heroes

2008-04-15T21:34:00.005-05:00

I am off to see the neurologist (again) this week. I am not even sure what to say to her. I feel like someone who was dropped off in a country I don't know, with language I don't know and people I don't know who can't give me directions to places I don't know. I don't even know what I want to see her for. I guess so I can be referred to a surgeon so I can discuss a surgery that I am not even convinced I am ready for.

Some family members and I sat down this past weekend and discussed my options. I kept asking them, what would you do? What would anyone do in this bizarre turn of events. I just never expected to have to deal with something that I didn't even know existed! I am still in a state of shock. And having to think about it with no one else in the house every night. And having to deal with the children every night without a partner...well when the pain hits it is from hell. Straight from hell.

Have I described the pain yet? I just refer to the pain usually. My family members asked me to describe it. I tried to figure out what it feels like. Why it is called the "suicide disease." Why I am such despair when I am having an attack.

The only way I can describe the pain is this: There is a burning hot knife cutting into the gum behind my teeth where the top and bottom jaw meet. There are also what feels like hundreds of bees stinging my gums above and below my teeth. And then under my tongue there is a pinching sensation that comes and goes. Add to this every tooth in my mouth feeling like there is an exposed nerve so when I breathe or drink or talk, the teeth pound with pain. Sometimes these different pains are individually happening. Other times they all occur at the same time.

I guess the reason it is so terrifying as well as painful is because I don't know if the pain is ever going to stop. For some reason the meds have stopped working enough to allow the pain to come back, so what if the meds stop working all together. What if I have to live with this horrible pain? What if I never go back to my normal way of life? I can't go on like this. I can't live with this amount of pain. And that is why they (who?) call it the "suicide disease." I guess some people just couldn't wait for that next day to find out if there is another drug, another ice pack, another miracle.

My family asked me if I ever considered suicide because of this condition. I guess in a way I have. I know when I am having a long, horrible attack, I know that I couldn't possibly live knowing that there is no end to it. I just keep the faith that by morning or by the next day the pain will subside. That the drugs will kick in again. That the ice packs will provide relief.

And I keep the faith that upstairs from me are three kids whom I pray to God will never, ever have to deal with anything like this in their lives, and who I couldn't leave in this world without seeing them grow to be happy adults. I also have faith that my husband, wherever he may be, is coming home and we can fight this together.

I am wandering in a foreign land dealing with a foreign disease, but my kids and husband are my oasis. They are what provide me the reassurance that I will end up back where I should be, back where I belong -- pain free and happy again.

Packing

2008-04-11T21:58:00.004-05:00

It is almost ten at night and I am finally feeling some relief. It has been a bad pain day. And I feel so responsible for the day my kids had. My four year old ran away (walked really) from home. My three year old cried for most of the evening. My one year old, well he was fine.

I cannot subject my kids to me in this state any longer. My three year old prays for "all the teeth in the world" every night. I mean, who does that?! My four year old wants to live at his friend's house; hence, the running away episode. I tried every trick in the book. I told him to go ahead and to watch out for dogs and cars as he walked to his friend's house. I thought, surely he will come home after that statement.

I soon realized that he wasn't coming home. As I stood in the doorway watching his little body march down the street, my three year old sobbing, "I don't want my brother to go! Come back! Come back!" I knew I had to go get him. The tricks in the book obviously weren't working. I yelled to him, "You need to come and say good bye to your sister!" When he came back and hugged her, I told him that we want him to come home and we loved him. He nodded and came into the house.

Does this happen to other people who don't have severe pain ruling their world? Even as I type this I can barely focus on the screen due to all of the drugs I am taking to get through the night. Yes, we are barely hanging on. Sometimes I believe we are a family in crises. At least today we were. As I sat on the floor with ice packs stuck on my face I cuddled my kids as they cried for Daddy. I just don't think we are handling our life well right now.

I am going upstairs with jerking hands and blurry vision to check on my sleeping children. And when I come down I will be researching the brain surgery that I think I will have to have. My hands are jerking, my face is hurting, and my heart is breaking. I wish I could run away too.

Lipstick

2008-04-10T13:15:00.009-05:00

I took a big step yesterday. I hired a cleaning lady. As you can surmise...I need the help. But it is a big step because it is a big admission: I can't do this, so you do this. You are officially handing over the mop. I have had cleaning ladies before, some good some really really bad. Good or bad, these ladies know your family better than anyone--even your friends and relatives.

When relatives come over, the house is sparkling (or at least twinkling). When friends stop by, the house is straightened. But the cleaning lady knows how disgusting you and your family members are. She sees the tubs, the toilets, the corners and crevices. The little ice dispenser tray on the front of your fridge. (actually in my case, my sister was able to come to the nasty conclusion that I have no idea how to clean my house by picking up the ice tray. I honestly never even thought about that little thing. I won't describe how it looked. Seriously, I don't even get ice out of there anymore)

And if you have ever stayed home while the cleaning lady/crew are doing their job, it is one of the most uncomfortable days of your life. First of all, you sit there feeling like the laziest person alive. (yes, yes, clean over there....and over here. Hurry up darling, my show is about to come on! ) It is really pathetic.

When I lived in Bratislava, Slovakia I had a wonderful cleaning lady who is now practically a member of our family. But before we became close, I would try to describe using body language what I would like her to do or didn't have to do. After a while I just gave up. She knew what she was doing.

She was a wonderful addition to the family, but I am sure she thought I was nuts. At one point, when she was cleaning the wooden stairs, I was in the kitchen opening a package from the States. In it was a tube of lipstick that I thought would look nice on her. So instead of waiting, I rushed over to her and handed it to her. I said in slow English, "I think this would look great on you!"

She took it, and looking at me, put it on. Right there on the stairs. And then continued to clean the stairs. I stood there in horror. Oh my God. She thinks I want her to wear the lipstick while she cleaned my house. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye while she rubbed the stairs with a rag. I could only imagine what she was thinking. "Okay lady...whatever you want. I always heard Americans were weird."

I was completely embarrassed and felt like an idiot. From there on I didn't give her anything while she was cleaning. I waited until she was done and my husband could translate everything for me.

This time I am going to be out of the house and no gifts for the cleaning lady or her crew. I am comfortable in admitting that the house is too much for me right now. I am fine in paying someone else to handle the cleaning. I'm even okay if they think we are disgusting. I just don't want another person to think we are weird.

Too late, right?

Cricket

2008-04-08T13:32:00.008-05:00

Have you ever felt like you have lost complete control of your life? Yesterday I had that feeling and then some. I guess it is normal when you are the only adult in the house and the four, three and one year old are ruling the roost. We had a meltdown in Walgreens. One of those meltdowns that make the entire store (remember, it is Walgreens, not a massive Walmart. Tiny.) stop and see how you, the Mom, are going to handle the situation. I am quite sure I did everything wrong. It all started because the three year old wanted toothpaste with Dora on it. The four year old wanted the watermelon one. And stupid Mommy tried to give a lesson in being a smart consumer. The conversation went something like this:

"I want the Dora one!" said the whiney three year old.
"I want the watermelon one!" said the whiney four year old.
"But look, the bubble gum one is less money and more toothpaste! Let's buy this one!" whined the twenty-eight year old Mommy. (It's my blog, I can fib a little)

"NO! DORA!" yelled the three year old.
"NO! WATERMELON!" yelled the four year old.
"No, bubblegum," said the very calm, nurturing young mother. (again, my blog)

"DORA!!!" screamed the three year old.
"WATERMELON!!" screamed the four year old.
"Bubblegum my sweet children," sang the beautiful, skinny mother. (what?)
"Hi!" said the one year old.

At this point I realized how ridiculous we all sounded and I took all of the tubes of toothpaste and threw them on the shelf. I grabbed one and headed for the check out. Which prompted an even bigger tantrum from the three year old. I had grabbed the watermelon one.

I just knew everyone was thinking what a horrible mother I was. I could read their minds. Don't people know about birth control? and I would never let my kids act that way.

We finally made it to the checkout. The four and three year old were both crying now. The young clerk rang me up quicker than anyone has ever done. I felt like grabbing the intercom phone and saying, "I am all alone in this! You try to do it better!" But I didn't. Instead I hustled everyone into the car and ignored every plea for every children's song or audio book. I just ignored them. And miraculously, they all fell asleep for the ride home. I had a few minutes of peace and quiet.

And then the evening. I thought I was being a strong, take no prisoners mommy. I had found a cricket under my bed (ewwww...show no fear, show no fear) and because my four year old was with me, I had to remain calm. I quickly got a bag and tried to make it bounce into it, but my four year old started crying hysterically when the cricket jumped towards him. So I put the bag over the cricket and tied it up. My son is still crying and my daughter is now asking to see the cricket, where is the cricket?, where is the cricket? (over and over and over while clinging to my leg)

As I am dragging both kids and the bagged cricket over to the back door, I walk into the kitchen to see the one year old has found a new ability:

"Hi" he said.

Gamble

2008-04-06T08:27:00.006-05:00

The time has come to start seriously considering the dreaded surgery. The pain has come back and I am now taking so many pills throughout the day that I am constantly looking at the clock and running to my pill case. Which is hard enough and would be OK if that was the only obstacle with taking them. But as usual, there is a dark side (bum bum bum-- supposed to be shocking music).

These pills, and I am not sure which one, have the lovely side effect of giving me grade A, disgusting acne. And no I am not talking about a couple of zits. That I can handle (and have been handling my entire adult life.) No, I am talking about the kind of acne that makes you want to wear turtle necks in the spring time, your hair curtaining your face (remember when I said I am glad to give up my Goth days? Well, I might be revisiting them), and you avert your eyes whenever someone really good looking comes within five feet of you. My God, I am a 13 year old again.

Now, imagine all of this, all that I will feel when my husband comes home. I think he will turn around and pretend he doesn't know me, except, he does want to see his kids. So they will be there to distract him enough to let me quickly throw on a turtle neck and enough makeup to hide underneath.

I don't think I am being vain by considering the surgery due to horrible acne. The pain is making me take more and more pills. And I am not sure my kidneys and liver can handle the amount of drugs coursing through them. Apparently my skin can't. I do, however, have to consider the risks and side effects of the surgery. And the fact that it is only effective in 80% of the people who get the surgery. And I just know that I will be in that unlucky 20%. Let us not gloss over nor forget that only 1 to 15 people in 100,000 get this condition in the first place. Again...not so lucky in stats.

So what do I do? Do I go under and have the docs cut open my head and "move my brain over" to place a disk between a blood vessel and a nerve? (I imagine it like a slot machine. Insert the disk, pull on my arm and my eyes spin around.) Do I risk the infections that could occur? Do I risk the swelling of the brain? Do I risk the fact that it might not work?

I don't know. I do know that the pain is back and doesn't seem to be going away. I do know that I can't live like this. But I also know that I can't imagine my kid's lives without me if something should go wrong. Or the look on my husband's face if something should go wrong.

But the pain is back. It is back and I have at least 30 more years to go. 30 years of turtle necks and shaggy hair cuts? Of ice packs and more and more and more pills? So do I risk the 30 years?

Do I?

Smiles

2008-04-03T15:32:00.004-05:00

My youngest son's first birthday is in three days. It seems impossible that a year has passed since he came into this world and then two weeks later tried to leave it again by contracting RSV. I never felt such relief as when they admitted him into the hospital. I had known for a couple of days that something wasn't quite right with him and finally someone agreed and took control of the situation.

Isn't it always a relief when someone else takes control? I think that is one of the hardest parts of a deployment. Having to deal with every situation. Every creak, every bug, every scraped knee and every call from the bank, the landlord, the utility companies. You know going into the life of the army wife that as soon as he steps out of the door, the skies will open up and poor down rain, sleet, hail and that is when the tires on your truck will deflate. With all three children in it.

It is also when every stair, floor, wall and window will start to creek and moan -- never during the daylight hours. Only right before you go to that lonely sleep. And every snake (yes it has happened to me), mouse, spider and other unidentifiable creepy crawlies come out as if he were the only reason they were keeping away. I literally had to call my friend and neighbor to come over and kill one of these nasty suckers. I just couldn't be that brave. She was. And her husband has been gone for three weeks.

I know for a fact that I lose control of my household on weekly occasions to the children. I can see it happening before my eyes. The kids just know when Mommy doesn't have it in her to take hold of the situation. And boy, do they run with it. By the time I snap out of the "Mommy's checked out for a while" fog, the house is covered in parts of sippy cups, toilet paper shreds, fruit chew wrappers, all the clothing in their closets that they can reach -- and yet they are running around naked -- and towels from their baths the night before. Even the baby gets into the demolition by emptying every cabinet in the kitchen to his great delight.

Usually the reason I lose control of the kids, the house, etc. is when the pain has gained control over me. And unfortunately that is what has been happening this last week. It is hard to make dinner with one hand holding an ice pack to my face. It is impossible to change diapers that way. Calming a melting down four year old while you are on the brink of melting down yourself is a challenge and having to turn down your three year old's request to play dollhouse with her because you literally can't form sentences is heartbreaking. Getting the children re-dressed while they squirm under you -- well you can only imagine.

I so look forward to when my husband comes home and can take over some of the issues. When my pain can be controlled by me being able to go be alone for a while. And for when my youngest's second birthday comes around and we are all there: smiling, clothed and ice packless.

Tremors

2008-04-01T21:29:00.004-05:00

Unfortunately the monster doth protest. I have had some real breakthrough pain in the last couple of days. I have tried to get by with taking Motrin and doubling up on some of the meds. I guess the good news -- can there be good news with any of this?-- is that I am only feeling pain on one side. Which means the diagnosis remains correct. Which means I am a candidate for the surgery. Which means I can start freaking out again about said surgery.

I have been having incredible dreams due to, I am sure, the massive amounts of drugs, I mean medicines, coursing through my system. (I really do need to stop calling them drugs. I had to go tell my kid's teachers that I am not on "drugs" I am on medicine) And one of the weirder parts of being on the four different meds and having these crazy dreams is that I remember them in the middle of the day, quite clearly and I have to literally stop and think, Was that real? Did I really experience that? Or was that a dream?

The way I realize that those moments aren't real is that they suddenly stop replaying in my head and I can't remember them. I assume that if they were a real memory, I would be quite clearer in my ability to keep them going and remember them. I am sure I look crazy with my hands jerking about and my mind suddenly wandering and wondering. I tend to drop a lot of items now, my usual grace (that of a fencer) is completely gone. I am jerking and shaking all over the place. If I wore a suit of armor, it would be clanking and clanging. Surely the people around me would protest this, but in my image of me is a mess.

My life has taken such a strange turn. I spend every Thursday night as a seventy year old woman. I get all of my bottles out and my tray of pill cases and divvy them out. I might as well have Lawrence Welk blaring on the TV. It used to be Thursdays were "Jousters Nights" (a little shout out to my dear old Ohio friends) a bar that would sell anything to anyone no matter what the age. Now I am hoping that one of those drunks got their degree in Neurology and is working to solve my condition.

And as I get ready to go to bed and have a night of crazy, vivid dreams, I place my ice packs in a neat little row in the freezer so I can easily grab them in the middle of the night. In the dark, my ice packs are my only defense against the monster under my skin. It is me against it as I struggle for sleep. I am staring down a gigantic windmill, holding an icepack and praying that someone out there can relieve me of this journey.

Games

2008-03-30T14:59:00.006-05:00

I've been thinking about do-overs. You know when you were a kid and you messed up in a game you called "do-over" and you were granted immediate clemency. You got to do it over. And whether or not you did better, it didn't matter. You felt like you were part of a team because you were granted the do-over. Everyone knew how you felt when you first screwed up and liked you well enough to say, "hey, yeah, let's give her another shot."

I thought about it yesterday when I was sitting at my hair salon and the hairstylist was asking me if I wanted the same color as last time or try something new. I looked at her and thought to myself, who the heck cares what I look like? Certainly not my husband as he sits and stares at a letter. Definitely not my kids. Maybe the guys at Kroger? Nah. Perhaps the guards who sit at the gate to the Army Post? Heck no. So I answered, "It doesn't matter, whatever is easiest." As I sat there dwelling on that cheerful conclusion, I noticed a bottle of shampoo that I was a sucker enough to buy the last time. Only the bottle was different. And there was a big sticker that said, NEW AND IMPROVED!

Now wait a minute. I paid a lot, I mean a lot, for that stupid bottle of shampoo. And now they are saying, "you know, that last bottle...not so good. But THIS bottle!!! THIS bottle, you gotta have! " I wanted a do-over. I wanted to say something to that hairstylist and demand I got that new improved bottle for free. But, I could tell this twenty something girl was not on my team and it just wasn't worth it. I will just have to deal with the less than perfect shampoo sitting in my shower. I was a sucker with no do-over clout.

That was more apparent last night when I was talking to my girlfriend. She and I were talking about how it really stings when we bring the kids to different events and there are daddies everywhere. Yesterday was our first time bringing our boys to a soccer game. Well, there were daddies everywhere you looked. For being a military town, there were plenty of guys playing soccer, or giving pointers to their kids. And it really stings.

I mean, if we noticed it, it makes you wonder how the kids are reacting to the men who are not their Daddy. And as we were talking about this, my friend started crying. You see, her husband has been gone since late September. And he won't be back until the week before Christmas of this year. I didn't have words to comfort her. I just said, "It is just too much. It is just too much."

It is on days like this, you just want to cry: do-over! do-over! Whoever made the decision to have these Daddies, brothers, husbands go to war for a year and three months please please call a do-over. It is just too much. Because it isn't the big events that are straining the wives. It is the little things. It is the spilled milks, the arguing, the flat tires, the wet newspapers, the bugs in the house, the doctor's offices, the middle of the night fevers, the bad dreams, the creaks in the night, the oil changes, the bottles of really really expensive shampoos that we find are not that great and the hair color decisions that we know don't matter because, really- who is looking at us anyway?

I wish I could call a do-over for my dear friend and all the women out there who do both parent's jobs with seemingly no team behind them...but I am just a sucker with no do-over clout.

Another Bullet

2008-03-27T22:08:00.006-05:00

Another allergy has infiltrated our little world. This time it is milk. The other two kids have nut allergies and fish and some other foods. And so I have to go to the pharmacy and pick up another box filled with needles that will potentially save my children's lives if they happen to take a bite of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or drink a cup of someone's milk.

I started laughing when the doctor came into the room and told me the news. Aidan is allergic to milk. Another allergy. What on earth could we have done to prevent this? I guess if we never met, never fell in love, never married, never had children. Which, obviously, is not a realistic scenario . I was laughing because I was having a conversation in my head to whomever (God, Mary, my grandparents , etc.) would listen right before he walked in. Begging them to just let me have one child that I don't have to worry about. One child that I could send out into the world without wondering if today will be the day he or she will eat a bite of food that will kill him or her.

Apparently no one was listening. Perhaps they are all tired of me making requests and begging for relief. I know I am tired of having to ask. Maybe if my husband makes it through the deployment unscathed, he can be the one to take over the requests. Maybe someone will grant him his wishes.

So I laugh. I cry. I take a deep breath and start going through my cabinets and refrigerator to figure out what foods contain the "bullets" that might kill my kid. I type a long email to my husband giving him the newest bit of news affecting our family. And I sit and wait for the phone to ring in case he was able to get a line out to call home.

Searching

2008-03-26T22:06:00.014-05:00

I've been in touch with some old friends lately. Some make me want to get back to the good 'ole days and make different choices, take different paths. Now, my old friend pain has been under control with me living on a daily "balance beam" of making sure I don't startle the monster under my skin. But I have to live as normally as possible if for nothing else but making my kids feel like their lives are normal even if Daddy has suddenly left.

One of my friends, living in Los Angeles on the beach in a huge, gorgeous house and who works as a writer on several different shows, is someone I call when I need to hear about a life I could have (tried) to have. The last time we spoke, my kids started screaming in the background and the baby had a poopy diaper, so I told her that I had to go to change a diaper. She replied that she was going to take a walk on the beach. Bitch. (kidding) I started getting melancholy about me diving into a nasty diaper and her diving into the Pacific.

Another friend found out about my condition and remembered our first year in college when I was diagnosed with a "rare" muscle condition that I had to have surgery on. My first Thanksgiving in college was spent recovering from such surgery. I started thinking about the rare things which my body has been subjected. Now, why is it that I have negative rare things? Why can't I be the rarest fairest beauty of the land? No, I have rare conditions and diseases.

I was feeling rather blue about these two points.

Today I had to bring my youngest to the neurologist. He asked me for background information: Was the birth normal? No. Was he hospitalized in the last year? Yes. (OK, getting more depressed) Has anyone in the family been diagnosed with migraines or seizures? Well, now that you mentioned it...

I told him about the Trigeminal Neuralgia and his reaction: ugh. That was his professional opinion. Ugh. If you could describe my mentality at this point it would be a picture of Linus from the Peanuts drooping his head and dragging his blanky. I was just blah. Between me and my condition and my friends and their observations and great lives, I was just on the edge of depression. And then two events happened.

The neurologist said: I only wish that all of the kids that come into my office could look as good as yours. It might not sound like much to anyone else, but to me it was like a light being turned on. I was so expecting another radical diagnosis with major events to follow. It seems that is the case whenever we go to the doctor these days. But it wasn't. My son was close to perfect, and the doctor thought so too.

The second event occurred well after we arrived home. My parents had taken my older two to their house to give me a couple of days off. I had been feeling quite alone and out of control of the pain (the twinges were starting again), and thinking about the rareness of my conditions, etc. And then the phone rang. My daughter was on the other end saying good night to me, her voice cracking, "I miss you Mommy".

She missed me. She knows nothing about the dreams I have about being a writer. She knows nothing about the pain (thank God). She just knows she loves me, pure and simple. And it is that pure, simple love which is the rarest thing in the world, that I will hang on to when I start doubting my life.

So I will pick up my Linus blanky, tame the monster under my skin, and love my kids more each day. Because for now, that seems to be the cure for anything.

52 Weeks

2008-03-24T07:55:00.008-05:00

As my kids lay around in a sugar hangover and I am still batting away their requests for more chocolate, more jelly beans, more more more (thank you Easter bunny!) I start thinking about how I need to get back into shape. Pre-children shape would be ideal, but even back to after-the-first-child kind of shape. (why does everything just get lower and wider after a child or two?) Given the fact that I have had three children in five years any kind of shape besides the one I am in now would be great.

I am giving myself until my hubby gets home. So I went and bought some DVDs. I do belong to a gym that I did go to on a regular basis until "the pain" started. Not only did that prevent me from going, but my youngest kept getting these awful, nasty colds and I swear it was from there. Good excuses, but still not in shape.

The DVDs were kickboxing aerobic exercises. Three different levels, three different instructors. The first one was a nice girl/woman who was very compassionate towards women who have babies at home. I mean honestly, unless you can grab forty-five minutes while the baby is sleeping to do this routine, you have a child under your feet while you are trying to do the jumps, jabs and squats. That is what someone should make: an exercise that incorporates the Mommy jumping around the children who are climbing up her legs and crawling around her feet. Now one, two, three squat, pick up the baby, lift him in the air and down, two three four.

Speaking of which, during the entire routine I am breathing (like she requested in a nice but stern manner: I better hear you counting, that is how you know your breathing! Do people not know? Are there a group of people out there who don't know if they are breathing unless they are counting? And... how is she going to hear me? Will she take it out on the girls behind her who are dutifully keeping count while she is yelling at me?) and I am keeping count, but it kinda sounds like labor breathing. You know: whooone whatwo whathree, and I look over at my 11 month old and realize, that is how he is going to learn how to speak and count! He will have a speech impediment because I am exercising. Another good excuse, no?

So after looking at my 11 month old and deciding we can just send him to a speech therapist if need be, I focus on what the Breathing Marshall (cute girl/woman on TV screen) is saying as she is doing more toe touches, now we all know how hard it is to get your body back after a baby, right girls? The women behind her nod and smile and they continue counting, Darla had her baby 13 weeks ago! And she nods towards a woman who is quite normal looking. Sandy has had two children! Sandy was definitely buff, but I decided her children were probably teenagers so she has had plenty of time to work out. I was beginning to feel quite OK with myself. Hey, I just had a baby too! It is OK for me to be like this. I am starting a workout routine, so I am OK here. Then: And I just had a baby 10 weeks ago! From the Nazi bleach blond Counting Marshall (the evil girl/woman on screen.)

I stared at the TV as I am punching the imaginary hanging bag. 10 weeks ago? She was perfect. Oh, I hated her. I had my kid (doing math in my head) almost 52 weeks ago. I switch to front kicks, and breathe with a ferocity that makes my almost 52 week old son look up at me and smile. Just like the happy women on the screen.

I am counting and breathing and kicking and scowling.

And I have two more DVDs to go.

High Five

2008-03-21T07:52:00.005-05:00

I wonder if God gets tired of his "children" (us) asking questions. You know the kinds of questions we all ask from time to time. Are you listening? Can you give me a miracle? Do you hear our prayers? etc.

Because I am tired of my children asking me impossible questions! I have given up on trying to answer them with any clarity. Now I just stare at them and throw any answer in which I can use a complete sentence. Some samples of the questions I got at 11pm last night from my four year old (who should have been sound asleep -- as should I):

Mommy does Jesus like chocolate bunnys and jelly beans?

My answer: yes, I believe he did. Go to bed.

Why did everyone hold their palms up for Jesus? Were they giving him a high five?

My answer: yes, I believe they were. Go to bed.

Did the Easter Bunny die on the cross too?
My answer: yes he did (just kidding folks)

My answer: no, the Easter Bunny is coming to our house unless you don't go to sleep.

I know, I know. Not the greatest way to handle the situation. I should have brought out the bible or something. But I am tired. Tired of fielding these impossible questions. Here are some more gems from the last week:

Mommy, what is above outer space?

Me: Well...I think it is just gas and matter (my mind is racing at this point...)HEAVEN! Heaven is above outer space! (I was VERY proud I came up with this kid friendly answer)

Did Jesus go to outer space then?

Me: Yes. (My poor kid. I can see his mental image of Jesus in a space suit flying by the moon to get to Heaven. I have ruined him.)

Why did the Roman Soldiers kill Jesus? Isn't Daddy a soldier? Is he Roman?

Me: (internally whining...why does he do this when we are in the car and I am trapped) Ok. They weren't very nice and they didn't like Jesus talking to all of the people of Rome. Yes, Daddy is a soldier. No he is not Roman. (where is this going?)

Mommy, is Daddy fighting the bad guys in Iraq because they don't like Jesus talking to all of the people?

Me: well... (wow. my kid is a genius! he just summed up two thousand years worth of strife in the middle east! ) you see...Daddy is....

Mommy can I watch a show?

End conversation. Thank God. And by the way God, while we are at it, thanks for listening to all of my questions. I am sure they aren't easy to answer either.

Calamity Jane

2008-03-18T21:28:00.007-05:00

As I sit here on a balmy seemingly Spring night (though it is only March), I am almost relaxed. I say almost because there is a Tornado Watch out for my area of the world. Another tornado. Which my kids know means we have to go under the house. Not the basement, but literally under the house. We do not have a basement. You would think we would have a basement since we seem to get more tornadoes every year than sunny days, but we do not.

So I am not relaxed because if the weather alarm starts shrilling this weird ring that sounds like it is underwater, I have to somehow run upstairs (another annoying trait about this house that we rent- yes we are old and we rent- it's a military thing - the master is on the first floor)and grab three (three!) sleeping children, the safe with all of our documents, helmets and my diaper bag and - get this- go outside, down my deck stairs to a crawl space door, open the door and bending over crawl into the crawl space. They call it a crawl space for a reason. You can't stand up. Now picture all of this with lightning, hail and thunder with three screaming, crying kids who won't even leave the house unless they have "Bear" and "Ellie" (their loveys).

Once we are in the crawl space (under my kitchen), we sit in a tent that my husband set up before he left. We have wind up flashlights ,water, you name it. It is a regular party! And we wait. And wait. And then the questions start.

"Mommy, when is the tornado going to come?"
"Mommy, I have to go pee pee can I go in my diaper?"
"Mommy, is our house going to blow away?"
"Mommy, I am done now, can we go upstairs?"
"Mommy, why did God make tornadoes?"

Which is a very good question. I will add that one to my list of questions for Him.

What they don't have is a way to let everyone know they can come out of their hiding places. They have a blaring horn to warn you to take cover, but nothing to say, hey...come on out, it's safe. I usually call my family and ask them to tune in to the weather channel to see if we are safe or not. At least my cell phone works under the house. (There's a concept for a commercial: strung out mom with bed head sitting in her tornado shelter with three crying kids and her house blowing away but her cell phone has all the bars.)

Like everything else in my life right now, I have to plan what we are going to do way before we do it. For instance, by the back door as I write this, lie two tiny Crocs (the shoes my husband hates), a bag of helmets, the safe and my diaper bag. If I could lay the children there I would.

I think planning ahead is a survival tool for me right now. Even at night, right before I fall asleep, I plan my every move if someone were to break in: wake up,grab phone, dial 911, drop phone, get gun, sit at door like those chicks in those CSI shows, with the gun held near my shoulder, and blow the guy away once he steps in my view. That is my plan. What would actually happen: wake up, shake like crazy, search for phone, trip over laundry pile, try to open gun safe but hands are shaking too much, get it open eventually, creep into hallway, see the guy, pee in my pants and start shooting like a crazy person who just got out from under the house with three kids, a bear and a stuffed elephant.

I guess there is my back up plan. I can go back to relaxing.

Can You Hear Me?

2008-03-17T10:37:00.002-05:00

This one goes out to all of the military wives out there who suddenly get overcome with sadness, fear and loneliness at or around 9:30PM (or in our language 2130.) Now because we are on duty 24 hours a day with the military brats, we can't exactly show signs of weakness or fear. No, we take it to the showers. Literally. We cry and stomp and just let the hot water run out as our frustrations do. It is our only place to let go without the kids witnessing us.

I have talked to several military wives who attest to this. Where else can we vent? (besides our blogs of course) The windows of our SUVs or minivans are not dark enough. The phone calls that we may get from our husbands are so sporadic and delayed, by the time you actually hear him say "I'm fine...it's you with the hard job" the line is cut. (And to any guy who may be reading this, that line doesn't work. First of all, we know you aren't "fine" and second of all, we know we have the harder job. Stop rubbing it in.)

The "support" groups that are offered are a nice idea, but everyone is so gung-ho about being the strong woman, it is almost like no one wants to fess up to being a crying, sniffling ball of wuss that we are allowed to be from time to time (as long as it takes place in the shower).

When I am having a day like I did today: the kids are fighting every two minutes, (I don't like you anymore and Mommy, so and so pinched me, etc.) the baby is just non-stop crying (why? why? why? I have offered everything to make him stop from Cheerios to his favorite toys and he just keeps going and going), and every single room I just spent a half hour cleaning, the kids go right into and manage to mess up even worse than it looked before I cleaned it. (Does anyone else hate Sundays?) I start imagining my husband and his job.

Now you would think that I would straighten myself up and pull myself together and say, "He's doing a good thing out there, so I must hold up the home front" or something like that. No. I get mad. I get so mad that I want to just punch someone. But then I remember my friends whose husbands are over there for a year and a half. For the third time in a row. I mean do the kids even remember their dads at that point? It is too much.

So I know some strong, resilient, tough women who happen to be military wives and moms. We have our moments, some good, some bad. We wait until the 2100 hour to allow ourselves our weakness to wash off of us and whirl down the drain. Then we wait for the next phone call from our guys whom we may or may not hear before the line gets cut off.

Squiggly Thoughts

2008-03-15T06:37:00.007-05:00

Here are some things that I never want to do again:

1. Deliver food, plates, a toy and compassion to a new widow and her baby girl. Especially when she asks me to do the impossible task of bringing the rest of the guys home. I brought a toy for the baby and it played a song when tipped over. I often wonder if that sound now brings back that awful time in the widow's life and it makes me regret giving it to her.

2. Go into labor at home and have my wonderful husband drive me to the hospital. Picture this: I am literally screaming out in pain while he is obeying EVERY traffic law. Stop signs. Red lights. THE SPEED LIMIT. Dropping me off at the entrance while he parked the car. Aidan would have been born in the front seat of the Jeep or the front of the hospital had he not gotten stuck. Bad for me, good for hubby.

3. Live in a country that I don't know the language. As much as I love my dear friends Luba and Milan, I was so very lonely in Slovakia. Add being a new mom on top of that, and you get a whole bunch of worry to add to the loneliness. There are many stories along these lines that I will have to write about at another time.

4. Move. I know this will not come true, but it should only be two or three or four more times right? sigh

5. See my brain on film. A surreal experience. The neurologist was explaining the results and findings of my MRI and all I could hear was: "...no lesions...blah blah blah...no masses found...blah blah...no Multiple Sclerosis" I was mesmerized by the fact that I was literally staring at the squiggly things that were my brain matter. Part of me was fascinated. Part of me was completely weirded out that THAT thing was sitting in my head.

So those were the five things that I do not want to ever do again. I am sure I will add to my list in due time and I am sure I have forgotten many moments in my life that I should have listed. Like my Goth days. Okay that was number 6.

These Are the Days of My Life

2008-03-13T20:37:00.003-05:00

Ahh yes. The day of reckoning. Tomorrow I will meet with the doctor who has seen inside of my head (my husband is surely jealous!) What did she find? What will she do? Did the ink color my brain a suspicious color? Is there a mass of something that I am not aware of? What exactly is pressing on the nerve in my head? (The nerve of it!) Tune in this time tomorrow to find out the answers to all of these questions and more. I am sure you are all waiting with bated breath. As am I.

Fried

2008-03-11T19:31:00.007-05:00

When you are acting as a single mom as I am right now, the moments with the kids that you can sit back and enjoy them are few and far between. Mostly, you are running around like a crazed banshee picking things up off the floor, the ceiling fans, the counters. Or you are cleaning people's tushies (is that the plural of tushy?) and scraping food off of the table, floor and that ever disgusting highchair. (How is it the highchair that once sat at the store with gleaming plastic, the pad so smooth and the straps so soft and supple- nary a crumb on them- is suddenly a festering slime magnet with straps that you can't even adjust anymore due to the amount of goo that has hardened under the buckles?) But I digress.

So I had an almost moment. I had a moment of commercial-worthy mothering. Me, pouring a cup of hot water (without shaking!) and reaching up to get the honey with a smile on my face. The baby playing on the floor -which I just mopped thank you!- with some fridge toys. I could almost hear the director yelling cut! Perfection!

Then - reality hits. The honey drops on the floor, the lid cracks off and after bouncing a few times, drips into a puddle. Next, the box of tea will not open and the perfect baby will not stop pushing play on the fridge toy that has possibly the most annoying song on earth. Finally, the actress playing me (me) picks baby up and promptly walks right into the puddle of honey that accumulated on the floor.

Four hours later the actress playing an annoyed, tired and irritated mother (me) finally gets back to her cup of now cold water. Just when single parenting feels like it just doesn't get any better and I want to pack it in and walk away, I look up and see my eleven month old steal, then eat, his first french fry.

And it is those moments,so tiny, few and far between that keeps this mom (me) going.

Angels in the Snow

2008-03-09T16:19:00.007-05:00

Is there nothing quite as humbling as a little boy's tracks in the snow? As I run around the house cleaning and putting away laundry -- racing against a nonexistent clock-- I stopped to watch my four year old son playing outside. I kept my eye on him, he was jumping on the snow filled trampoline. But what caught my eye were his tracks.

You could tell where he started and when I followed them, it amazed me. Up and down and across logs and trees, over the fence, down to where the woods started at the edge of our yard and back up to the deck. It was pure curiosity that fueled my child. It was ten degrees outside and I thought for sure he would be back within two minutes, but he was out there still...jumping away on the frozen, snow filled trampoline.

When does that disappear in one's life? If I have fifteen minutes to look at a magazine, I feel I am enjoying life. But I am not. Curiosity and pure abandonment is the joy of life isn't it? Jumping over logs to see if there is a puddle to splash...now that is joy. Not having five minutes to drive to the nearest drive-through.

Watching him, I understood more my husband. He never grew out of that stage. His tracks took him into a profession that allows him to jump over, through and on any mission he is sent. His curiosity allows him to learn many languages and his abandonment of anything routine gives him the chance to get on his own trampoline in life.

I wish I hadn't given up my tracks in the snow. I am not sure when it happened, but it did. I now come inside after two minutes, thinking about something or someone that needed my attention. I guess watching my son and my husband allows for me to live life in a way that I perhaps once did. I follow their tracks in the snow with my watchful eyes and they wave from the distance.

Majors and Minors

2008-03-07T16:23:00.009-06:00

Isn't it strange when other people know more about the major parts of your life before you do? Like when you get an ultrasound and the technician knows not only the sex of your baby, but if there is something wrong with him/her and for a brief moment, if there is more than one.

I feel like there are several people all over the world that know more about me and my family than I do, and it is so disconcerting. Last night I got a phone call from an institution (that I can't name) that was trying to verify something my husband had done. Well, I was no help since I don't know where said husband is nor do I know what he is doing. And the person on the other end of the phone did. I felt like asking her, "C'mon, just between us ladies...give me a hint" But I held back.

It was so weird to be talking to someone who knows more about my husband than I do at the present time; I am sure if I talk to my brother-in-laws they could tell me things about my husband from the past that I don't know and don't want to know. That is an entirely different topic.

And on a smaller level whenever my kids are with other people- whether it is in their cars, houses,or classrooms- I don't know how they behave. I hope to God they are sweet, kind and polite but come on. I am sure they have many moments of being a 4year old and a 3 year old. People are just too nice to tell me.

And then there are the doctors. And for me, it is one doctor in particular that is holding the key to the next few months if not years of my life. I sit here and wonder what she is doing tonight. Is she watching shows that her TIVO recorded? Is she practicing in front of her mirror how she will tell me, "Well Eileen, the findings are, yes you have MS." And then she hears the music from American Idol starting and forgets all about me. (Why I am picturing this highly intelligent woman acting like a fifteen year old I don't know)

So I sit here and wonder how many people in our lives know something we don't about ourselves, our families, our country, our world. And do we want to know? I am still debating that. For now I have to go watch Rock of Love 2 and forget about what I don't know for a while.

Whale Watching

2008-03-05T13:33:00.006-06:00

So the other night I dreamt that I was being chased by a whale. If I was in the water, it was there underneath the raft. If I was on dry land, it would dive after me and somehow reach me in the pine trees that I had run into. This massive "whale"-- it was black and faceless and tubular-- was invisible to everyone else. In this dream I was hiding behind a pine tree and waiting for it to go away.

Now it doesn't take a psych degree to figure out the whale is representing all of the problems in my world right now...chasing me, etc. But yesterday when I was walking into the cold, sterile and metal-filled room for my MRI, I got a chill. The MRI was definitely tubular. The students that were sitting around and taking notes on God knows what (we hadn't started yet, were they writing about me? "nervous patient, overweight, bad hair, not enough makeup") were definitely faceless in a no- bedside-manner way.

The forty-five minute procedure was pretty tough. My head was in a cage, my ears plugged and dye was injected into my arm. As the dye traveled into my blood stream I had an instant memory of childhood: chewing on a pen and having the ink explode into my mouth. My eyes were closed and after a few seconds all I could see was blue in my eyelids.

When the bings and bongs and electric grindy noises started I knew that the whale had finally caught up to me. I started to panic, fighting the urge to scream out. Then my wedding ring started vibrating and pulling at my finger. I began to calm down and think straight, I can get through this. People are out there pulling for me and everything was going to be ok. Breathe.

I may still be hiding behind the pine tree but I know that the doctors, my friends and family know what is lurking behind me and they are going to help get rid of it.

Monsters Under Our Beds

2008-03-03T16:24:00.002-06:00

Last night my three year old snuck into my bed. I remember seeing her standing on my husband's now empty side (why I don't take up the whole bed and sleep in the middle I don't know) and throwing the blankets back. She crawled in and slept the rest of the night there. No words were exchanged...they weren't needed.

Don't you wish you could climb into your parent's bed again? There are big fluffy pillows,the rythmic sounds of adults sleeping, no bad dreams and no monsters under the bed. Mom and Dad were super heros...albeit sleepy ones. I am scared to death that my children might view me as a super hero.

I wonder what I am going to do when they find out that the monsters are still under my bed. They are called worried, anxious and scared. What if my monsters start to wake me?

Little Moments

2008-03-02T19:18:00.002-06:00

Today was a day of small happenings. Our world, meaning me and the kids, got enclosed. After my sister left I sat at the kitchen table thinking about how much our daily lives have changed in a matter of 72 hours.

Little things like pulling into the driveway and seeing his Jeep and forgetting for the tiniest of minutes that he isn't here. Or opening a cabinet and seeing his favorite chips. Getting the mail and seeing his magazines. The last bit of laundry with his clothing still clinging to mine. (I was thinking of keeping one item in the laundry basket just to have it appear every other day...) Having the baby on my hip-- him in a onesie covered in yellow slime droppings of sweet potato and corn-- and lugging the garbage can out to the curb.

But the worst little moments come from the kids. Sudden bursts of sheer sadness -- me thinking they have a wound of some sort -- them sobbing, "I miss Daddy" I am so caught off guard by these that I stumble for the right words. Or hearing them upstairs yell out "Daddy!" when I open the garage door and the alarm beeps (His usual entering spot after work)...no guys just me, coming in from garbage duty.

So we have made it through a couple of days. Only a few months to go. I am already babied out, I am already done with trying to cook for such picky people. I am already so tired of changing the sheets on the crib.

I am already done trying to explain to the three and four year old that he isn't coming back for a while. So instead I try to fill their little heads with other little thoughts, while mine is always thinking of him.

Fake Green Grass

2008-02-29T10:25:00.003-06:00

As Hubby gets packed to leave us for several months, and I swallow another round of pills to fight my condition, I keep asking myself, "Why are we getting put through this? Has God forgotten about us here???" We pray every night for people we know who are hurting, or who have new babies blooming in their lives and it makes me wonder if anyone is praying for us and if they are, why God isn't listening.

I remember as a child I thought God lived in our neighborhood. He lived in a white Capecod house with black shutters; most importantly, He had that plastic green grass on his front porch. Every single time we would go by that house I would say to myself, "Hi God, it's me again!" To my seven year old mind that was God's house.

Today I was driving home from having tea with some friends, one of which has lost her husband to a brain tumor in recent weeks. I thought again, as I navigated home, "Why has He forgotten her? Where is HE?!" I was pretty mad. I mean, I am no angel, but my husband going to war and me having Trigeminal Neuralgia is pretty brutal on the heart and mind.

As I drove along the same route I always take, there was a big yellow truck in front of me. One that I see occasionally in my neighborhood, and one that was driving as slow as can be. Normally I would fly down this road, but this truck was keeping me at a snail's pace. As I stared at the back of this truck, I started looking around me. To the left of me was a little gray house. On the front porch of this house was bright green plastic grass.

"God has moved down the street from me!" thought my seven year old self. But my thirty-five year old self thought, "Does that mean something? Or is it just a coincidence?" Oh, how I want to believe that God has moved for me. Oh how the mind of a seven year old wouldn't even question the appearance of bright green plastic grass.

Squished

2008-02-28T11:38:00.003-06:00

The next few days will be so hard to get through. Between my meds and Daddy having to leave, I hope the kids will be able to cope. But I think kids are like playdough at this age. You can mold them into shapes and stick all kinds of different colors into them and, unless they are left out and forgotten about, they will remain soft and ready to play....just with a new shade of color. Hopefully I am correct about that.

My sister is going to come over to help me over the weekend. I still can't drive anywhere since I am completely zoned out during the hours of 10-3pm. I realized this morning that I haven't left the house in several days. My sister suggested (jokingly) that I get put on the Meals on Wheels list and I wouldn't have to cook for the kids! All joking aside, I don't know how I will handle this once Hubby is gone. I guess I will have to do everything after 3pm.

I will be the Vampire Mommy. Stumbling around Kroger trying to beat the clock home...before my next dose is due. It is like the dark Cinderella and the kids are my mice. Everyone says I look normal enough when I am out and about with the meds kicking in. But I feel completely not-normal.

I feel like someone was squishing me, mixing up my colors, leaving me under the kitchen table...and I am a lumpy ball of gray just waiting to dry up...until after 3pm when I am ready to be me again.

And the Award Goes To:

2008-02-25T11:24:00.003-06:00

Last night was horrible. The pain started at 5pm and didn't leave until midnight or so. I tied an ace bandage around my head with an ice pack jammed into the left side of my face for some minimal relief. I couldn't even say goodnight to my kids. Conor was calling for me and I couldn't even go upstairs and talk to him.

I want to know why. Why did this happen? I am so tired of it. It has been four months of chronic pain. And every article or journal or medical website basically says: try these four or five things and if they don't work....sorry.

So in the midst of my pain I watched--through squinty eyes--the Oscars. There is nothing more that can get you fired up than watching the Oscars while you are doubled over in pain with an ace bandage tied to your head. Yes, yes...you all are wonderful playing cops and oil tycoons and queens. You all look so lovely. What a wonderful life you all have.

Me?

Oh, I like dressing up and playacting. I act like my husband isn't going to war. I act like I don't have a crazy disease that no one seems to know how to fix 100%. I act like I still have plenty of time to lose the baby weight. (Never mind that the baby is 10 months old now). I act like I don't feel horrible about asking my friend, whose husband has been gone for six months and who has three small kids, if she can pick up my children from school because I can't drive anymore.

Shall I go on? No? You have a party to go to?

Eventually I turn the televsion off. I don't want to watch the beautiful people anymore. I have to change my icepack. It has turned to slush and my thoughts have literally been squeezed out of my mind.

I truly hope tonight fares better. If only there were another awards show on.

Does Spiderman Wear Underwear?

2008-02-23T19:03:00.002-06:00

My four year old son is obsessed with wearing a Spiderman outfit that I gave him. Which is good because last year at this time he was obsessed with wearing various princess costumes. Now I have to pry Spidey off of him in order to get appropriate clothing on him to go to Walmart or church. Today I was in the midst of this and noticed he wasn't wearing any underwear. I asked him why and he replied, "Mommy, Spiderman doesn't wear underwear!" I had no retort to this. Except to state to my son, "Yes he does wear underwear so you have to." To which he replied, "How do you know Mommy?" At this point I was almost dropping my ten month old, the three year old was managing to toast her picture -- don't ever get a step stool for the kitchen-- so I just went with it. "Fine, don't wear any" and I stomped away thinking:

Semper Ubi Sub Ubi

That is the only sentence I remember from my years as a Latin student. I felt like yelling that at my four year old. It would have gotten the same reaction that "because I said so" gets. A stare, a stomp, and a slam of a door. Maybe if I start speaking in Latin my kids will start listening to me. Because then they'd have to figure out what I was saying. I will try anything at this point.

Does anybody really know if Spiderman wears underwear? Can you email me and let me know so I can win the argument next time?

Quite the Night

2008-02-22T13:51:00.006-06:00

Well I survived another night of severe pain. I had to walk around the house-- serving dinner, cleaning up after dinner, getting the kids to bed-- with an ice pack ace bandaged to my face. My four year old son started crying when he saw me. My husband is picking up a lot of the slack (almost all of it)...which is great but he is supposed to be leaving soon. We just keep waiting for the meds to kick in full time-- not just during the day.

I ended up sleeping alone last night due to, I am sure, the sounds of the ice packs moving around as I toss and turn. My dreams are quite vivid (last night I dreamed that my Dad and I were driving around, got lost, and ended up on a ferry to nowhere. Then, same dream, I was riding bicycles in my childhood neighborhood and ended up at my Dad's old office -- do I want to be a kid again??? YES!) and I am sure I act out during my sleep. Who wouldn't with all of the drugs in my system.

I am a bit worried that if/when Hubby is gone, I won't be able to hear the kids at night. He is always saying that they "cried out" and I NEVER hear them. Scary. I used to be up at the slightest noise. Now....nothing gets me up.

So I wait until four o'clock and see if the signs of a bad attack are going to hit me. That is my witching hour. If I can make it to six or seven, I know I am in the clear. If not...

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

One of my favorite poems..."The Second Coming" by Yeats. Never heard of it? Here it is:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Second_Coming_(poem)

How the War affects My Teeth

2008-02-20T20:04:00.002-06:00

Yes. The war affects my teeth. My jaw. My tongue. With so many injured guys coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan there is no Pain Management or Neurologist available to Dependents (i.e., me and my kids). The doctors are devoted only to the injured soldiers. So, for the last four months I have sat in the Emergency Room on various occasions holding ice packs to my face and trembling from the pain. I literally got lectured at by some male nurse as he took my vitals. He told me "you need to figure out who is going to manage your health care." I just stared at him and started to cry from the insanity of it all.

Thanks. Really, so helpful. We "dependents" get bounced around from clinic to emergency room and then we get lectured. We literally have to meet people in parking lots to get medicine because there are no appointments available.

The war is taking a toll on everyone. There are not enough doctors to help the families who are on the home front. I haven't seen a doctor but two times in the last four years. And one was a narcoleptic and they "couldn't find him anywhere in the hospital" Nice. They had to reschedule my visit. They couldn't find the guy.

So my teeth hurt for months because there are hurt soldiers. I understand that. Really I do. I am a soldiers wife. God forbid he gets hurt, I would want the best doctors to take care of him. But what about us?

What about the families who are home and fighting our own battles? Doesn't it affect the soldiers too? Knowing that if their wives, or kids get really sick or hurt...there isn't anyone to help unless you go to the ER several times until someone finally takes you seriously? Doesn't that make for distraction on the front?

My teeth hurt. My heart hurts (my husband is leaving in a matter of days) and I am incredibly mad that we are treated this way.

Skull Crackin' Fun

2008-02-19T22:06:00.004-06:00

I should have known it was going to be a day of contrasts. We left the house with big, fluffy snowflakes falling around us and darkness surrounding us. By the time we got to Vanderbilt, the snow was gone, the sun was up. By eight-thirty, the Neurologist was having me walk toe to toe across the floor.

Yes indeed, it is Trigeminal Neuralgia and we can go two ways. We can try meds until I can't it anymore, or we can just skip on ahead to surgery. Surgery of the head. Meaning, they will cut? drill? slice? a hole into my skull and move my brain over to reach the Trigeminal Nerve and place a Teflon disk in between the nerve and the pesky blood vessel that has been the cause of all of my pain. Hmmmmm....meds please.

I mean, when they say "move your brain over" where exactly is it moving to? There doesn't seem to be a heck of a lot of "moving" room in there. I guess they just squish it like a sponge. I just hope they aren't squishing a real important part of my brain. Like the part where I keep my memories. The math part...well they can basically extract that part. I have never been able to get much out of that part of my brain anyway, so squish away doc!

With Hubby deploying to God Knows Where, I don't think I want to have "brain moving" surgery. But if the meds stop working, or worse, never work at all....I will have to sign up for the surgery. I can't live with the pain. But can I put my kids through Mommy in the hospital, Daddy at war?

Oh the timing of it all.

The Irony of it All

2008-02-17T20:01:00.002-06:00

Unfortunately for me, I "spoke" too soon. I am no longer PAIN FREE BABY. I am FULL OF PAIN BABY. My meds stopped working last night. But I am holding on. I just have to get to Tuesday and I pray that the Neurologist that I am seeing will have a potion to at the very least get a grip on this searing, unstoppable pain.

I just want to pull out all of my teeth. I just want to deaden the nerve that is causing all of this. I just want out of this.

I suppose I will be prodded and poked on Tuesday. I suppose I will be tested for Multiple Sclerosis as well. And that, on top of the hurt, is the part I am most frightened of.

Is there anyone out there like me? I've been waiting for the "Big One" to hit. You know, the illness that will define my life, or the end of it. You know, breast cancer, thyroid issues, some sort of tumor. I wear the pink to support the breast cancer cause, but in a way I wore it to "ward off" the illness. I figured, not consciously mind you...but I think I wore the pink, the red, all of the colors to protect me from whatever it stood for. Subconsciously. Consciously I really do want substantial treatments from the medical community to help the victims of said diseases. But in the waaaaaaaay waaaaay back of my mind, I figure maybe if I wear it...it won't happen to me.

Crazy right? But now....I don't think there is a ribbon for Trigeminal Neuralgia. So, ironically, I couldn't wear it to ward it off. I wonder what color it would be anyway. Probably, it would look like bird poop because it is a very annoying and debilitating condition. Kind of like bird poop on your new car, or your nice sweater. Anyone who has been pooped on knows what I mean. And anyone with this condition (is this a condition or a disease or what?!)definitely knows what I mean. We are dealing with the bird poop of all conditions here folks. Stick that ribbon on your lapel.

Another Saturday Night

2008-02-16T22:17:00.004-06:00

Amazing what a week can do. I am no longer in any pain. I am able to interact with my kids. It's a miracle! Bridget still pretends she is Mommy and holds ice packs to her face and prays to God that her teeth will be ok. Poor kid.

I got my hair colored today; a week ago, I couldn't have imagined someone pulling and tugging at my head. It looks terrible. But I really don't care because I am PAIN FREE BABY! I met my husband and kids at a store afterwards and my darling husband had my kids say: "your hair looks beautiful mommy!" when in actuality I look like a giant strawberry. I asked for Mahogany Violet. Sounds very dramatic and mysterious right? It came out on my head as bright strawberry. No deep dark mahogany. No fun, spontaneous violet. Just bright red. With blond streaks, that actually appear to be gray on top of the bright red.

I didn't have it in me to question the hair dresser. To be honest, I was looped out again on these wonderful pain management pills. She could've turned my hair blue and I wouldn't have cared this morning. La la la! I am out in the world and I have no pain!!!

Perhaps if you have never lived with chronic pain it doesn't seem like a big deal. The notion of it sounds bad, but it is just a notion to most people. It is like hearing about your Aunt Ida who has terrible bouts of some horrible debilitating something or other. Your mother calls you and tells you about it once a week, and it brings some sympathy to the listener, but in reality as soon as the line is disconnected Aunt Ida is forgotten. And then it hits you.

Every single minute, every single day, every single night...PAIN. You go to bed hoping you can get a couple of hours of sleep without waking in pain. Upon wakening- you know that first few seconds of consciousness where you forget your daily tasks and wonder what the world has for you-- pain! And the day just goes down from there.

And you're still supposed to function normally. Kids don't get put on hold. Husband is doing his best but really does mind having to cook every night. Friends are being patient. ARGH the pain of it all.

And then some doctor is called. Some person knows how to help. Some miracle happens and you are pain free for the first time in MONTHS! You want to have a party. You want to call the doctor back and bless him and his family. You want to play with your kids like you did back in September...before all of this.

And so our day was typical and normal and wonderful because I looked like a moldy, gray strawberry and had a smile from ear to ear.

Another Food holiday!

2008-02-14T11:38:00.003-06:00

Happy Valentine's Day! I can't tell you how much anxiety goes along with Holidays for our family. It seems like the preschools make everyday a "learning with food" day. I have to provide snacks for my kids, plus any extra "special treats" in case another child brings in a birthday "surprise" treat. My kids have food allergies! My kids could die from the various surprise treats that are brought in EVERY day. And people wonder why our children are becoming fat at such early ages. I see why. Food is a HUGE part of their young lives.

An ice cream party at school makes me shiver with worry. A table full of sack lunches makes me grimace ...just how many peanut butter sandwiches are lurking in those colorful cooler bags? I make my kids promise they won't touch other kids food. I make my kids realize that sharing food is a BIG no no. And I watch them-- with the pride of a mother lion -- say "no thank you, I have peanut allergies" when someone tries to give them something to eat. My kids are four and three. They will probably always have to sit at "another table" so they won't get sick from food. I will always have to pack them separate chips, cookies, sandwiches. They can't eat the Chuck E Cheese cake at thier own party. They eat the cake I made for them. They know they could get sick, could "go to heaven" if they ate something I didn't approve or make.

And the most wonderful thing, the thing that makes up for all of the worrying: they have never complained, never whined, never asked "why me?" I realize that they are capable of dealing with this condition...now we just have to train the rest of the world!

Filling Frames

2008-02-12T19:19:00.000-06:00

SO....my kids are loving the new me. The new passive mommy that doesn't yell as much, that doesn't care as much if you spill your plate of chicken nuggets in the family room (which she told you not to bring in there). The Mommy on Meds sits at dinner staring at the baby as he tries to feed himself smushed pears and greenbeans. The Mommy on Meds doesn't seem to realize that he is far too young to do this...but really it doesn't hurt anyone to have smushed pear in the nose or the eyebrow. The four and three year old think it is neat how quiet and smiley Mommy on Meds is. "You don't even need an ice pack anymore Mommy!" the four year old squeals as the Mommy on Meds pours him a big glass of pink juice. Not watered down. WE LOVE MOMMY ON MEDS!

Today I wandered around the house filling all of the frames that have sat on dresser tops for the last four years....the whiteness of the slip of paper that came with it screaming out "PUT YOUR FAMILY HERE" . So, now the frames are filled with pictures from the last year. Mostly, they are filled with pictures of Aidan as a newborn since I happened to have a pile of them that never got past the junk pile on my desk 9 months ago. And what is true is they will never change. I will never go back and change them. They will always be of Aidan at one month old. He'll be heading off to college and they will still be in these frames.

Does anyone else have a box full of frames and pictures that are so outdated you just put them in a box out in the garage instead of changing them? You know the ones...goldish-brassy frames that are hinged in the middle so you can open or shut them and two pictures fit in them. Two horribly outdated pictures. I don't think any amount of Meds would make Mommy on Meds go out there and start changing all of those bygone frames. But you never know. Nuggets have fallen in stranger places.

Someone is having a good chuckle

2008-02-12T11:57:00.000-06:00

As I am now medicated to stop the searing pain of Trigeminal Neuralgia, I have to stop and connect my thoughts to "reality". Not so good with three young kids running around me on a normal day. And to add to the fog of strangeness that has enveloped my family (Mommy is acting kind of weird Daddy) I am now walking around the house with cabbbage leaves stuck inside my bra. Yes, Aidan and I stopped the nursing cold turkey. Very upsetting for both of us. But I had to. The pain was stopping me from functioning on a normal level. So, we have Mommy on top of a cabbage salad (My mother would love that...anything on top of a salad! boobs, left overs, you name it!).

The cabbage salad is fitting since I feel as though I have been shredded like cole slaw. The "why is this happening to me's" are starting to subside along with the pain. Only 15 people out of 100,000 have this condition. Why couldn't I have won the lottery or something? No, instead I got the prize behind door number 5. Which equals the number of emergency room visits and dentist visits and oral surgeon visits that I had before they finally figured out what was happening. (Thank goodness I didn't go through with pulling out my teeth!)

So now we cope. We try to get through the day with medicine that makes me loopy and, yes, a little more relaxed than normal. Driving is a lot nicer...the meds seem to zap away the Jersey in me. But I don't feel like I am HERE. I have to pull myself out of concentrating on the stupidest things to NOTICE my kids. (putting groceries away, folding laundry -- suddenly facinating). They try to get my attention and I pull myself up? out? of the "fogginess" and I can interact again. Oh...I hope I get back to normal. I don't want to miss out on anything with them. But the pain...oh the pain. I would rather be this flakey, foggy mom than the one I was last week.

Must go change the cabbage. Victoria's Secret, here we come!

Sorry

2007-12-20T22:48:00.000-06:00

Well, I was told to take all posts down. Thanks for the comments everyone. I guess I will try again another time, another topic.