Date Night Pictures and a Happy 4th

It's going to be a busy, three day weekend for most of us. I wanted to share a few small things with you first.

*Our date night pictures from last night. Sky and I had a gift certificate, so we got gussied up and went to an Italian restaurant for dinner, and then to Barnes and Noble to browse (and yes, we were still dressed up there). Sky told me I was a nerd for picking a bookstore as part of a date, but he also assured me he likes nerds.

* If you have a minute this weekend, here is the post I wrote about the Fourth of July- in case you missed it.

* Finally, I wanted to welcome all my new readers. Hello! Hopefully, you all have entered my scrumptious giveaway for a jar of my mama's homemade jam. She is already decided on another variety that would be great for a second giveaway, too. Yum!

That's it! (Well, that and Millie turns one this month- but that's a whole other post.) May you have a lovely 4th of July, and may you always remember those overseas who aren't able to share it with us this year.

A Sacred Trust

(I am going to do something I haven't done before, and that's publish an article of mine before it hits the Homefront United site (although I would definitely appreciate your comments when the it goes up!) and at Off the Base as well. I'm posting it here first because it's a timely subject that I feel so strongly about. And while I say it all, let me also say this: let's not forget those who were killed, or injured physically or otherwise.)

Republican, Democrat, or fill in the blank- much of the country was glued to the television for President Obama's speech today. And because my husband's future (and therefore, our family's future) could depend on what was said, I listened to every word.

There was one part of the president's speech that struck me the most. He quoted a member of the military who recalled September 11th. “One soldier summed it up well. 'The message,' he said, 'is we don’t forget. You will be held accountable, no matter how long it takes.' Maybe, but all I could think was this: will we be forgotten?

It's already happened in Iraq. When the announcement came that the troops would be withdrawn by August of this year, the country breathed a collective sigh of relief. According to Reuters, there are still 47,000 American troops there. While the news stories seem to focus on Afghanistan of late, I fear the general public may not understand how many families are still missing their spouses, siblings, and children. Not one of those 47,000 should be taken for granted or ignored.

Afghanistan is even more personal to me, because my husband and brother both spent nearly a year in that mountainous, sandy place. I recall all too well hearing IEDs exploding in the background while talking with them. I was shaking after the first time they echoed in my ears, but it's something they must have heard all too often. And unfortunately, announcing to the world that we are beginning a withdrawal does not tie everything up in a pretty bow. There is still gunfire there tonight. War does not stop and start so easily. War does not end with a speech.

I don't hang my hope on any politician's promises- to do so would be foolish. But President Obama later in said in his speech, “To our troops, our veterans and their families, I speak for all Americans when I say that we will keep our sacred trust with you.”

To all Americans, I would simply beg this of you; please keep that trust. Do not forget us now.

We have never forgotten you.

Mini Deployments

(Reposted from my latest Homefront United article- obviously, I'm now in week two of AT. Go leave me some comment love on the site!)


Annual training is just around the corner. The Army National Guard does not always do well at keeping their promises, but this one is always kept- those 'two weeks a year' they mention in their commercials and billboards are always penciled in.

It's similar to a month ago, when the Guard called on hundreds of troops in our state, sending them to riverbanks and towns that had turned into lakes. They hoisted up sandbags, waded through murky, knee-deep water, and slept in tents in a parking lot. They worked much more than an eight hour day, and they ate MREs between tasks. Those men have used their hands to hold M-16 rifles in Afghanistan, but during the flooding, they used those hands to knock on doors of flooded homes, and drive humvees from town to town in the rain. It's the very purpose of the National Guard.

Whether the scheduled AT or the unplanned active duty, it means he's away. Packing his things hastily the night before, my husband leans in towards me, and I see an outline of a man in a patrol cap bend down to kiss me goodbye. We don't always know how long he'll be gone. And no, this isn't a deployment. He isn't fighting a war with bullets searing the air around him, and he isn't a million miles away. But he's still gone.

People may not understand that while I am not greatly concerned about his physical safety, my husband isn't home and home doesn't feel right without him. There's no life or death in this, but in a strange way,  it's an unexpected, miniature deployment. I go through many of the same motions as I did while he was overseas. The bad habits come back- wearing sweatpants around the clock, eating even more junk food than usual, and checking my phone regularly to make sure I didn't miss a text from him. My daughter and I laze our way through the days, and she sometimes seems to get pretty tired of only seeing my face. I can't say I blame her.

But during this pseudo-deployment, I can be thankful for many things. Most importantly, I can be grateful that he is not overseas in a war zone. I can shift my focus back to priorities, and the time apart gives us the space to remember all the things we love about each other. We are reminded to not take things for granted. I am reminded that I can run the household alone, and I am also reminded that it is better when he is here.

I cannot say I look forward to AT, or to any time that my husband is gone. But the  positives are things that civilian couples don't always get to experience, and for that, I am grateful. And the homecomings are always sweet.

What I'd Say

There are two reasons for it, I think. Being a parent, you know, quietly, that your family will go on much longer than than your own life. And when someone you love is in the military, you tend to think about mortality even more. You have no choice. Life is nothing if not unpredictable, and there are so many unexpected things that happen along this journey.

Because of this, I sometimes pause a minute and think about my daughter's life, and what it would be if I were not in it. And if, for whatever reason, my story came to an end sooner than old age, there is so much I would want her to know.

Sometimes, long after I have kissed her goodnight, I slowly turn the doorknob and tiptoe back into her bedroom. I look at her small form curled up in the big crib, listen to the little breaths, and wonder what she is dreaming. I wonder if she will do the same when she has a daughter of her own. I wonder, too, if it's possible to miss someone in Heaven. It has to be. I know I couldn't watch her live her life and not ache to be near her.

There are so many things I want to convey to her; there are so many things that I need her to feel. I'd want to tell her about the unbelievable power of her smile, and how it can change hearts in a second. I would tell her that she is loved by many, many people, and that, for all of it, I will always love her more than anyone else ever could. I would tell her that she is beautiful and she is smart. I would tell her that I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she is strong and she will have an amazing impact on this earth.

I know there are many things I would never be able to explain, no matter how I tried. How can I show her how deeply I fell in love the first time I held her? How do I explain seeing her profile on the ultrasound and instantly missing someone I hadn't met? And maybe, she could never fully know those things until she becomes a mother. Words aren't adequate sometimes.

But, if I could only say a few words, they would be these: I love you. I love you. Sweet baby, how I love you.

(From my most recent article on Homefront United Network)

A Day for My Brother

(The following is my latest article on the Homefront United Network.)

My neighborhood was echoing with explosions. On the way home that night, the sky was a gorgeous purple-blue. A huge fireworks show lit up the Illinois cornfields. I veered off to a country road for a minute, and watched them in silence, feeling my heart skip with every boom.

I tried not to think about things too much the summer they were deployed, two years ago now. Sometimes the fear would take my breath away. My husband and my brother were overseas. I wondered how they would spend the holiday and what it meant to them that year. I couldn't recall if there was ever a 4th of July that I hadn't spent with my brother.

I had spoken with another Solider who had just arrived home after spending three years in Iraq. He told me he went to a fireworks display, standing in the bleachers with his girlfriend and her friend. While everyone stopped for the National Anthem, the friend texted, laughed, and snapped her gum...and he wanted to snap her neck, he told me. After everything he'd done-all the orders he followed, even if he didn't agree-it was infuriating for him to watch. He pulled her aside afterward and asked her to have more respect.

Sometimes it's hard to respect, because it's hard to comprehend. All of us are grateful to have the freedoms we do, but it's such a vague concept for civilians sometimes, like the rows of flags I passed one night, stuck in the neighborhood yards and taped with names of Soldiers. We're taught to admire them for what they do, but we see little to none of it, and it flutters away like many good intentions. The difference now is that I know some of these men very well. Hearing things like 'troop surge' or 'Soldiers killed' will never again be a news story that fades into the background of a conversation. It's something that makes my stomach sick. When I think of the guys overseas, I can't think of them as a collective mass any longer. I think of my husband and my brother, and all the other Soldiers I've met in their unit. They are not numbers or uniforms. They have faces.

My brother got on his laptop camera one day, making me grateful to see him all the way in Afghanistan. He made great efforts to tell me the awards he'd received were not a big deal. Then one by one, he held up certificates and medals for me to see, running his finger along the pages to point out certain words. The video was fuzzy and the camera jolted in and out of focus, but I could see his smile through it all. I marveled at how the little boy I knew had grown up and turned into a Soldier. When he got home, he didn't know how to respond when he was thanked for his service. It made him uncomfortable, he said. He considered it his job, and he did his job. I don't think it even requires patriotism to feel a swell of pride knowing we still have an Independence Day because 1% of the population is doing what the other 99% can't or won't do.

When my brother was little, he would ride in the 4th of July parade. My dad is a firefighter, and that meant a 15 minutes of pseudo-celebrity for us once a summer. We would sit on top of the firetruck in the scorching midday sun, and my dad would steer the huge engine down the road. Lights would flicker, we'd wave our hands and our flags, and Dad would yell up at us to put on headphones when he turned on the wailing sirens and horns. Later that night, we would always watch the fireworks set off. We'd lie down in the grass or on a picnic blanket, and comment on how great that one was, pointing, laughing. My brother would twirl the double cowlick in his hair and glow. His birthday is the 4th of July. In his mind, the whole day-the parade, the candy thrown, and the fireworks-was for him.

And in a way, it is.

Motherly Advice

I was given so much advice while I was pregnant that I get morning sickness just thinking about it. Most of it was meant well, although most of it was also unsolicited. There were times where I could have sworn I saw a little twinkle in the eyes of mothers passing on their tales, working up horrific stories of how my life would change with a baby around. According to many of them, my own hopes and dreams would end in the delivery room, carried out by the cleaning woman and never seen again.

Obviously, life goes on for me, and I've learned the difference between some of the stories I heard and the truth. I'd like to share a few with you, if only to encourage you from all the parents out there who may tell you otherwise.

The myth: You cannot understand love until you've had a child.

The reality: Silliness. Everyone is capable of love. It's definitely another kind of love, however, just as loving a spouse is different from loving a parent. I think what people mean by this is you can understand the depth of love your parents had for you, because you can fully realize what they went through every day for several years. It also means there is one more person on this earth who you would give up your life for in a heartbeat.

The myth: You won't mind changing diapers as much when they're your baby's diapers.

The reality: Poop stinks. (You may quote me.) It does not matter if it's my daughter's or a complete stranger's; dirty diapers are gross and I have not enjoyed changing a single one.

The myth: The first baby means going through a long, painful labor. Be very, very afraid.

The reality: Labor is generally longer with the firstborn, but "long" could mean 2 hours or 24 hours- there's no rule that says you will be in labor for days on end. People like to tell you how they survived months of childbirth, but it's usually just an event, not a week-long process. It hurts, and I'd rather not do it every day. But people have several children because the few hours of pain is worth having a beautiful child to add to their family.

The myth: You forget how painful labor was for you.

The reality: Nope. As I said, people go through it again because it's worth it. I cannot lie and say that it was all a blur, however. That's a pretty memorable experience to forget as if it didn't happen.

The myth: You can't say what you would or wouldn't do until you have kids. Don't judge before you are a parent.

The reality: I do not need to be a mother to know what is socially acceptable and what isn't. My opinions on the way I currently raise my daughter and how I plan to raise her in the future have not changed one iota since I first contemplated having children. I previously groaned and rolled my eyes at the mom in Wal-mart who cusses at their baby and screams louder than the child is screaming. I groan and roll my eyes now, too.

The myth: You will become a mom. This cancels out your identity as anything else but a mother.

The reality: I am definitely a mom. I'm also a wife. I'm a woman with a passion for writing and photography. Some days I fill one of those roles more than another, but there is no reason to give up my identity. In fact, giving my daughter a strong woman to admire is a very important goal for me. To lose myself would let her down.

The myth: You think it's bad when you can't sleep during pregnancy, but just wait. You won't sleep for an entire six months once the child is born.

The reality: Okay...that last one is pretty accurate.

(Reprinted from my weekly column for Homefront United Network, published yesterday on their site.)


And all joking aside, I read a jaw-dropping post last night, written a year ago, that I have to share with you (and thanks to Consider the Lilies for first sharing it with me). Read this, and be inspired, filled with hope, and humbled. I know it made me all the more thankful for my sweet Millie.

One by One (and a Special P.S.)

They do so little sometimes.

One of them missed the first cookout of the summer. It was a unseasonably warm day, perfect for setting up the kiddie pool and grilling hot dogs and hamburgers. He wasn't there, so she blew bubbles for the kids and got out the sidewalk chalk so they could draw stick figures of Mom and Dad together. She wondered how they could draw it from memory.

One missed church on Sunday. The pew had been vacant for months. The pastor mentioned something about it in his service. A few people nodded, as if they were sure it was only temporary.

One couldn't be there for his father after the heart attack. He didn't visit him in the hospital or send flowers to his room. While the rest of the family gathered together, he was noticeably absent.

One missed her wedding anniversary. She tried to phone her husband, but the signal was too fuzzy and broken. He spent a night at home, sitting on the couch in silence. She spent it clinging to his dusty picture and dreaming about the date night they would have had.

One wasn't there for his little girl's birthday. It was something his wife never pictured him missing. They had a small party for her, and gave her a card with “Daddy” scribbled at the bottom. The girl knows he didn't sign it. She hasn't seen her father for six months. She still cries for him at bedtime.

One didn't get a honeymoon after his wedding. He hasn't spent a full week with his bride. She clings to the dirty shirt he left on the floor because it still smells a little like him. She is starting to forget the face of the man she married. Sometimes she looks at her wedding ring just to remind herself that she didn't imagine that day.

One didn't call when it was most needed. One didn't get online after a ominous day in the news. One missed the family reunion. One wasn't there for their daughter's graduation. One missed their son's birth.

And we should thank every one of the ones who aren't there. We should thank them for all the things that they aren't doing. To serve our country and keep us all safe, they are giving up the precious, priceless moments in life.

Sometimes it isn't about what they're going through over there, but what they're missing here. Life does not pause for deployment. Time rushes forward.

One by one, they miss these moments for us. By serving, they give us these pieces of their hearts.  

   

 (Reprinted from my Homefront United Network article published yesterday.)

P.S. Two years ago today, at around 2am on a Tuesday morning,
a certain soldier and I officially began dating.
Sky said the classically romantic line, "Will you be my girlfriend on Facebook?"
I agreed. We changed our relationship statuses,
he went back overseas to finish his deployment in Afghanistan,
and after he'd been back home a few months,
I became his wife on Facebook instead.

Happy 2 years, Babe.

Our first picture together, taken that weekend 2 years ago

The Uniform

(This is reprinted from my article published on Homefront United Network yesterday. They are a military spouse and family support community, and I have been writing for them weekly. Go check them out! Also- thank you to everyone for all the great comments!)

He doesn’t put it on often, although it always seems to be in bits and pieces around our house. And being in the National Guard, he only needs it occasionally. Once a month, though, it comes off a hanger: a hat with perfect creases, a pair of dirtied boots, t-shirt, socks, and this- his uniform. 

I remember when the green tough box arrived at the post office that hot summer day. It had been sent home just weeks before he would be back. I lugged it up the stairs, and pulled out one ACU after another. There was a pair of winter boots. There was a fleece jacket with his name tape still attached. He had a quilt, neatly folded, from a church group who handmade blankets for his platoon. All of it had a musty smell of sand and sweat. I remember breathing it in, and wondering if that was how Afghanistan smelled to him every day.

One by one, I gathered an armful of uniforms, and trudged to the bathroom. They were so filthy with the dirt and grime that they needed to be soaked before they could go into the washing machine. I ran warm water into the rub, and watched as it slowly rose above the huge pile of clothes. I sat and wondered if every military spouse had the same emotions as I did as I went through that box. There was a kind of somberness to it all, as if I were entrusted with a deep secret. I thought to myself how strange it was to be washing the sand of war from his things.

When he puts it on for drill, I can’t help but think he’s handsome. After all, there is something to the cliché of women swooning to men in uniform. I can’t quite fully be comfortable, though. I think back to that moment. I see the water swirling around and smell the earthiness again, and all the memories of deployment come rushing back. 

I sometimes wonder what people think a National Guard spouse feels- after all, we don’t live on a base, and we don’t see our spouses in PT gear every morning or uniforms when they arrive home at night. Instead, we only see that uniform on for drill weekends and deployments. The weekends are bearable for most of us. The two weeks of training once a year can be tough, but manageable. That isn’t all there is to it, however. They go to war, too.

And every time he wears his uniform, I remember. 

New Article

My newest article for Homefront United Network is now up,

so please stop by and visit!

Would you be dears and leave me some comments?

Thank you!

Homefront United Network

Today, I wrote my debut article for the Homefront United Network.

I am so thrilled and honored to be a part of this site!

It's a great resource for military spouses and families,

and a few other bloggers I admire write there as well (like Goodnight Moon's Amber!)

So check it out-

and, of course, please check out my post while you're there!