Coffee With You : 2

"Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee affords." 

— Richard Brautigan

It's been a while since we've had coffee together- virtual coffee, that is. In fact, the last time I wrote a true update on our family was in November, and I've had coffee every morning since then. So I'm linking up with A Mama Collective, and summing up what has been happening since we've had our last heart to heart.

Sky-
He was gone for over two months this year- his AT (annual training), usually 2 weeks long, was 3, and then at an ASQ (additional skills qualifier) for another month. I'm starting to think the Army just randomly selects initials, throws a time table on them, and makes me explain to Millie why Daddy is gone for "289SOIHERTIJLKAERH". He got back a couple weeks ago, and as far as we know, he won't have to leave for an extended period of time until next year. So he's back to his civilian job now. They give him a generous amount of vacation time (both in the summer and from Thanksgiving to Christmas), and I am daydreaming of being able to take the kids somewhere close by, like St. Louis or Chicago, for a weekend vacation. However, we're saving up every penny we can for a new car next year (ours are 20 years old), so I'm not sure if we can afford to do that. Every sweet thought of taking Millie to a zoo is interrupted by another sweet thought of being able to buy a car without getting a loan. We'll have to see how the summer goes.

Millie-
She learned how to write her name. She can write 'Millie' completely by herself, and can write a few other words with spelling help. I bought a Razor scooter when they were on sale for about half price, and thought about giving it to her for her birthday, but that's at the end of summer and I wanted her to enjoy it this year. We decided that if she could write her full name, she could earn a surprise. She looked at the big box from Target sitting in our bedroom, got extremely excited, and worked so hard for several days until she could do it. It was the first time she's really worked towards something like that, and it was fun to see. She was wild with glee when she opened that box! She ended her first ballet class, and loved it, so we signed her up for a few weeks here and there during the summer. We can choose which weeks we attend, so we left room in the schedule for other fun summer things like garage sales and the farmer's market. She cannot wait to turn 4 in July, adores Mr. Rogers, and sings more than she talks.

Walter-
This little pudding is cruising on furniture, as well as walking with a push toy and with Millie. He babbles often- lots of 'b' sounds, mostly- and is on the verge of so many things. I will miss him being this small and baby-ish, because it is fading more and more every second. I haven't talked about this on the blog before, but he is in physical therapy for torticollis. He was diagnosed with both torticollis (a tilted neck) and plagiocephaly (flattened head) when he was four months old (although he's had the torticollis since birth). His head shape looks perfect now because we had to hold him or carry him constantly until he could sit on his own. He goes to therapy every other week to strengthen it, and is making some progress, but still has a way to go. If you look though all his photos on Instagram, you'd probably be able to tell how his head always tilts to the right. We'll have to see what his doctor says at his check up next month. And speaking of next month- he will be one! This year went even faster than Millie's first year.

Me-
I've been thinking about school again, nearly every day. Maybe it's because a significant portion of Champaign Urbana is renting cap and gown sets this month and moving away. I think I'm only 5 classes away from my associate now. The problems are 1- I have three math classes still to take, which is akin to climbing Mt. Everest for me, and 2- I'd have to take it in person instead of online (which I dread, because I adore online classes), so I'd have to have a babysitter three nights a week for at least four months. I'm going in to the college to speak to an advisor in a couple weeks, and will get it all figured out.

I've been reading a lot more. It started with a book I won. I didn't even love the book, but I got such a reading high. I haven't read a book through, other than school books, since Millie was little. After that, I bought a Kindle when it was on sale for $75 off. I thought I wouldn't enjoy it much, but I have had a ball with it already. Borrowing library books on the Kindle is easy, and more importantly, free, so that's how I have been reading so far. (It's terribly hard for me to pay $10 for an ebook when I could buy a used physical copy for 50 cents!) So in the last three months, I've read Notes from a Blue Bike by Tsh Oxenreider, Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand, and today, I just finished One Summer: America, 1927 by Bill Bryson. It feels so, so, so good to read again.

I'm also starting to think a lot about turning 30, which happens this September. I realize, while probably sounding incredibly cliche, that I'm starting to figure myself out a bit more. It's made me think about priorities, life goals, and where I'm at right now. I'll have to write a post about it.

None of this is monumental or even incredibly significant outside our little family, but a couple friends have asked me for details of these things, so here they are.

And now, it's time to close the laptop, and open a new library book while the kids are still napping!

The Airport

The act of going to the airport to say goodbye.

The weight over your chest as you drive the curving streets that wind their way to the terminal, with the silver wings of an airplane obstructing the view of the sherbet colored sunrise. The way you carefully craft words and phrases to explain to her why he has to go, and how long he will be gone, and know it won't be enough at bedtime next Tuesday when it sinks in that he isn't there to pray and read a story. The reason one hug or ten won't matter when he slips though security and you need another. The innocence of the baby swaddled in his pale blue blanket, completely unaware of what this means. The moment she asks you why you're crying, and you don't know what to tell her because you don't even know. The tension in your jaw that settles in because you're doing this without him again, and you've done it before, and you still feel a little lost.

The curious looks from strangers who eye his uniform and doubtless assume that he's going to or coming from war. And you want to explain to them, in a shaking voice, that leaving is leaving and that pain occurs no matter where he's going.

Navigating

The realization came to me this morning, before the coffee had even finished brewing in the kitchen.

I always clean first.

He tossed his bags into one side of the car, with Walter peeking out of his seat from the other side. When we reached the airport, he waited in line at the ticket counter, the only one in line wearing camouflage and boots. He leaned down to tell Walter goodbye one more time, and then told me, and then he was gone- away for more courses and training. I drove home with a tightness in my chest, biting my lip and wondering exactly what I was feeling.

And then, I shut the door and started to clean. It's become a habit, a tradition that surfaces every time he leaves. He has been gone so many times now, there are traditions in his absence.

I wiped the counters with a dishcloth, and cleared off the kitchen table. I vacuumed and hand washed the dishes in the sink, leftover from the chicken I made us before he left. There was a pair of his sunglasses here, some of his papers there, and I scooped up everything and put it away. Twenty four hours ago, the house was covered in various things in various shades of Army green. Now, it's like it never was.

I'm trying to figure out how this works. What it looks like to be apart with the state lines drawn between us. What it feels like to have that physical distance while we steer through so many emotions. All the articles talk about the long nights pining away and the sweet homecomings with new dresses. They never mention the fight.

While he's away, navigating new places with his new compass, I am here. And there are no maps. The compass is a worn Bible. The shelter is this clean house, with his toothbrush gone and his towel tumbling in the dryer. I'm looking around at what's left.

The bed is made up on his side. I should be sleeping.

We're Here

"The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer."

― Pablo Neruda

Today, Sky and I have been married for four years. Four years from that snowy, January day when we made so many promises, and went out for Italian food that night to celebrate. Four years of everyday. Four years of striving. Four years of memories, both beautiful and broken.

I am the kind of girl who craves fanfare on milestone days. Whether it's a holiday, birthday, or anniversary, I want the decorations or the food or whatever it is that comes along with the celebration. But Sky is working a lot of overtime this week and next; I mentioned that his civilian job was basically that of a drill sergeant, and the new recruits just started, so he's only been home to sleep a few hours before he goes back for another long day.

And then, of course, there is where we've been lately. A lonely, confused place. I asked him a few nights ago if we'd ever had a happy anniversary. "No," he said quietly.

A dear friend is going through marriage problems. And she talked about celebrating her anniversary in a quiet way. A way that hopes more than expects. A way that doesn't make unnecessary demands on the day, but simply says, "We've arrived at this day. We're here." In some way, maybe that's more meaningful than celebrating four years of easy happiness. It took so much of my heart- no, all of it- to make it this far. It took all my strength to be here.

Today, Sky and I will be apart. There won't be a romantic candlelit dinner, bouquet of roses, or a sentimental Hallmark card. But there will be the beginning of another year of marriage. Another year of being a family. That's still significant.

I hope our life together gets sweeter. I hope our days get happier. I hope we remember how our hands fit together again, and how it felt on that first day of promises.

For now, we're here. And for today, that's enough.

Looking for Stars

“[...] Christmas Day in the company of children

is one of the few occasions on which men become entirely alive.” 

― Robert Lynd

I don't really know where to start. Maybe I should start by saying I didn't want Christmas to look like this.

I don't want to come to you like that girl at a party, bemoaning all of life's troubles until your ears ache. Or the aunt that corners you every holiday to tell you how miserable she is because it's just so hard to remodel. I want to come to you as my friends, because that's what you are. And tell you things that I don't want to say, because I wish they weren't true. This is where my heart is tonight, and has been for some time.

A month ago, I briefly told you that my marriage was not in a good place. A day ago, somehow, it crashed down even more. I don't understand why this usually happens around the holidays, but that seems to be the case. Our fourth wedding anniversary is just a couple weeks from now. I can't believe that four short years could hold so much heartache and anguish. I can't believe the love that was there at the very beginning could be undone so easily.

It's not important what happened. Or rather, it is, but only to us.

But if I had you here with me, holding your hands as the words and the tears came, I would tell you that I am so happy in every other way- my children, my home, the chaos of my days even- but so unhappy with him and me. And that it feels cruel to be so close to happiness but never quite reach it. I would tell you how angry it makes me and that I don't even have a way to fix it. I would tell you that it's exhausting to be forever preoccupied with the uncertainty and lack of trust. I would tell you the only thing keeping me from deep regret is knowing Millie and Walter came from this.

At this time of year, pictures of smiling families are everywhere. And because I don't know their stories, it is all too easy to imagine their homes as places of love and security. I don't remember what it's like to feel the rush of love that comes with a military homecoming, or understand how wives are able to be swept up in every day adoration. The Christmas cards that are pushed into my mailbox each morning bring constant reminders that whole families do exist, and marriages can last. Then I walk back inside and face a different reality. All those things add up to feeling my stomach drop when I turn on the lights on our tree. Because I had so hoped that this year would be different, and it wasn't. My hope for the next year is small.

Then I read this post today on one of my current favorite blogs and it really resonated with me. To sum it up, she urged her readers to look for the little things and find joy in them even if the bigger things are making Christmas difficult to celebrate with a light heart. It's about grabbing hold of Christmas when it seems so out of reach and fleeting.

So friends, I am doing that. I chose the quote and picture at the beginning of this post because I have two small people in my life who cheer me up when they are unaware that I'm even sad. They make the whole year magic, and especially our Decembers. Every time we sit down to read a story, Millie tucks her arm around mine and leans closer to me. That is Christmas. Walter's first tooth came in just a day or two ago, which means a lot of sleepless evenings for him, so we've spent our time in front of the Christmas tree, with the rest of the house dark, just looking into each other's eyes until he gives up and slowly shuts his. That is Christmas. Wrapping up Millie's tiny ballet slippers and Walter's Gerber spoons: that is Christmas. And singing The First Noel at church until my throat gets tight from the love and the grace of this season: that is Christmas most of all. Entirely alive.

Optimism does not come naturally to me. But I am trying. Because so long ago, the world was cold, and dark. And suddenly, the Magi looked up and saw a star. The dark world was filled with light.

Coffee With You

{Walter on the left and Millie on the right.
Most of the time I don't think they look much alike, but in these pictures? Oh yes.}

"Everything in the world is here, in my room, 
in a great closet, named and orderly,
and I am here too, in front of it, 
hardly able to see for the flash and the brightness-
and sometimes I am that madcap person clapping my hands and singing;
and sometimes I am that quiet person down on my knees.” 
― Mary Oliver

 I feel like I'm often better at talking about the small things than I am the big picture. But if you wanted to come over one afternoon while the babies slept, sit next to me on the couch with a cup of coffee, and ask me how life has been- really been- since the last time we talked, I would take a sip from my mug and tell you something like this...

Walter was dedicated at church on Saturday. He wore his most adorable outfit to date- suspenders and a bow tie. I didn't think I would have much fun finding adorable boy clothes, to be honest. But while they are much harder to find sometimes, they melt my heart every bit as much as poofy dresses and sparkly headbands. Millie tried to climb on stage in front of the entire congregation while the pastors prayed over Walter. I'll be a little shocked if she's not a singer or comedian on stage someday.

{All dressed up for church}

Sky began his new job last month. He works for a military-style program for at risk teens, and has a sort of "nice drill instructor" role there. Everyone with his job has to have current or prior military experience, so he has a lot in common with the other instructors. So far, he seems to like it much better. There is quite a bit of overtime, but he'll actually have time off for Thanksgiving and Christmas this year. He's doing well in the Reserves too, and will have some training coming up that will keep him away for at least a month after the holidays.

We're gearing up for Christmas and already put our tree up, shockingly early from tradition. I asked my parents if they would mind helping with a ballet class rather than buy lots of toys this year; Millie's room is full to the brim, and I'm wanting to concentrate more on building memories and having experiences than just piling up presents. This year, she'll unwrap a pink leotard, tights, and the sweetest ballet shoes. She starts class right after the new year. We'll be giving her a few other small things to open, but they'll be second hand. Walter will be getting a couple second hand toys and books, but mostly useful things like containers for food when he starts solids in a month or two.

{Finding his feet}

I'm in awe that Walter will be six months just about on Christmas Day, and that Millie is 3 1/2 already. Most days are are still the coffee-fueled blur of every day tasks that really do get done even if I don't feel like they do. I'm doing better at seeing the miracles of mundane because if it's enough for Sky, Millie, and Walter, then it should be enough for me. We eat, wear clean clothes, have a reasonably tidy house, and make it to church most weeks. Walter is happy and Millie is learning the meanings of words, manners, and how to love God. That sounds like I'm setting the bar very low, but really, those things are my main job requirements as a stay at home mother. I have so much room to improve, but I'm not being as hard on myself as before.

{Millie set the table for the first time}

Marriage is...not good right now. I so long for it to be a place of comfort and good things, but it seems to be the opposite much of the time. I am tired of building only to have my work demolished. And my heart's been hurting a lot lately. That's really all I want to say about it.

My mom and stepdad went completely overboard for Christmas this year, and sent me a present early this year- a Kitchenaid mixer. I am surprised someone didn't call the police from all the screaming and jumping up and down when I opened the door and saw a huge box there. Five years ago, I could only bake a little and couldn't cook to save my life. Now, I make meals every day, and usually have some sort of dessert on hand. I can't wait to use it for all kinds of Christmas baking. As I told Mom (after I'd stopped hyperventilating), a Kitchenaid is one of those things I've always wanted but never (ever ever ever) thought I would actually own. I look at it on the counter sometimes and wonder if I'm in the wrong apartment.

{Airplane baby}

I planned to go back to school in January, but keeping up with the babies and the house, and on very little sleep, is much more draining than I expected it to be. I will go back, but it may be another semester or two before it's a good idea. Besides, Millie will need to start homeschooling soon enough.

Walter is miles away from sleeping through the night, but he's started stretching times between feedings just a little. He has had the same routine since birth, so this is very welcome. I don't feel more rested yet, but I know he'll get there someday. He's still the happiest baby I've ever seen, and that makes my days so much better. Millie is behaving a little bit better, and she is still a sweetheart even with a rough day here and there. I love how kind she is towards Walter, how concerned she gets if someone is upset or hurt, and all the silliness in her made up songs or off the wall anecdotes. I'm so grateful for these two.

{the sweetest ones}

Goodness. If you were still sitting there beside me, still listening until I trailed off and bit into my gingerbread cookie, I would apologize for talking so much. I would ask how you are, where you're going, what you're reading, how your heart feels. 

And I hope you would tell me, trading stories between us like the gold they are.

When They Thank Him

{Soldiers examine a road blown up by an IED in Afghanistan - photo by Sky}

"Honor to the soldier and sailor everywhere, who bravely bears his country's cause. 
Honor, also, to the citizen who cares for his brother in the field and serves, as he best can, the same cause." 
— Abraham Lincoln

When they thank him, he usually shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He nods. He shakes the hand they extend while they're saying it. "Thank you for serving our country." Or sometimes, "Thank you for all you do." Or simply, "Thanks for your service." The words vary slightly, but the intent is the same.

They don't see him in his uniform often because he's Army Reserve. Most of the time, he looks just like them. But when he wears it, maybe they get a glimpse of the enormity of what a uniform can mean. They see him for what he is underneath his day job.

One time, while traveling through an airport terminal, a World War Two veteran shook his hand. He told me that it was humbling to hear gratitude from someone who had given so much, in such an enormous war, in such dangerous times.

Most of the time, I think it makes him uncomfortable to hear.

But I hope they thank him anyway.

Because when they thank him, they see Millie and Walter. They've spent a lot of time without their dad. Millie has had a lot of Skype time and phone calls instead of having him here to read her a story and tuck her in. She's spent over a year of her three years without him. They see the lonely nights I've had. They see his mom hugging her son before he left for a war zone.They see the way our family has had to bend through all the turns and loops balancing civilian and military life. They may not know all the times the Army has promised something only to do the opposite, or how hard he has to work to get the ribbons on his uniform, but when they thank him, they know that he does something they couldn't do.

Most of all, when they thank him, they see a little of what I see. I am proud of him. So proud. And I'm proud of my brother, father, step father, mother in law, father in law, grandpa, great grandpa, and proud of all of my milspouse bloggers and their families, too. All these men and women who handed their futures over to our country do a remarkable thing. And when someone notices, that's remarkable, too. Whether it's met with just a nod, or maybe a lighthearted joke, it helps me remember that all of it is worth it.

If you're reading this, and you have served, thank you. And the next time you see someone in uniform, be sure to thank them. Those thanks echo so much father than you could ever imagine.

Happy Veterans Day.

The Life We Write

"There either is or is not, that’s the way things are. The colour of the day. The way it felt to be a child. The saltwater on your sunburnt legs. Sometimes the water is yellow, sometimes it’s red. 

But what colour it may be in memory, depends on the day. 

I’m not going to tell you the story the way it happened. I’m going to tell it the way I remember it." 

— Mitch Glazer

Millie and Walter. These two little souls are mentioned quite often on this blog. It's because I love them. It's because they matter. It's because they are who I spend more time with than anyone else on earth. They are my story, day in and day out.

But sometimes I forget that Sky and I are the stuff of theirs. I forget that we're authoring their childhood the way our own parents authored ours.

Hopefully, we'll take them on a vacation someday. We'll pack suitcases, stuff the car full of snacks and pillows, and set off for far away lands, even if those lands are only Chicago or St. Louis. And they'll say, "Remember when we got lost in that one tiny town with the funny sign? And we ate those sandwiches? And we found that little shop?" We'd come home with a sticky car and lots of laundry to wash. We'd come home with trinkets, brochures, and souvenirs. They'll lose those, of course, but they'll have the stories.

And they'll say, "Do you remember the way we used to go to that greasy spoon diner for breakfast sometimes, and we'd sit at the counter to watch them crack eggs open and sizzle on the big griddle? We'd watch the pancake batter spill into perfect circles and turn a delicious shade of gold. Dad would always flip through the Thrifty Nickel and talk about the cars he wanted, and Mom would spend the the time handing us more napkins and reminiscing about how much we'd grown since the last time we were there. She gets so emotional."

And they'll say, "Remember when the power went out during that big storm, and we all cuddled in the living room, watching the flashes of lightning shine briefly on the ceiling and then disappear with a boom of thunder? Remember how we lit a few candles, staying up extra late just to make sure the world was calm again? Remember the stories they told us to make us feel better, like how it sounded as if God was going bowling?"

And maybe they'll think about the time we went ice skating and they finally got the hang of it. The times the training wheels came off and they wobbled down a bumpy sidewalk while we cheered behind them. The dress up in my shoes or Sky's uniform. The lectures and menacing looks we gave to boyfriends and girlfriends. The way their dad always wrestled with them and their mom always wrote about them. The frantic search all over the house for birthday presents they just know I bought and hid somewhere. The disgust at seeing their parents kiss. The times Sky and I were oh-so-unfair, and they would promise each other that their own kids would have it better someday.

Millie may never recall the nights Sky and I stood next to her bed, smoothing her hair from her forehead and whispering about all our memories of her. And Walter will never know of the times he leaned against me in the rocking chair, my tears sprinkling in his hair as I whisper prayers of thankfulness for him. They won't know how tired they made us, how worried they made us, or how indescribably happy we are to have them.

But they'll remember practicing songs from music lessons like they were giving us a concert. And homeschooling. Neighborhood walks in the late evening, dashing far ahead of Sky and I and finding treasures on the sidewalk. Stories about the days they were each born, told elaborately and with the same jokes every time. Trips to the pool where they accidentally swallowed the water. And homemade birthday cakes, the biggest Christmas tree that they helped pick out, and the sleepovers with friends when we knocked on the door and reminded them to keep it down. Those small, everyday moments, made large and legendary by all their retellings.

I have always wanted to be a writer, and dazzle the world with beautiful poetry and prose. How silly of me to forget I am already penning such important stories.

Swear You Won't Forget

"We were new then, our lives stretched out before us. 

For this very short time, it would be just the two of us  [...]" 

— Bridget Asher

Hey you.

Goodness. It hasn't been quiet around here lately. It seems like every day is filled to overflowing with to do lists and little ones who need us. Sometimes, I almost forget how we began.

But do you remember the times before? You were there in the desert, learning to sleep to the sound of explosions outside. I was here in Chambana, sitting behind a desk in a doctor's office. And we wrote. And we missed. And no one we knew understood how it was possible to fall in love that quickly. And we hoped with the greatest of hopes.

Back before there was spit up on my shoulder, or a little girl pulling your hand to lead you somewhere important, there was us. And we flirted, did wild things, and made big plans. We drove fast on gravel roads in the country, the tires kicking up a long trail of white dust behind us. We walked down city sidewalks in fancy clothes underneath glittering stars. We got married without even having enough money to spend the night in a hotel in town, so I sprinkled rose petals around our apartment. We always bumped into each other in that tiny galley kitchen with pots hanging on the walls, pretending we both knew how to cook. We climbed the thousand, steep steps to our apartment late at night, and sometimes after a few drinks that made us a little wobbly. You made me laugh and worry and cry and beam, and gave me butterflies during every minute of it.

Please don't forget me then. Don't forget how blonde my hair was, or the heels I wore but could never look confident in when I walked. Don't forget the times we stayed up talking until 2am, then stopped to dish out bowls of ice cream before talking even more. Don't forget the way we always held hands, always touched, never wanting to be apart for a minute. And if I really did make you nervous like you said I did, don't forget that either.

Because I won't forget the you from those days. I'll always remember the boy who slipped the silver ring off my finger and wore it all the way back to Afghanistan. The boy who swore he'd never marry but told his mom he'd be marrying me after the first time we met. The boy who I loved more than anyone I'd loved before.

Deep down, I'm still her. You're still him. We still have that love in our hands. It's the kind of love that only comes once in a lifetime for most people, but a lifetime is how long it'll last if we let it.

At First Glance

"A few days after we came home from the hospital, I sent a letter to a friend, 

including a photo of my son and some first impressions of fatherhood. 

He responded, simply, 'Everything is possible again.' 

It was the perfect thing to write, because that was exactly how it felt. 

The world itself had another chance." 
— Jonathan Safran Foer

Baby Walter is already six weeks old. I have another post, half written now, about how it is being a mother the second time around, but this loose grasp on time is what I was most prepared for, and probably mourned the most as well. I inhale, and before I let go of that breath, he's older; he's doing new things he couldn't do yesterday, and defying any urging from my heart to stay little. It's the way it should be, and the way I knew it would be, so I try my hardest to be present for every second I can.

The ghosts I wrote of are still there. There have been a few days where it's nearly all I think of, and other days where it's just a flash here and there. I'm starting to accept the why of it all; because, however small the chance, handing him over to that surgery staff meant the possibility of letting him go. And that possibility is too much for any mama's heart. I think it is just going to take time for my heart to catch up to my mind, to know he is okay, and here, and safe.

But he's already growing so much since that day. He's stronger and healthier than ever, and just as sweet, too. And when I picked up Millie from her Sunday school class tonight, we started down the hallway when she asked, "Where's Walter?" She's been loving and caring towards him from the start, and now it seems to be sinking in that he's our family.

In honor of these past six weeks, here are the hospital photos we had taken. They are by the same photographer who did my maternity photos. I had no idea I would love them so much, but they're quite possibly my favorite photos of the four of us, even if they're not all together. That 36 hours spent on a postpartum floor was full of the same elation I felt when Millie was born, but it was amazing to introduce her to Walter, to see my family grow even more, and to feel the surprise and shock of having a son. I am so glad it was captured a bit for us.