Memorial Day

The first deployment my ex-husband left for turned my world upside down.  I had been completely unprepared and not at all expecting for it to happen.  We had moved to FL just six months before.  My ex is a member of the Army Reserve.  Where we had previously lived he was very much a "weekend warrior" and his unit was not one that deployed.  He used to pack up his xbox games to take with him sometimes.  When we moved, he had been told that his unit would be mobilizing within the year, but that since he had just joined it and had not been through any of the preparation training, he was ineligible for deployment and would be staying behind.

The Army likes to change its mind.

I grew up outside of Washington D.C. And we moved back and lived there a few years after we got married. My ex did not wear his uniform much in public.  He didn't discuss his feelings about the military much.  Despite (or maybe because of) the fact we lived a stone's throw from our nations capital, the military presence, in the form of friends and neighbors just wasn't there.  People were a lot more free with their opinions on the military though... and just by wearing a uniform or putting a yellow ribbon magnet on your car, seemed to many to be an invitation to share their opinions.  So we just didn't discuss it much.

And then we moved to FL near several air force bases.

Two weeks before Christmas that year, my ex got orders to the middle east.  His orders were for 18 months of active duty.  He would hopefully be able to come home for some R&R part way through.  I was inconsolable.  I was terrified.  Mostly, I was furious.  I had been against my husband re-enlisting in the military.  I had never had to live the military wife life before.  I had no idea what to expect.  I went to a spousal readiness group and was informed of a vast array of support services, wives clubs, kids groups, and folks I could call in the middle of the night if I just needed to talk.  Halfway through the speech one of the organizers raised his hand and said "um I'm sorry to interrupt... you do realize these folks are Army NOT Air Force right?"  The speaker had just assumed we were all Air Force since most people in this area are.  She looked flustered.  I actually felt bad for her for a minute.  She apologized and said "oh I'm terribly sorry... um, well Army families are still able to make use of all the services on this base that are open to every member of the military."  But all the other offers of support?  Gone.  The closest Army base was in GA, we were not able to utilize support services that had been budgeted for the air force.

My ex deployed and we adapted.  I may not have been able to utilize any support from the base, but everyone around me had at least some offers of advice, some words of wisdom, and some understanding of what we were going through.  Unlike Northern VA, the military is prevalent here and when I would show up at a cub scout meeting and then instantly burst into tears, everyone understood why.  I didn't have to explain it, or debate politics, or justify my feelings.  I was held when I needed to be held, and when I would start to rage about the unfairness of it, there would be someone else to quietly but firmly tell me to hold my head up.  My kids needed me to do that. 

The hardest part was not knowing where my ex was.  A few times he was able to call me, and it was always in the dead of night, and usually only for a couple minutes and most of the time our calls would be cut off.  Sometimes the phone would ring and I would grab it and say "hello! hello??  Are you there... I can't heard you.. If you can hear me... please, please be safe.  I love you."  I still don't know where he was.  He was never allowed to tell me anything specific. 

One afternoon I looked out the window and saw a strange car in the driveway with two men in uniform sitting in it.  As I looked out the window I thought "how odd, I can hear the ocean... I've never been able to hear it inside the house before..." and then I realized it wasn't the ocean but the sound of blood rushing to my head and then the world was starting to spin.  I grabbed onto the desk and told myself that if they were here to tell me that my husband was dead I could not let my kids be the ones to answer the door.  So I shook myself and watched them get out of the car and walk up to my door.

They knocked and I told my kids it was people to talk to mommy and to please go up stairs and play.  I opened the door and they asked me my name.  And then said "we're members of your husband's unit and we're stopping by all of their homes to make sure everyone is ok, and to see if you need any assistance with anything while he's gone."  I stared at them and burst into tears and then asked them if they had any idea what they had just done to me. 

That was the moment my attitude towards the military changed.  That was the moment I finally realized what my ex had always tried to explain to me.  That was the moment I stopped being angry and feeling like I was enduring a huge injustice.  I had never signed up to be an army wife.  I had never wanted to put my life on hold, endure the terror and heartache, and pain of deployments.  I wasn't good at it, I hated it, and I could see no reason why I had to go through all that just because my husband considered himself a patriot.  I saw his actions as selfish and that he was forcing our children to yearn for him so he could go play soldier.

But then, two men in uniform came to my door.  And instead of informing me that I was a widow, they offered to mow my yard, or help with any household repairs.  And I realized that all over the country men were knocking on doors.  The women inside opened them as wives, and closed them as widows.  So on memorial day while I remember our fallen soldiers... I also remember that moment when I thought I was a widow and how blessed I felt that I was not.  And so I hold all those women and sisters and mothers in my heart.  The ones who opened the door, but who must have hesitated for a moment as I did.  Who thought to themselves "if I don't open the door, if I don't hear them say the words... then it cannot be true."

I printed out a poem and hung it on my refrigerator door that day with a yellow ribbon magnet.  And for the remainder of his deployment, and for all the (many many many) that followed... I did my best to play the role I was assigned, to perform my duties to the best of my ability.  And, to feel pride in what he was doing.  I realized I could own some of that glory for myself.  He had a hard job to do... and how much harder it had to be knowing I was home and angry.  I resolved that from then on when he thought of home... it would be without stress.  It would be knowing that while he was keeping our country safe, I was keeping his children safe.  I thought of all the soldiers of the past who had been drafted as I had been drafted.  And how they didn't let the fact that they hadn't willingly signed up for the military life stop them from serving as selflessly as if they had.   I knew I could do it too.  I could do this.  I could do it selflessly and lovingly and bravely.   I was an Army Wife.

 

 

My husband is a patriot, a brave and prideful man
And the call to serve his country not all can understand
Behind the lines I see the things needed to keep this country free
My husband makes the sacrifice, but so do our kids and me
I love the man I married, Soldiering is his life
But I stand among the silent ranks known as the Army Wife.



My Child the Mood Police

Marble is only two, but so far doesn't display the typical self centeredness that most toddlers have.  She's a lot more aware of other people's feelings than any of my other children were at this age.  In fact, she is SO aware that she gets seriously distressed when people are not happy.  She's almost Orwellian in her desire that everyone "BE HAPPY! BE HAPPY RIGHT NOW!"  Unfortunately for her she lives in a house with three moody teenagers, an Italian mother, an Irish father, and a baby.  There are a variety of moods happening here folks.  And sometimes they clash. 

She is particularly sensitive to her baby sister's happiness or lack thereof.  When the baby cries, Marble is immediately in full alert mode and in case nobody can hear she starts yelling: "OH NO OH NO!!!  BABY CRY!  BABY CRY!! OH NO OH NO!!" and then she races over to the baby and does her best to comfort her.  She says in the most loving tone you can imagine: "it ok baby Lark!  Don't be sad!  Mommy coming!"  and she goes to see WHY I'm taking so long:  "MOMMY!  BABY CRY!  COME NOW NOW NOW!  RIGHT NOW! OH NO OH NO!"  And then back to Lark to reassure her that help is on the way: "I told mommy Lark!  You no cry!  Mommy coming!"  But there is a point to where the baby's sadness is overwhelming her and she starts to get upset herself.  So then she yells at Lark: "BE HAPPY BABY!  STOP CRYING!  BE HAPPY RIGHT NOW!  HAPPY! HAPPY! HAPPY!  NOW!"  It's important to note that she is literally right in the baby's face screaming this at her.  And she can't understand why Lark is not being "HAPPY HAPPY RIGHT NOW!"

There is a Nick Jr. show called Ni Hao Kai-lan.  It involves a little Chinese girl and her gang of emotionally unstable animal friends.  The whole point of the show is to help kids identify their feelings.  And to that end the characters all spend a portion of each episode displaying every color of the emotional rainbow.  Marble loves this show.  However, because she's so in tune with emotions already, the show is actually really stressful for her.  She is literally on the edge of her seat the entire time.  Absolutely riveted to see if Rintoo will recognize that he's being unkind.  If Kai-lan will be able to help Hoho stop crying. And on and on until everyone is once again HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY RIGHT NOW!

The other thing Ni Hao, Kai-lan teaches kids are Chinese words.  A few days ago I heard Lark starting to cry and Marble starting to yell.  After a minute went by she was still yelling, but I couldn't understand her until she came running over to me and saying "MOMMY MOMMY AI YA!  LARK KUQI!  LARK BE XIA XIN! RIGHT NOW! AI YA! AI YA!  MOMMY MEI MEI LARK KUQI!" 

At first I thought maybe Marble was just so upset she couldn't *enunciate properly, and I was totally confused as to why she was screaming for cookies. Her speech is actually extremely clear and even most people outside our family can understand her just fine.  But then I realized that no... apparently Marble wasn't getting her point across in English so she switched to Chinese.  I had to go on the Ni Hao Kai-lan page to realize what she was saying.  Translation: "Mommy, mommy oh no! Lark cry!  Lark be happy right now!  Oh no Oh no!  Mommy little sister Lark cry!" 

So now my sensitive little girl is able to completely freak out in both English and Mandarin. 


Yao Wo Nick Jr.

Mother's Day

*Another one from the vaults*

They are going about it all wrong. 

 

The way to educate teens about sex and unwanted pregnancy isn't to throw statistics at them.  And it isn't to show them blown up images of std infected genitalia.  What's really that scary about herpes for example?  Every time I see a commercial for valtrex I feel a slight pang of envy.  Everyone on those commercials is incredibly beautiful, athletic, and seemingly extremely happy.  After they smiling confess "I have herpes..." they are then embraced by their super model other half who says "but I don't."  Then they engage in some soft porn and skip along the beach enjoying the sunset.

People with herpes even have their very own social clubs and singles meets.  I think it probably cuts down on the anxiety of dating when right off the bat you know that everyone in the room also has festering genital sores. 

 

They also need to quit showing images of angelic sleeping babies wrapped in soft blankets on bill boards advertising crisis pregnancy centers.  This is not scary.  Babies are not intimidating.  A sleeping pink, soft, snuggly baby is false advertising.  What they really need on a bill board are stretch marks.  That would appeal to most teenagers immediately.  No more skimpy bikinis for you.  You can trade that perfectly flat tummy and adorable belly button ring for a saggy stomach that looks like it survived a mauling from a bear. 

 

But the most effective and as yet unused idea for keeping teens baby free would be to explain just how much poop is about to become a part of your life.  I don't think anyone is ever prepared for just how intimately involved they are about to become with the excrement of another human being.  Gone are the days of gossiping about celebrities and world events with your friends.  Instead, the color, texture, and frequency of your child's bowel movements is an accepted topic of discussion with other mother's at the local park.

 

You will even retrieve a diaper from the garbage to show your mother or neighbor and generally say something like "this is what I was talking about.. does it look normal to you?"  And the bizarre thing is they are willing to take a look and offer an opinion.  There are even websites devoted to helping you determine whether or not your baby's poop is normal.  Clearly what they need to show on a bill board is a giant image of a messy diaper.  Preferably one after a grandparent decided the child needed to try raisins.  Do you know what happens to raisins in the digestive tract of a toddler?  They become grapes. 

 

The daily involvement in poop does not end with potty training unfortunately.  Your child will need "help" in the bathroom for awhile.  "Help" is a rather benign sounding word that falsely leads to images of offering smiling support and gentle words of encouragement: "good pooping honey!!  Who's mommy's good little pooper... you are!" 

 

Not quite. 

 

"Helping" is usually what happens after the child has attempted to deal with the hugely difficult task of wiping their own behind on their own.  My mother had serious control freak tendencies and my sister and I were not allowed to even attempt our own hygeine.  We had to sit patiently and wait for her to arrive and perform the entire task on her own.  Some might argue that this isn't teaching the child a necessary life skill.  But I think my mom was on to something.  Another friend once confessed that her mother was still wiping her behind for HER when she was ten years old.  If I could do it over I would probably have instilled that same rule in my kids.

 

For those of us who ignorantly demonstrated bottom wiping techniques to our youngsters in the sad hope they would catch on "helping" doesn't begin to describe it.  "Damage control" is a more appropriate term.  In our house the five year still needs the most help.  And it's usually not asked for until the mess is bordering on crisis level.  If he even actually makes it to the bathroom first... that's only about a 50/50 chance.  Generally "helping" in the bathroom here requires a complete change of clothes, half a roll of toilet paper, several wash cloths, a biohazard suit, and a full can of scrubbing bubbles.

 

The concept of hygiene seems to reside in a gene that is non existent in male children.  The pictures in potty training pamphlets generally show a smiling fresh faced youngster sitting politely on the potty, hands clasped in front, while their equally smiling mother helps to clean them.  I want to live in that world.  Because here, it involves a totally naked child spread eagled leaning over the tub, while I mutter bad words under my breath and assure them that yes, I still love them, even while I'm scrubbing away at caked on shit between their thighs with what, ten years ago, were my "good" wash cloths. 

 

After everyone's clothes are changed, hands are washed-including scraping clean the fingernails-I then have to wash the pile of laundry that has resulted from this daily dance with mother nature.  I used to pride myself on the fact that I used cloth diapers and wasn't contributing diapers to the landfills.  I've probably negated any positive environmental impact I had because sometimes I simply choose to throw out the fecal matter encrusted undies rather then scrub them clean.  When most people have company coming all they need to do is make sure the bathroom has clean towels and is stocked with toilet paper.  I have to make sure there are no pee stains on the shower curtain or poop smears on the wall by the toilet paper. 

 

This is the true reality of mother hood.  And all I want this year is to not have to be involved in, assist with, participate in, or even have knowledge of the bowel movements of any other human being.  It's all I ask.  Happy Mother's Day. 

Mother Of The Year

*I wrote this several years ago.  It's still more applicable than I want to think about.*

 

With my first kid I did everything right.  He had the best of everything.  As I've had more kids I've become laid back almost to the point of neglect.  Sometimes my friends with young kids or babies will call me for advice and I'll have to struggle to come up with some sort of nugget of wisdom that won't cause CPS to come knocking on my door.... "well, hmmmm....Eoin had the sniffles last week.  Fortunately we had some leftover antibiotic from when the cat was sick.  We just used that and he was right as rain within a day or two!"

Aidan can be prone to anxiety that sometimes makes you sure that if you just clubbed him really hard with a blunt object he'd improve.  Or at least stop bitching that his socks have bumps, the glass has a spot on it, his shoelaces are too tight, too loose, the tag on his shirt is itchy, his oatmeal is too lumpy, too runny, he's out of clean underwear, and his teacher is mad at him that the hasn't turned in his (signed) report card.  Goldilocks wasn't this picky.

The last two items are probably legitimate.  I found him clean underwear but his report card has been lost since he brought it home, I glanced at it to make sure he's not an idiot (he's not) and then put it...somewhere.  The teachers at their school must win some sort of contest on who can get the most signed report cards back because Aidan has been like a terrier about this ever since he brought it home.  As I was making dinner the other night he was nagging me again: "did you sign it yet?  did you sign it yet?  did you sign it yet?  didyousignityetihavetobringitbacktomorrowmyteachersaidsoifidon'ti'llbeintroublemoooooooomdidyousigntityet???"

OMG. 

I told him that I was busy and didn't have a pen and he went wailing out of the kitchen to pinch his brother.  Finally.  Peace.

Two mornings later as I'm dropping him off at school he says "oh yeah.  this is for you."

He hands me a ziplock baggy containing a pen and a note on cute little apple patterned stationery: "Jill, here is a pen to sign Aidan's report card with.  He said you didn't have one.  Please keep it.  Thanks! :0) Mrs. Smith"

Bitch. 

I instructed Aidan to return the pen to his teacher and to tell that crack whore bitch that I'd send the report card back when I was good and ready.  Ok I didn't use those words exactly.  We did eventually find and sign the damn report card and peace has been restored to the second grade.

Then there is the youngest child. 

By the time Eoin was born I was tired and had also figured out that pretty much as long as he was not being left outside in the elements, chances are he would survive into at least early childhood just fine.  But just in case we didn't name him until he was three so as to lessen the chance that we'd get attached. 

During my pregnancy with Eoin, I read The Continuum Concept by Jean Liedloff.  This was

a fascinating book that every new parent should have on their "To Read" list  a complete bunch of hooey later ridiculed by renowned Harvard anthropologists.

The book follows members of a Venezuelan tribe who basically expect their children to follow them around and by instinct understand that fire is hot and dangerous, falling off of clifs is bad, and water will drown you.  So the babies seemingly miraculously stay close to their parents by choice because if they don't, they might be eaten by tigers and really, who wants that?

I hated baby gates, but they always seemed to be a necessary evil if I didn't want my kids to fall down stairs or enter certain rooms.  After reading this book though I decided to test out the theory and I took down the gates in front of our two flights of stairs and decided to see what Eoin would do with his new found freedom.  Would he go diving off the top step like a suicidal four month old?  Or would his innate will to live protect him?  It was very Darwinian actually.

My mom happened to be at my house that morning and as the baby scootched and rolled across the floor she offered to put up the gates.  I told her no, and explained about the book I had just read and that I was testing whether or not he was as smart as venezuelan tribal babies.  For some reason my mother has always had  complete faith in my parenting abilities so after staring at me for a whole minute she said "well, ok...if you think it's a good idea." 

Game on.

We watched the baby get closer and closer to the edge of the step.  My mom inched forward on the couch.  I flipped through a magazine.  I had already calculated that it wouldn't be necessary to let him kerplunk all the way down the stairs if he failed this test.  Our steps curved after the first two onto a landing and I doubted much injury could happen from tumbling down the first two steps.  I was counting on some sort of latent mothering instinct to kick in that would drive me to rescue him from the rest of the stairs before any real damage would occur.  Failing that, my mom was here.

He crept closer and closer finally peering over the top of the step and seeming to ponder what to do next.  He finally made his decision and backed away.  He passed.  I never put up another baby gate.

Eoin was generally a happy baby but like most kids would get really cranky around dinner time.  As I was fixing dinner he would start to fuss and kvetch in his swing.  I called Eric into me and told him to please entertain the baby.  "You want me to drag him around again?" he asked me.  Yes, actually.  That would be great.

As the youngest of four closely spaced siblings, Eoin was both favorite play thing and perfect victim.  When he was a few weeks old I went out of the living room and when I returned he was being dragged around the room by his ankles by his older brother.  Being that he was the fourth child, I watched for a few minutes to see if this was maybe a bad idea.  But he wasn't crying at all and aside from suggesting to the five year old that he should probably drag him around on his back and not his tummy, I let them have at it.  Oddly enough, this proved to be one of Eoin's favorite past times. 

So, five year old Eric got the baby out of the swing and started dragging him around the living room.  Soon enough though, the other kids wanted a turn and since I didn't think to have more than one baby at a time...they would have to share.  Aubrey, Aidan, and Eric were now fighting over who got to drag the baby around by his legs.  I suggested taking turns, and after each pass around the room it was the next kid's turn.  This wasn't acceptable and they finally came to their own conclusion.  Eric and Aubrey each took a leg, and Aidan had an arm.  As long as they were all going in the same direction this seemed to work out ok.  For months this was how I made dinner in peace.

Now Eoin is five and in Kindergarten and learning to read.  This morning on my bed he was trying to sound out words on the back of one of my books.  I was only half listening to him because a kid learning to read is extremely boring.  I did perk up though when I heard him say "aaaa ssssss ssss iiiii nnnnn.  Assssiiiin.  Assin!  What's Assin mommy?"  I looked at the book and saw that he was holding one of my true crime books.  Reading true crime is one of my guilty pleasures and at one point I had at least 150 books about rape, murder, and violence under my bed.  If anything mysterious had happened to my family I figured I'd be able to solve the crime all on my own.  Or be the prime suspect.  Whichever.

Never a believer in cencorship I figured words were words and it was fine for him to sound out this book.  "As Sin." I told him.  The name of the book is "Guilty As Sin".  After sounding out murder and torture, I told him to get ready for school.  But first he looked at me and said "mommy, sometimes at night I think there are monsters under my bed."  I looked at him and said "well, that's because there ARE monsters under your bed.  That's where monsters live."  He said "no monsters aren't real!"  I assured him that monsters are very, very real and that they all live under the beds of small boys.  For some reason he thought this was extremely funny. 

I really think my kids are thriving on benign neglect but if nothing else, they will at least have plenty to complain to a therapist about when they grow up. 

Namaste.