Weeeeee

What do you do when you heart aches so much for that one person and...there's not a damned thing you can do? What do you do when all you want to do is place a big life-sized band-aid across that person's heart to mend all that is wrong?

I am almost to my breaking point. You military wives know what I mean...everything that can go wrong, has gone wrong...one more thing and you swear you're going to retreat into the fetal position for the remainder of deployment. But of course, you don't. We don't. I won't. I will continue to endure, as a sailor's wife must.

Wipe your feet on my shirt before you bruise my heart, cruel, harsh world.

It's been awhile since my last post. I have tried to sit down and write a complete thought...and it just doesn't work. The thoughts in my head are like a train station run amuck during the holiday seasons...no path, no directions...several false starts, and no "umph" to organize and actual route.

Deployment Jitters

So deployment is looking closer and closer. I'm more afraid this deployment than the five we've already gone through. Why? I have no idea. I guess it's the fact that last deployment I thought I had a support system but when I needed someone, there was ... no one.
Two years ago, my world came crashing down around me. I'd call to talk to my mom but she was in her own crisis taking care of Jack. I'd call to talk to my dad, but there was always drama there and it felt as if no one was hearing me. My friends, pretty much dropped off the face of the earth. The only ones that bothered to come over, call or what have you, seemed to be full of drama.
And so, I became reclusive. I failed to really connect with anyone because I didn't want to. I failed to let anyone really in. The people I met during that time didn't really get to know who I really was. They met the frail, pathetic, stressed-the-fuck-out me.  I had to wipe my plate clean, so to speak, and start anew. I had to focus on what mattered most to me: my kids, my husband, and myself. I did a lot of soul searching.
There were times I had no choice but to take my children with me to the ER. The ER nurse looked at me and said, "Is there someone you can call to take your children while you are being seen?" Uh no. There isn't. It's just me, myself and I and all three of us has borderline pneumonia so can we hurry it up some before my children grow bored and tear this hospital apart?
I fear, I suppose, that I will end up in the same situation as before: alone, stressed, and looking fifty years older by the time he returns.
This mission is more dangerous than the others. This, worries me. I've always held on to the fact that my husband is Navy and he's better off on a boat than on the ground. But, it some sense he isn't. And with this mission, yeah....not so much. I am very fearful for his life and his safety.
These short couple of weeks here, few weeks there workups he's been doing has really torn our family a bit. The boys are much older now, which doesn't make it any easier at all. Nyla understands somewhat, but the other day she said, "Daddy goes away because of us." I grabbed her up and told her that was not so. I held her close and told her that it's just his job, that he loves us and he loves her so very much. I cried when I told Jeff later that night. To Aden, Jeff is like this monumental figure that deserves his own holiday. He's high on this pedastal in Aden's eyes. The boy wants to be just like him one day. I'll ask if he's ok, and he'll just stand up straight, careful not to look into my eyes, and say he's just fine. Jonas, is a bit more difficult. Anyone can see the emotional struggle on his face, yet he won't voice it and he buttons those lips tight.
Just thinking of last deployment, the conversations we've had with the kids about the upcoming deployment, the ache in my soul already....it feels as if my heart is going to leap out of my chest.
Anyone who reads this must know this: I am not one to whine about deployments and woe is me, my husband is military. That is not me at all. This blog, it serves as my outlet. Sometimes it's much easier to write than to voice it outloud. I know single parents, and thousands of military spouses go through this and much worse. Perhaps I'm only spoiled in the fact that I do have my husband home so much. Perhaps I'm a bit selfish in wanting a "normal" life, whatever that is.

Idea....

Ok so most everyone who knows me, knows that we are having a bunch of changes coming up this year. Jeff's going on a lengthy deployment, Nyla - the youngest munchkin - is blazing shoes off to kindergarten next school year, I'll be making a lonnnnnnnnnnnnng trip with 3 kids and a dog to Indiana to visit the moms, I'm taking up photography, havnig a bunch of empty time when Nyla's at school.....

Anyway...
I love writing. I LOVE it...but, I also LOVE youtube. I can get lost in there for days.
I thought, that maybe, since I already have a youtube channel that only has five videos on there (three aren't even videos, they're picture montages), that I could convert it into a sort of Navy Wife video blog - VLOG - of sorts. Maybe like video diary type of thing, an inside view of a military wife's life while her husband is deployed typa thing...

But then I got to thinking...this could be a joint venture....There are so many branches that are so very different. The rules, the bases, the areas, the deployments, workups, drills, exercises, etc. Maybe - with a little help from my friends (get it? I love that song) - it could be a handful of us gals vlogging on our particular military lifestyle...I'd have to figure out details and how to use multi-users, etc. But, it COULD work...right?  The idea isn't very original...there are all sorts of vlogs about everyday life in {insert topic here} and there is that show Army Wives...but let's face it, that show is NOTHING like a real military wife's life.

Anyway, let me know what you think....My mind is running rampid with ideas. If you think it's a horrid idea....let me know!!

Anyone know of a good video editing software program???

My children...

To the boys:  "You have a younger sister. Life will be forever dramatic from this point out."

To Nyla:  "No. The kitty really doesn't love you. She's not your best friend. I should have named you Elvira."

To Jonas:  "Learning to get along doesn't mean give in."
To Nyla: "Learning to get along doesn't mean whine until your brother gives in."
To Aden: "Avoiding your little sister is not how to get along with her."

To all the kids: "You better learn to love each other now, because one day I won't be here and you'll only have each other."
Aden: "Not if we don't live through puberty."
Me: "Good point."

To Nyla: "I understand vengeance is on your list of things to do. Hence, you will not be in charge of my medication nor picking my nursing home when I finally go senile."

To Aden: " "Taking the easy way out does get the job done. But, doing it the right way, is actually less work. No. No. I'm not washing the floors by hand. I know, it does a better job, but I'm just going to use the mop. What? No. I'm not taking the easy way out."

To Jonas: "If you have aches and pains now, you're in a world of hurt when you're my age. I know. I'm ancient."

How to solve boredom:
From Jeff to Jonas: "You're bored? Walk around the table 100 times. Count how many steps it takes to complete one rotation."
To Jeff from Jonas: "Uhm. Ok."
From Jeff to Jonas: "How many steps did it take you?"
To Jeff from Jonas: "16. 16 steps to get around. I'm tired."
From Jeff to Jonas: "Ok, so 16 steps to walk around the table. And you walked around it 100 times. How many steps did you take in all?"
To Jeff from Jonas: "Really? It's Saturday dad."
To both from Aden: "1,600 steps!"
To Aden from Me: "Hey! You aren't supposed to give the answer."
From Jonas: "1,600 steps."
From Jeff to Jonas: "Ok. So 1600 steps took you 20 minutes. So if you walked around the table for 4 hours, how many steps would it take and how many times did you go around the table?"
To Jeff from Jonas: "I'm not bored anymore."


Aden: "I watched some girl fall on the snow today. It was funny."
Me: "Ouch. Is she ok?"
Aden: "Hello? It's snow. It's soft white stuff..."
Me: "Mind taking the trash out?"
Aden takes the trash out, comes in with tears in his eyes.
Me: "What happened.?"
Aden: "I fell in the snow."
Me: "You mean the white, soft stuff?"
Aden: "Now's not the time for a life lesson! I hurt my elbow!"

Jonas: "You NEVER let us do ANYthing!!"
Me: "Well, that's not true. You really shouldn't exaggerate. I let you put your clothes away. And I let you take the trash out."

Little boy down the street rings the door bell and asks if the boys can come out to play.
"Not right now, their gloves are still drying. They'll be out in an hour or so."
"Glad to hear they are allowed out today."
"Yes. The parole board was in a good mood today."

Fairytales, Prince Charming, and a Power Suit!

Perhaps I've watched one too many Disney movies with Miss Nyla. Maybe, I missed out on the girliness that was not me until I had a daughter. Instead of running around in Tinkerbell costumes and tiaras, I wore ripped jeans and flannels. Instead of staying inside playing with Barbies and babies, I was out and about discovering what this earth had to offer us: grasshoppers, tadpoles, frogs, rocks, fossils, leaves, sticks, and oh yes, dirt. Maybe, I've been at home too long that I've lost sight of what the "real world" really is.
But, maybe, just maybe, I've finally figured out what I want in life. Finally, at 33 almost 34 years old, I have had that epiphany that will forever change my life. Perhaps, I've known all along, but have been too unselfish to voice it. Well here I am. I'm voicing it.

I WANT IT ALL.

There, I've said it. I want it all. I want everything. That's what I want out of life: everything.

For many that could mean a plethora of things and/or ideas. Some may think wanting it all could mean the house, the yard, the 2.5 kids, the career, the status, the car, the clothes, etc., etc. For me, it's not any of that.

As a military spouse and stay at home mom, I've always felt that I was doing right by my husband and my children, but somehow, someway, I wasn't doing right by myself. And I though that perhaps, if I did right by myself, that I wouldn't do right by my family.

While looking at colleges now that my Miss Nyla will be venturing off to Kindergarten next year, I become frustrated because everything I want to be doesn't allow me to the be ever-available mother that I have been for the last 12 years. It doesn't allow me the normal nine-to-five hours. It doesn't allow me to be the parent who picks up the slack for a deploying better half. It doesn't allow me the still avidly check my email for any news from my deployed spouse. It doesn't allow for us to keep our one vehicle.

But what does it allow? It allows for me a career, something that has always been near and dear to my heart since I was a little girl. I didn't want to grow up to be a princess or a queen. No, I wanted to be a career woman. And, up until the lovebug bit me in 1997, I was on that path.

I know what you're thinking: single women have been doing that for years. That working moms do this all the time. That women have been out of the kitchen and in the books since the sixties. But you forget. I said, "I want it all."

I'm tired of settling. Settling in life. Not just in my career and parenting choices. I'm done settling in my lifestyle, in my marriage, in my life. I'm tired of saying, "I can't because...(I don't have a babysitter, my husband's deploying, money is tight this week, Aden's grounded, Nyla doesn't behave well in public, Jonas can't control his excitement, that means I have to get dressed today)." Well you know what, I can. And I will. Yes, I'll go to this event. And YES, I'll volunteer for that. Absolutely, I can do (insert whatever is asked here). I've made excuses for so long over why I cannot do things that it's just natural for me to decline. Getting out of my shell is what I need. I used to be this outgoing social butterfly. I've grown into this recluse.

I want my husband to sweep me off my feet...everyday. I want to not just know that I am loved, desired, and irreplaceable. I want to feel it. No. I need to feel it. I don't want to waste my life going through the motions. I don't want to be too wrapped up in kids, school, pets, cleaning, laundry, and day to day activities that it takes a special occassion like deployment or homecoming for him to make me feel what I need to feel EVERYday. Don't get me wrong. Jeff is a wonderful husband. He cooks, he cleans. Hey, he even does windows and laundry. He's a fantastic father, I couldn't have asked for better. He'll do anything I ask of him. But I want to do the laundry and have him play the part of Prince Charming.  I'm not saying I want flowers and jewelry and spoiled each and every day of my life. I am saying that I want him to hold me when I push him away. I want him to fight to hang on to me when I need it rather than letting me be. I don't want to have to ask for it. I want him to know me so well that he just does it. I want to be the housekeeper and him the big, strong man who comes home, sweeps me off my feet, and plants the passionate kiss that make tweens swoon. I need passion in my life.

I want it all. And Why can't I? Where is it in the rules that says I cannot? Why can't I have my cake and eat it too? Why can't I be the mom, wife, volunteer, bread winner, best friend, counselor, shoulder, domestic goddess, and overall super woman? I can be. And I will be.

My life will be over in a flash of light and what will I have left behind? What will I have experienced? What will I have taught my children? What kind of wife will I have been? What kind of life will I have lead? Life, is way too short to not have it all. When my time comes and death is knocking (or breaking down) my door, I want to smile and be able to say, "It's time." It's time for me to go. I've accomplished everything in life I wanted and I've led the life I wanted.

OPSEC - what is it and why do you need to follow it...

If you're a military spouse, you've heard this one time or another: Observe OPSEC. What exactly is it?
How far is too far and what is allowed? Can I tell my mom on the telephone where my husband is going next? Why won't the FRG or Ombudsman tell me where my husband is? What can I say to my next door neighbor about my wife's deployment? Can I or when is it safe to give out ship's movement information, such as Homecoming. What can my children tell their classmates and/or teacher when they ask questions about their military lifestyle?
Some people go to extreme, while others don't take it serious enough. Some folks believe that nothing outside of the military community should be said at all. While others believe it's okay to tell close friends and family information. What information is allowed, what information isn't?
OPSEC has been the butt of many spouse to spouse and active to active quarrels in recent years. With all the terroristic threats and security operations occurring in each branch and civilian contractors, worldwide, it puts us military families on edge. Especially when we know our spouses are in tenative danger, but from what, exactly, we aren't sure. While some spouses understand the need to keep their sailors, soldiers, and airmen safe, others don't understand why they aren't allowed to know (or give out) information because afterall, they aren't a terrorist themselves.
And here's the kicker that many folks don't understand, nor follow: Just because one member of military is included in the circle of knowledge, doesn't mean another should be included just because he has the security clearance. Meaning, if my husband has a top secret clearance and wasn't in the brief, the guy with the secret clearance who was included in the brief shouldn't tell my husband what the information was about. If my husband is to be privy to that information, he would have been included in the brief.

So, what is it and how can I abide by it?? Here are 5 easy steps to make sure you are following OPSEC:


OPSEC involves a relatively simple five-step process that anyone can use.
- Identify critical information. The information you have that could assist an adversary in any way.


- Analyze the threat to that information. Does an adversary have the capability to collect or use the information, and if so, how?


- Analyze the vulnerabilities. How is the critical information relayed in the course of your daily duties and how is it protected?


- Assess the risk. How likely is it that the information could be compromised?


- Develop countermeasures. What can you do to protect the information from being disclosed?
 
Taken from the Navy.mil website. Public information.

Technologically Unprepared

As a parent to three children, I often spend days, if not weeks or months, thinking about my parenting. Some call it over-analyzing. So be it. I am terrified that something will happen to my kids and that I could have stopped it. I do everything I can to keep them safe. Whether that means they don't walk up to the 7-11 on the main road with their friends (who seem to have parental units that are pretty free-willed with their rules) or them not allowed on the internet until I fully understand all the security options and setups.

I recently caved on a few techological fronts. I call it "caved" because I'm still not comfortable with the decisions. We finally gave our kids internet access. They have their on computer (my old pc) so that they aren't on my own baby (if there's one thing I get to myself, it's my computer. It was specifically built to my own needs and I will blow a gasket if anything ever happens to it.). But, before we gave in, I asked my husband to put in place the following options:

• Only preapproved websites be allowed to be viewed. If anything other than preapproved sites are brought up, a password must be entered.
• History of each website to include time and date always be visible.
• I am still the administrator of said computer.

And there are rules to gaining computer time. All chores and homework must be accomplished before computer time is given. Behavior must be more than satisfactory. AND, because most of the time, Aden has homework on the internet, all long-hand homework must be completed first. Computer time, minus homework, is only 30 minutes regardless if it is simply a pc program they are playing or surfing the internet. The other requirements are simple to me, but may not be clear as to why to the kids:

• Never use your real name.
• Never tell anyone where you live.
• Never give out personal information.

The first couple of months seemed to go smoothly. We even extended computer time to a few hours over Christmas break. The only person who seemed to have a problem with the rules was Nyla. But that's because she's four and not quite internet savvy. (We caught her shopping at Nick.com with a bunch of things in her shopping cart. I have my credit cards on lockdown. haha)
Then yesterday, Aden comes home and asks if he can join a website that is like Facebook but it's for kids. My overprotective mind immediately said, "Absolutely not." It breaks the rules: no real name, no personal information. I know how to protect my information on Facebook, but does he? I refuse to let my child, who is 11 mind you, have a facebook account. One, it breeds drama in school aged children. Two, it brings another issue I'm not ready to have to deal with: Technological Bullying. Three, he's ELEVEN. Even Facebook states one has to be at least 13 years old to have an account.
I know a lot of people who let their kids have facebook and/or myspace accounts. And that's fine...for them. Not for my children. No. Absolutely not.
So I went to the site. It's called Kidswirl. Members have to be between the ages of 2 and 12. Tell me, what two year old knows how to navigate a social website?? Anyway, it seems to be ok. But still, I'm not sure about it. I will definetly have to discuss this with my husband and investigate the site further.

I swore, up and down, sideways, and forwards and back - my child would NEVER have a cell phone until he or she was old enough to have a job and pay for it themselves. He begged and begged for his own cell phone. Logically, we declined. There is no need for it. He doesn't use the house phone. He doesn't call anyone. All of his friends live within a block from our home. Why is there a need for a cell phone?
Some people claim they do it for the protection of their children. While I don't buy that, I do buy that it is a better peace of mind. I am not liberal with my nine and eleven year old's boundaries outside of this house. They are allowed outside without my supervision, however, they do need to check in, often. They aren't allowed past the park - which is a tiny playground four houses down from us - nor past the last house on our block - yet another four houses in the opposite direction. They must ask before entering a friend's house. I must know that parent. There are all types of rules I put in place simply for their safety.
So I caved. This past Christmas, my son, 11, received his first cell phone. My husband and I chose to add him to our family plan versus a prepay for a number of reasons. It was cheaper. However, I am always in control of his phone this way. Even if he were to delete his call history, I can still see it on detailed billing. It doesn't go to school because his school has strict rules against cell phones in school, even if it is off. His boundaries are extended, only if he has his cell on him. And he must still check in, in person.
So far, it's working. However, it is only a status symbol. Him and his cell. I hadn't realized that before.

I often look to my own upbringing to decide when my children are old enough to do this, that, or the other. And often, I fail because when I was growing up, we didn't have computers and cell phones. Hell, I didn't even have cable until I was 15 years old.
I'm sure our parents said it, and here I am saying it again, kids grow up way too fast these days. I was 23 years old when I received my first cell phone. It was something I paid for, not my parents. I was 22 when I got my first computer. Again, I paid for it, not my parents. And I'm still not techologically smart. I still have to look things up and work hard to understand a lot of things.  

Welcome 2010

Goodbye 2009. Hello 2010. Wow what a year. A lot has happened. My children turned a year older - four, nine, and eleven. My husband hit 30+. I hit my husband's age plus, well, a few. Jeff and I had our first argument in several years - to the point of not speaking the next day. (I never want to do that again! EVER!)  My oldest son started middle school. A magnet school with very high standards that he worked his little behind off to get into. He's the "good" kid and ever since pre-puberty has struck, it's been a struggle. My nine year old went off his ADHD/ODD meds this year. YAY! And he's doing fantastic in school (and home). (Minus a small hiccup.) I decided to keep little Miss Thing home from Pre-K this year, unable to let go of her. What a mistake that was. This girl is simply ready for school!
My stepdad passed away, leaving my mother as a single woman for the first time since she was 17 years old. My father had a heart attack followed by major bypass surgery (at least I was notified this time). Friends found themselves in situations they don't want to be in again - ever (not my place to discuss - sorry no gossip here!). I found myself on an emotional roller coaster - and anxious...for the future...for the upcoming year.
The last few months of 2009, I probably bored my friends to death with my indecisions and anxiety for the upcoming year. A lot is going to happen and my future was cloudy. I felt ill, in the pit of my stomach, with all that is ahead. Here it is, January 1, and I have to say, I am no longer anxious. I've got a plan. The outlook is beautiful.
This year, Jeff and I will go through our sixth deployment. It will be six to eight months long. This, by far, will be his most dangerous mission yet. I am unbelievably scared for his and his shipmates futures. I am growing to detest this military life: the stress, the anxiety, the absentness on important dates...continuously.  My support system here, away from my family, dwindled to almost none during the last deployment. I was at a loss of who to talk to and only spent less than 10 hours away from my children for the entire duration of the deployment. I truly thought, for a bit, that I would go insane. Loading three children up because you forgot something at the store, each and every time for six months, is, well, a chore. When I wanted to pull my hair out and return to the fetal position, it simply wasn't an option. A chief's wife once told me, "Oh you'll get used to it." I don't think I ever have.  When the kids were little, it was easy to pretend Thanksgiving was really Christmas and celebrate birthdays three months early. Now that they are older, they have a better grasp of time. The boys are completely bummed their dad will be missing their birthdays, yet again. Jeff is upset that he'll be in the middle of some ocean for Nyla's first day of school. Somehow, someway, we'll all get through it. We always have, we always will. The days will be long. The months will drag on. The countdowns will commense. I don't really believe deployments get better. I do, however, fully believe, that my coping skills improve.
Nyla will go to kindergarten this year (next school year). My days will be free of children for the first time in 12 years. What on earth will I do?? I feel this immense pressure to "do" something with my life. It's almost like empty nest syndrome - but with a whole lot less freedom. Do I get a job? Go to school? Sleep? I have no earthly idea. For 12 years I've been Jeff's wife and (insert kid)'s mom here. Which is fine - at school, at home, in the neighborhood, at Jeff's command parties, etc.. I aspire to be more than a wife and a mother - for me. I aspire to have something of my own: a job, a career, a hobby, volunteer work, education...something! I have the funds available to go to school, yet I have no clue as to what I want to be when I grow up. Let me rephrase that: I have no earthly idea what I want to be that coincides with Jeff's military status and will still allow me to be the primary, stable parent.  Do I finish my criminal justice degree or do I go for something else? Do I go for what I want to be and hope I get clinicals/internships that will work with my kids' school hours? Or do I just bite the bullet and put them in afterschool care where I will only see them an hour or so before bedtime? The last time I only saw my kids an hour before bed, I drove myself crazy with guilt. I don't ever want to do that again.
So here's the plan: I'm buying a professional camera and all the goodies that go along with it. Back in high school, a dabbled a bit with a used Pentax my dad gave me for my 16th birthday. (I know. I wanted a car too!) It wasn't a fancy digital camera, like what I'm getting ready to purchase. But, it was detailed photography. And I loved it! It became a passion of mine and dare I say, I was good at it. I didn't appreciate it back then, but I really wish I had stuck with it through the years. So, incoming hobby! Woot!
I'm also missing my family terribly so. At my stepfather's funeral, I saw my cousins for the first time in over a decade and it was such a shock. Ten years flies so fast. They were my children's ages the last time I saw them and now, they have kids of their own!! How does that happen?? I vowed that I wouldn't let ten more years slip by before I knew it. The next time I see my extended family, won't be at their children's graduations.
It bothers me extremely so that my children don't know the feeling of extended family at the holidays or for their birthday parties. I try to make them as great as I can and start new traditions here at home, without all the family. And honestly, they don't know what they're missing...really. It only bothers me. But still, it makes me sad and feel bad for them. Not having the oodles of cousins to play hide and seek with on the fourth of July, it's a crime! I contimplated for a month or two about moving the kids and I back home near my mom in Indiana. But, I cannot bring myself to make Jeff live on the ship. I cannot take his home away. I cannot break up this family, simply because of my emotion. It was a heartwrenching, gut-twisting decision that I stayed up way many a night contimplating. I drove my friends crazy talking it out. (I'm an outward thinker.)
So here's my plan: This summer while Jeff's gone, the kids and I are going to go spend a good month (give or take) with my mom. We're going camping with cousins and their kids. We're going to visit my grandmother for the first time in 11 years. (I know, I'm a horrible granddaughter.) We're going to have a ton of fun and see tons of family.
All in all, 2010 will be a trying year. It will be tough in some areas, but different in a lot of ways. I welcome it with open arms and am delighted to see what it brings.

Parenting Woes

My oldest child, Aden, is on the brink of teendom. He's only 11, but going on 22. Thus far in the four months of the current school year, I've encountered many parenting obstacles. Suddenly, our "good" kid is acting out in numerous ways and forms. I want to shake him and make him tell me what is going on in his world, but I cannot do that. I want to baracade him in his room until he's of adult age, but again, that's not possible. Instead, I'm going to use this post as a vent, a sort of outlet, before I lose my mind.

My Dearest Aden,

I wish I could tell you that at 33 years old, I know the secrets to life, success, and the world. But, I don't. I cannot even pretend that I know the secrets to parenting. Afterall, you are our eldest, our guinea pig. Just when I think I have you figured out and have the rules made to cover everything, you grow up and you find loopholes.
As your mom, it is not only my job to love and protect you, provide you with food, clothing, and a roof over your head, but it is also to provide you with a sense of moral and value, and the tools so that you can function successfully as an adult. The term success can be defined as many things, but in this house and in my eyes, success means happiness. Happiness is not easily found as an adult when you're thrusted into the cold, harsh world. One can make all the money in the world to afford anything they desire in life, but it doesn't mean they are happy.

There were no rule books given to me at your birth, even though I wish there were. There are no definitive lines. Most of parenting is grey. Sometimes I have to rely on my instincts, and honestly, I have to learn to trust them. Sometimes I just want to reach out and hold you tight, but the lessons you must learn are more important than the knot in the pit of my stomach. I overreact often, it is in my nature. And sometimes, dare I say, I am wrong.
In a few years, you'll be starting down this long and bumpy road of teen self-discovery. It doesn't really end, I'm afraid, until your mid-twenties. I wish I could give you a peice of paper that certified you as who you are, but it doesn't work like that. I'll hold your hand when you want me to. I'll guide you to the best of my ability. I'll watch you from afar, when you won't even know I'm there. I'll bit my lip to keep from picking you up when you fall, for you'll have to learn to pick yourself back up and brush yourself off.  Right now son, you're just staring at the road signs pointing out that harsh road. The choices you make now, directly affect your future.
You're growing up and that means I'm growing too. I'm learning along the way, the same as you. I wish I could tell you that I have this all down pat and I've done this all before. But I don't.

Hopefully, when you're a grown adult, lightbulbs will go off and you'll understand the reasons your dad and I do the things we do and say the things we say. Until then, you'll have to trust that we know what we're talking about. Well, at least most of the time.

The most important thing is that we love you.

Love,
Your Ma

The Looming D Word

First of all, I want to say that I am incredibly thankful that my husband will be home this holiday season and potentially, next holiday season. I am thankful for the time he does get to spend with the kids and I. This blog isn't about being unappreciative. It's about the emotions of an upcoming deployment.

I knew Jeff would be deploying in the spring at some point of time. I knew it would be for six to eight months. I knew the job, generally speaking, that he would be carrying out. I knew it all. I've done this five or six other times. In fact, we just went through a six deployment from June to December of last year.

Now that a potential departure date has been released, it seems more real. It's also heartbreaking, because he could possibly be leaving on my birthday. Of course, it's all potential and if you know anything about the military, don't write anything in pen. Have a backup plan for your backplan. Everything changes all the time and without warning. 

Having done this before doesn't mean it will be easier. I remember a chief's wife telling me at my first Readiness Group Meeting, "Oh you get used to it." Yeah, after 12.5 years of being a military spouse, I don't really think that I have gotten used to it or that it has gotten easier. Perhaps my coping skills have gotten more refined. But, I've never get used to sleeping alone, worrying about my husband, or kissing away the tears of my children who miss their father.

As any seasoned military spouse can and will tell you, what can happen on deployment, will happen. It seems karma brings all it's downfalls in the time that our spouses are deployed.  A lot of us spouses are hundreds, if not thousands, of miles from our closest family and/or friend. Most of us do it alone. Last deployment, I took all three children to the ER with me, twice. The nurse who called me back asked if there was someone I could call for the chlidren. Uh no, not really. And that was only in the first two months of Jeff's deployment.

I'm really not looking forward to spending six to eight more months without my husband. I hate it. I go into survivor mode and never really know how exhausted I am until I see him step foot off that boat during homecoming. It's rough, I'm not going to lie. And I know a lot of folks have it worse. It doesn't make it any easier to know that.

I really just don't want to do it. But I know it's coming. It won't get here any slower just because I'm kicking and screaming or dragging my feet. Time will still move forward and he will be whisked away.

I never get used to sleeping alone, even though I joke that I have to get used to sleeping with him again when he returns. The nights are lonely, especially after the kids are in bed. Even though I am exhausted at the end of the day, it doesn't feel as if my day is complete because I haven't talked with him. And that's the part that I miss the most: companionship. Some wives joke it's the sex and it is, to an extent. But more than that, it's the conversation, the watching of television together, the waiting for each other before we retire for the night. It's going to bed next to the man I love and listening to him breathe as I fall asleep. It's the way our four year old daughter chants his name when he walks in the door from work like he's a rockstar - she won't be doing that for six months. It's the emptiness in the pit of my stomach. It's the moments I want to share with him but he's not here to experience them. It's the honor roll recognitions of the boys in school or a birthday or a holiday. It's our 13th anniversary that he will miss. It's the breaking down into tears at some stupid song or commerical on television. It's making his favorite dish for dinner and knowing he's not here to enjoy it. It's finding a sock or shirt that missed the laundry for the first couple of months. It's sleeping with his pillow. It's giving our children two hugs and kisses, one for me and one for daddy. It's answering the tough questions that little ones ask and explaining things to the older ones who have more of a grasp of what their father's job entails. It's tackling simple tasks like grocery shopping with all three kids. It's dealing with behavior outbursts appropriately - is it normal behavior or rebelllion because daddy is gone. It's turning to tell him something and then feeling silly because he's not there. It's the mountains of emails I send because my heart is hurting and my soul is brusied. It's the being strong because I have to, when I really just want to retreat into the fetal position.

I simply don't want to do it again. I've had my fill. But it's coming, whether I want it to or not. It's going to happen. His departure date will be here faster than I know it. The months are going to fly. The days are going to go by in doubletime.
I will watch him pack his seabag. I will listen as he explains paperwork like Powers of Attorney, his wills in the event that something happens to him, his specifics on his Page 2. I will lie awake all night watching him sleep. I will move in slow motion, trying to slow time down. I will talk with my children. I will drive him to base. I will watch from the pier as his ship moves away. I will curse the tugboats taking him away from me. I will stand there with my three children until we cannot see his ship any longer. And then I will stand there some more, hoping that the knot in my stomach and the anchors tied to my shoes will go away so that I can move. I will drive back to our home with tears streaming down my face. I will try to sound strong for my children. I will hug my little one and tell her it'll be alright. I will tell her that daddy's job is very important. I will tell her how he protects us from the badguys. I will try to hug my oldest one and tell him not to bottle up his emotions. I will ask, repeatedly, if he is ok only to get his nodded head in response. I will answer the millions of questions our middle child will have. I will grow weary. I will grow weak. And we will start, that day, our countdown until he is back home with us.
We will send care packages and pictures. We will make videos of us laughing and proclaiming our love for him. We will send emails saying how much we miss him. We will get through each day, because that's what we do. There isn't any other option.
We will get excited at the halfway point. We will celebrate our survival. We will continue to countdown. And when we are one month to having our Jeff home with us once again, time will taunt us. While she sped up the months and days before his departure, she will slow down in the weeks before his arrival.
The night before, we won't sleep. We will make signs and decorate our home. We will, once again, roll out the red carpet, and put up our Daddy banners. We will write on our car windows. We will get our flags ready. We will lie awake thinking the sweet thoughts of having Jeff home and life becoming  "normal" once again.
The next morning, I will do my hair, getting frustrated and downright emotional over the curl that won't stay. I will put my makeup on, smudging my mascara at least five times. I will smooth my clothes out while looking at my reflection, hoping that I'm as he remembered me and that he still thinks I'm the most beautiful woman in the world. My stomach holds butterflies as my throat holds my heart. I will dress our little one in a new fabulous outfit. We will leave for the pier way too early. We will sit in the van, until people we know start to arrive. We will laugh and talk with everyone else, but we will continue to be preoccupied with catching the first glimpse of the ship's mast over the other ships in port. We will cheer, hoot, and holler when it finally comes into sight. I will jump up and down like an adolescent school girl, and I'll feel like one too.
Time will yet again laugh at me as we wait for the ship to get to the pier. I will once again curse those tugs for being so painfully slow. I will watch intensely as the brow is put on the ship.I will jump around and move so that I can see my sailor coming off that ship. I will run to him. I will cry. I will feel complete. The kids will run. They will hug their daddy tightly. Jeff will be bombarded by the four of us who have missed him dearly for the last six months.
We will drive home to the sounds of the kids chattering over each other, catching their dad up on the last six months. He will smile and wink at me. I will still be grinning from ear to ear.

Herstory (To Be Confused with History) Part (I lost count)

I seemed to get in a little more than my fare share of trouble when I was younger. I don't know if it's because I was an only child or if it was because maybe I wasn't so good at lying. Either way, if there was trouble to get into, I was knee deep in it. Particularly when it came to writing.
It wasn't until much later in life that I came to realize the power of the word, written or spoken. One would think I'd have learned, or at least should have learned, by the numerous things I wrote down that resulted in my hide getting tanned. Apparently, I'm thick headed.
Take for instance the bus incident. Well, there were too many of those to count. The one I'm talking about is where I made out my wedding plans.  Oh yeah. I wrote them all down. How many and who were to be my bridesmaids. Who I was going to marry. What my wedding colors were going to be. Where I was going to take my honeymoon. Every detail was mapped out on a single, solitary piece of paper, right down to how many kids I was going to have and what their names would be.
Now, I'm sure, every girl dreams of their wedding day. This, however, was a bit different. I just knew I this was going to be my wedding. Period. End of story. Come Hell or high water, I was going to marry this young boy who never even knew I existed. And we were going to have purple and green colors in a single story country church and vacation in Austrailia.
Somehow, my perfect plan escaped my notebook and ended up on the bus floor. And somehow that piece of paper ended up in the back of the bus where the cool kids sat. Imagine my embarrassment. Imagine my dispair. Imagine how furious my best friends felt when word got around that they were going to be my bridesmaids. I hadn't even asked them yet!
That day was a very lonely day. I piece of my heart was torn into shreds as the kids around me mocked and laughed at my dreams. Even my BFFs seemed to slowly seperate themselves from my company. I don't know how long it took before kids finally quit making fun of me.
If that wasn't enough, I got into trouble once during computer time at school. It was Freebie Friday. We could write whatever we wanted on the computer and even print it out. We could play a game. (Back then it was just Oregon Trail. No fancy World of Warcraft or SIMS just yet.) We could do whatever we wanted on that computer.  I knew I wanted to write a story on that computer, print it out and save it forever. I loved writing. Mom always said I should be a journalist. I could tell a story with more color than Crayola! And boy did I!
I had a crush on this boy Dean March. He was a tall, lanky kid. Dean had red hair and freckles, much like most of my uncles. He had real nice blue eyes. His teeth were a little crooked, but I liked his smile anyway. He had all sisters so I figured he'd know a thing or two about girls. And so, I wrote a story about Dean March.
I didn't know what was so bad about it until I grew up. I wrote my story about Dean March and it was a piece of writing that was so descriptive it got me kicked off the computers for the rest of the school year. I had imagined, in my mind, that one doesn't just have freckles in just the places people can see. I had bet that a person with as many freckles as Dean March had even had them in his hair. I thought he even had them inbetween his toes and armpits!! So, what could be more inclusive and descriptive than to say, "Dean Martin has freckles everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean: Everywhere." Who knew writing a few sentences about  freckles could get someone in so much trouble?

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving to all of my readers, my friends, and family. This year, I have plenty to be thankful for.

First and foremost, I am thankful for the three beautiful children I was allowed to born into this world and that are happy and healthy today. Thank you Aden, Jonas, and Nyla, for allowing me to grow as your mother. For challenging my beliefs and your seemingly unaltered endurance during your father's lengthy deployments. Your steadfast outlooks and pride keeps me going when I want to curl up into the fetal position. Thank you for your smiles, your hugs, your kisses, and your love. I love you all, unconditionally, deeply, and forever.

I am thankful for my handsome husband who loves me dearly and has the kindest and most tenderhearted soul I've ever met. Thank you Jeff for always believing in me when I didn't have the courage to believe in myself. Thank you for giving me the room and space to grow into the person I needed to become. Thank you, for your unconditional love and support during the toughest time of my life. Thank you for being you and loving me. Thank you for making me your wife and never quitting on us. Thank you for the three wonderful children we created together. Thank you for the sacrifice you make for your country and your family.  I love you more than I could ever express in mere words.

I am thankful for my mother, who didn't have an easy job raising me. Thank you mom, for your wise advice, loving arms, and numerous phone calls. I'm not sure what I would do without you. Thank you, for being you. Thank you for letting me fall so I could pick myself up. Thank you for accepting me for me, never trying to change me, and supporting everything I've ever done in my life. Thank you for your forgiveness of a youth gone south. Thank you for bailing me out when I make mistakes, even though I am 33 years old this year. Thank you for the love you show your grandchildren and son in-law. You mean more to us than you know. I love you, mommy.

Thank you to the late Jack Gettys who taught me that words are sharper than knives. Thank you Jack, for loving my mother and treating her like the queen she is. Thank you for loving me, though you never had to and I never made it easy. Thank you for being in my life, for it is richer than I could ever let you know. I wish I had had the courage to tell you how much you mean to me, my children and my husband. You are missed greatly and my heart hurts knowing that you are not on this earth anymore. Your wise soul and energetic spirit will be with us always.

Thank you to all of my friends who have put up with me over the years. I'm not sure I would have made it through the multitude of deployments without you all. Thank you for babysitting my kids and listening to my endless chatter. Thank you for patience while I retreated into my soul for awhile. Thank you for always believing in me. Thank you for being you.

Thank you to my family, for you all are a part of who I am. You all helped shape me into who I am today. If it weren't for the pain, I wouldn't have learned. Experience is life's best teacher, so thank you all - each and everyone of you. Thank you to those who have always been there for me. Thank you to those of you who haven't. Thank you to everyone because we can't choose our family. I am blessed to have you all in my life.

As we all gobble up our turkeys, pies, potatoes, and pumkin desserts, let us all give thanks for the things in our life that keep us going. Those things, my friends, are the things that make us who we are.

'Tis the Season

This time of year gets me right in the heart. I'm so sappy and mushy and cry at stupid commercials on television. I'm reminded of the joys in my life as well as the sorrow.
I'm thankful for my family. I'm thankful I have three beautiful and healthy children who are bright, funny, and even mischievious. I am so thankful that my husband has a job in this trying economy. We have a roof over our heads and food on the table. We have four furbabies that we absolutely adore, though puppy training is not going as well as we'd like. I'm thankful my husband is not deployed for this holiday season, though he does have duty on the beloved Turkey Day.
But this time of year often reminds me of the things my children will never encounter or experience. The Holidays are often bittersweet because while I am so very thankful for the obvious, I am also guilt-ridden and remorseful of the life I cannot share with my children.
I remember my own childhood filled with happy holiday memories. There were cousins galore. We'd visit each side of our family. In my wee years it was my Great Grandma Frisk's house for my dad's side of the family. She had a tiny apartment and all four of her grandsons piled in it with their families. We had pies, turkey, ham, italian dishes of all sorts, cheeses, pepperoni, and of course the huge black olives that I'd get yelled at for putting on my fingers. In later years, after my great grandmother passed, one uncle and aunt would host the family function. It was never at our house, but I loved going to whomever's turn it was. The ladies would gather in the kitchen and the men in the living room. Us kids ran about upstairs pretending this and that.
On my mom's side, we always gathered at Grandma and Grandpap Edinger's house. My grandmother birthed nine children, who mostly all had children themselves. And though, each family would pop in and out throughout the day, the house was always filled. The long table on the one side of the kitchen would be filled with foods: pies, cakes, homemade buns and breads, turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy - omg the gravy was delicious - salads, dressings. From tiny eyes like mine, I knew that if I took one bite of everything on the table, I'd be stuffed for weeks. And of course, Grandpap always made sure to have flavored pop: grape, orange, Cherokee red. Cherokee red was his favorite. Us cousins all played some sort of game. Mother May I in the hallway, freezetag and Hide n Seek outside. We'd sit and chat about whatever. We played dolls. We were all together. And it was fantastic.
These are the sort of memories I am sad my children won't know. They have exactly three cousins from Jeff and I's siblings. One in Tennessee, who is all of one year old and whom we haven't met yet. Two in Oregon, who are a lot older than our own kids and they've only met Aden when he was nine months old. It's sad. Our family is spread out between Pennsylvania, Indiana, Oregon, Ohio, Tennessee. And sure, we visit from time to time on some holidays. It's not the same.
Most holidays, we spend here at home, with just us five. It's disheartening at best. It's sad for me, but not for them. They don't know the difference and have no idea what they are missing out on. But, I do. At least this year, my mom will be here for Christmas. It's part of being a military family. It's something we accept. We don't complain, because the military is our livlihood. It is what it is, I suppose.
Mom and I were talking on the phone this evening making plans for the summer and I just cannot wait until it gets here. We're going to go camping and visit family, go places and do things. It's going to be fantastic. The best part is, the kids will get to go camping with oodles of cousins. The first time they will ever get to experience anything like what I grew up with. They will get to go fishing and swimming and hiking and boating and everything with my cousins' kids. It'll be great. I kind of wish we can fast forward to that part of the year.
The only downfall is that Jeff will be deployed. He'll miss it, like he misses a lot of things. This will be our 7th deployment. I can't say it gets any easier. I can already feel anxiety creeping up on me. I absolutely detest the fact that he misses so much out of our lives. But, I can't really bite the hand that feeds us. Jeff loves his career in the Navy and I am proud of his sacrifice. The kids put him on a pedastol, where he deserves to be, and I suppose that is good enough for me.

Personal

This is a less organized, more personal post this evening. If you, the reader, aren't interested in the internal, emotional struggle that I am currently enduring, please click the red X at the top right hand corner of this page.
I had a blog where I posted all my inner turmoil but it's now gone. I posted a lot in the recent weeks after my stepdad, Jack, passed away. All of my sorrow and grief, I typed away at the keyboard, late at night when I couldn't sleep. Things I couldn't say outloud. Things I couldn't tell anyone. Things I couldn't bear to let escape outside of my mind.  Things have been a lot better since then. They really have. Tonight though, it's been a rough night. Extremely so.
I suppose I wasn't ready, though I thought otherwise. I watched the movie, My Sister's Keeper. If you haven't seen it, it's a real tear-jerker. If you've recently lost someone to cancer, it's an emotionally outpour of any emotion you had tucked deep inside you. And that is exactly what happened.
Both Jeff and I sat there as the credits rolled with tears streaking our faces and snot pouring from our noses. We sat there in silence for a few minutes, maybe trying to compose ourselves. Jeff came over to sit by me on the couch and tried to hold me close, but I just couldn't.
I couldn't relinquish that release of emotion that I very much need. He told me that throughout our 12 years of marriage that I lectured him consistently on keeping his emotions bottled up inside and that now, at this very time, I was doing the same. And he was right. I could barely mutter the words, "I can't" when he asked me why. I didn't want to tell him why. I didn't want to speak. I wanted to compose myself and move on. I wanted to pass this moment by and know that I'd be okay.
Instead, I swallowed my tears and said that I have to be the strong one. I can't cease to function. I have a family to take care of that depend upon me. I can't just curl up in the fetal position and just stop. It's not an option for me. I have three children and a military husband who is in and out to sea constantly. I don't have the option of wallowing or simmering in my own emotion. I just don't.
He said he thought I needed it and he's most probably correct. And if it were any other emotion other than grief I would have no problem what so ever releasing it on his shoulder. If I were angry instead, I'd yell and scream. If I were hurt, I'd blubber away through my tears. If I were crying happy tears, I'd smile through it. I am just not equipped to deal with this sort of grief.
Instead, I sucked it up and put my slippers on. I walked into the kitchen and started mindlessly cleaning. Anything to keep my hands and my mind busy.
A lot of people may not understand what Jack was to me. He was probably the only other man, other than my husband, who has loved me unconditionally, for me. He was the one adult in my life who didn't want to fix me. He treated me like an adult and he expected me to treat him and my mother with respsect. Respect, something I never knew anything about until he walked into my life. He accepted me as his own daughter without any hesitation.
He taught me a lot about life that, at the time, I may have blown off, but I have kept each one of those wisdom filled conversations tucked away in my mind. He trusted me the way no one ever had. He's the one that taught me that life is way too short for grudges. That things are, just because they are. There may no be no rhyme or reason. He also taught me that I have a voice and to use it. He told me once that words are powerful, so choose them wisely.
He loved my mother all of his heart and soul. He treated her like the queen she is. I am greatful for that. When everyone else in her life, including myself, treated her with anything other than love, here he was. Her knight in shining armor.
He accepted my apologies for my poor teenage behavior without batting an eye. He was there when I needed advice. He never steered me wrong. He accepted my husband and my children as if they were his family for years. There were no steps in this family. We were all his. He made sure to remember my kids' birthdays and he made sure mom bought them adequate Christmas gifts (not that mom had to be reminded, but you know.). Something my own dad doesn't do, ever.
I feel incredibly guilty over my teen years and my poor choices, poor behavior, the things I said, the things I did. I don't think I can ever apologize enough for those years. I feel guilty that I was not there in his last hours, that I never thanked him for being the man he is to me, to my mom, to my husband and to my kids.  I should have been there to help my mom. I should have been there, by his bedside. Instead I was here, at home, pacing the floors, making sure I had everything I needed: numbers to amcross, emails to Jeff's command, three kids packing, making arrangements for our two guinea pigs, two cats and Bo, the pain in the ass doxie.
It's been three months since he passed and it hurts today the same as it did the day he passed. I feel as though my chest is going to implode and my head is simply going to burst off of my shoulders. I have never, in all the things I have been through in my life, felt anything as awful as this. And if, by chance, I let it out physically, I know I'll lose my composure. I'll just lose it. I can't say it outloud. I can't say what I'm feeling outloud because the words just don't come. They are there, on the tip of my tongue. But they can't be spoken. If I speak them, the tears start and my chest hurts and I just want to curl up in a ball. I think my mom said it best when she said, "It feels like my heart is being ripped out of my chest." Because my god it does. Exactly so.
And I can't believe he is gone. Just like that. Gone. I'll never be able to ask his advice again. I'll never be able to pick up the phone and call him. My children will never hear his voice tell them a story of his youth. They'll never hear the wise advice he had in his voice. He's gone.

Herstory (To Be Confused with History) Part III

There's part of the story that I've left out. Not on purpose, but because it's sort of hard to tell. Some folks think it the most tragic thing ever. I think it the most interesting part of my childhood. It's not a bad thing, not at all. I wasn't like all the other kids at school and I knew I was different from them. I was even different than all my cousins too. I used to think it was something special, that set me apart. But, the more I thought about it, the more I wasn't so sure.
You see, when I was three, I was adopted by my aunt and my uncle. My biological mother ran off somewhere and my biological father was down on his luck. There weren't many jobs available and he wanted to head a few states over to find work. But, his big problem was that he didn't have anywhere to stay and little money. He asked his brother and his wife to take care of me. It seems the most logical thing to do given all the circumstances involved. The thing is, they didn't want to get attached to me and have me ripped from their clutches. They asked to adopt me. My biological father said yes.
People say I was too little to remember, but I do. That morning seemed special. My uncle was wearing his best dress and my aunt was in the bathroom primping. She was blowing drying her gorgeous brown hair as I watched with my elbows propped up on my knees. She was so pretty and I hoped to someday look like her.  I was watching her put her mascara on and suddenly the idea popped into my head.
My aunt and uncle were great at explaining things. It also helped that I was extra, super smart too. (I already knew my alphabet and numbers by then.) My eyes lit up like Christmas trees and I posed the question, "Does this mean I can call you Mommy?" Well, my aunt seemed kind of surprised but I could tell by the grin she was trying to hide that she was pleased. She told me I should probably go ask my uncle. I skipped through the kitchen into the living room and posed the question to him. He put his magazine down and had me hop up on his lap. He pondered a bit and asked a few questions. Was I sure that's what I wanted to do? Well, of course it was! He said he supposed that'd be alright. Suddenly, the butterflies in my tummy went away and I ran back through the kitchen into the bathroom and told my aunt that my uncle, I mean Daddy, said yes. She scooped me up and squeezed me real tight.
We all piled into our car and drove for what seemed forever. The building we were heading to seemed huge. The steps were large and the pillars bigger than anything I'd ever seen before. I don't remember a whole lot other than the floors were super shiny and the light was really bright. I remember seeing my grandma and some of my other family in the big room filled with benches. I remember talking to a guy in a robe, the judge. He asked me all sorts of questions about my new mom and dad. He was real nice, but I was still nervous. I wanted to vomit all over him.  There's really not much more to tell. We had to wait and see if the judge thought my mom and dad should adopt me.
It seemed like a long time after, but my biological father came back to see me. He had a new job and new place to live. He wanted me to go back with him to Tennessee. Well, I didn't know what was going to happen. I was excited to see my biological father but I didn't want to leave either. It was the happiest, yet most confusing time in the four years I had lived thus far.
Now, my dad fully believed in making educated decisions. He believed in talking things out. He also believed in letting me make my own decisions. So at four years old, I had to decide whether or not I was going to stay with the parents I told the old guy in the robes I wanted to live with or my biological father who lived in a place I had never heard of before. It was a tough decision. On one hand, a new mysterious place with new friends, a new house, and a place that was warm more than it was cold sounded great. Not to mention, my dad was back and wanted me afterall. On the other hand, my aunt and uncle had cared for me, loved me, tucked me in, and took me in when no one else could or would. I didn't want to hurt my mom and dad. But I wanted to go with my daddy. And so, I did.
My daddy had a girlfriend down in Tennessee. They lived in a tiny little house that was longer than it was wide. There wasn't a whole lot of grass but there was lots of dirt to play in. They took me school shopping so I could attend school down there. I picked out this awesome lunchbox with these rockstars on it. They wore face makeup and had big hair. You guessed it, KISS. I just knew that was going to make an impression on my soon to be friends. I was wrong. I got called a devil worshiper. I didn't even know what a devil was let alone a worshiper. I just guessed it was something bad and denied it with all my heart.
Things with my dad wasn't as strict as with my mom and dad. I had early bedtimes and had to be polite. I had to say my prayers at night and eat with my silverware. Here in Tennessee, my dad didn't require such antics. He was just happy to have me with him, and the same went for me.
One night, my dad asked if I wanted my ears pierced. He had his left ear pierced and it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. My mommy had her ears pierced, but she rarely wore jewelry besides her wedding ring. I exclaimed that I did, indeed, want holes in my ears. I'd be so grown-up! My dad got a potato and some ice. He put the ice on my ear for a really long time. Sometimes it burned, sometimes it was just numb, which is what it was supposed to do. Then he put the potato behind my ear and grabbed an earring. The idea was to punch the earring through my numb ear and have the potato stop the earring so it didn't go all the way through my ear. I wanted my ears pierced so bad I could feel it. But the fear of having that earring go through my ear terrified me. I cried. I screamed. I couldn't do it. I chickened out.
I had one great best friend where we lived. She lived in a similar trailer in the same court as us. She had white hair like the clouds and dark skin like dirt. She was a real beauty. Her name was Angel as I guessed her momma thought she was the best behaved kid ever. She was a bit older than I and she had brothers, older ones. She taught me a lot of things I probably shouldn't have known at that age. She showed me how to spit and not drip it on my chin. (I could probably spit a good two feet if the wind was just right.) She taught me to make mudpies and sling them at her brothers and not feel bad if I hurt one of them. She showed me how to put tiny little pebbles in them that would really sting those boys. She taught me how to smoke a cigarette and not cough doing it. (The key was to not take all that smoke in your throat and just hold it in your mouth.) She was sneaky too. We never, ever got caught!!
One night I had played so hard that I was so tired. I didn't even eat my dinner. I just went to bed. I was warm and toasty in my tiny bed down the hall and I woke up to people talking. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but it sounded as if they were being quiet on purpose. I had convinced myself that I had to be dreaming. The only folks that ever came to the house were Angel and her brothers. Sometime later, maybe a few minutes or maybe even an hour, I was awakened by what seemed a real Angel. She had a halo and everything. As my eyes became clearer, the halo was the ceiling light and the woman was my mom. My mom!!! But wait, what was she doing here?
From what I could gather in my sleepy fog was that the old guy in the robes that I talked to awhile back saying I wanted to be with my mommy and daddy in Pennsylvania, finally got those papers in the mail. It was official. I was their child. I wasn't quite sure what to think or make of it. I mean, if that old guy said I was, then I guess I was. And they weren't going to just give me up. Not after we went to that big building and I swore on a bible that I wanted to be their kid. I swore on it, right there in front of the old guy, my mommy, my daddy, my gramma, and a whole bunch of other people who wore suits. I couldn't just go back on my word, right? I guess it took the judge awhile because when you get old, things take longer.
My mommy and my other uncle packed up my things in the tiny car. We drove all night long and part of the next day to get back to Fombell, Pennsylvania. When I went back to school, I heard the same thing about the stupid KISS lunchbox. Mark Manners not only called me a devil worshiper everyday, but also made fun of my new southern draw. I begged and pleaded my mom to buy me a new lunchbox but she said there was nothing wrong with the one I had. Besides, my biological dad bought it for me, didn't I want to keep it?

Herstory (To be confused with history) Part II !!

My father had four brothers. My mother had six brothers and two sisters. Needless to say, we had a very large extended family. Every holiday we'd venture to each side of the family's designated house to devour impeccably prepared foods and desserts. We had mashed potatoes, real ones, not that fake stuff you find in resteraunts. We had gravy and corn, ham and turkey, baked chicken, homemade buns and rolls. Honey butter and real butter. We also had that stuff in a container that was weirdly soft though it was cold. We had pies and cakes. Apple pie, pumpkin pies, pecan pies, minced meat pies, and pepperoni pies. My mom would pile my plate high of a little bit of everything. And I had to eat it too! There were, afterall, less fortunate kids who didn't have even real potatoes to eat. And some of those kids spent holidays at restraunts instead of family gatherings.
My mother's father, Grandpap, would make sure to keep a variety of flavored pop in a cooler on the front porch. My eyes would grow as big as saucers as I'd try to choose just one flavor. This was a treat. Afterall, I was only allowed to drink milk, water, and Kool-aid at home. The only catch to the flavored pop was that we kids had to leave the Cherokee Reds for grandpap. Those were his favorites.
The oodles of cousins and I would run around outside playing various games such as Hide-n-Seek and Freeze Tag. We'd spend a good portion of time going over the rules and deciding who was It first. We'd put our shoes in a circle and one of my cousins, usually an older one, would go around pointing to each of the shoes in the circle saying, "My mother punched your mother in the nose. What color was the blood?" The person whose shoe she pointed to had to yell out a color. Usually this ended up with arguing. The more reserved cousins would think that periwinkle or aquamarine couldn't possibly be a color for blood. Blood was obviously red and the person stating the unique color (usually me) was only trying to cheat. So, we'd result to something else. All of our shoes in the circle and the older cousin would say, "Eenie meenie miney moe..." 
After all was said and done, half of the cousins would retreat to the porch or inside while those of us hardcore players would hide and run like our tiny lives depended upon it. At the end of the day, my hair was frizzed out from my pony tail and I was sweating like one of those working horses back home.
And then we'd go to my dad's side of the family, where everyone mostly sat around watching television while us kids would go upstairs. We were only allowed to go upstairs. Everytime one of us cousins ventured down for a drink or to tell on each other, we were redirected back upstairs to play. The only thing these cousins ever wanted to play was house. Boring, in my opinion. And because I was a girl and the oldest, I had to be the mom.
I was never one for babydolls and barbies. I didn't want to be a mom when I grew up. I fantastized about business suits and high heels that went click, clack on the flooring. I wanted to be in charge, a boss. I didn't want to work hard for a living. I didn't want to sweat and get all smelly. I wanted to fill out paperwork and use staplers. I wanted to wear pantyhose and skirts above my knees. Mom only let me wear pantyhose on Easter Sunday and those weren't even pantyhose. Those were more like tights and they were white. And she made me wear those stupid bonnets that all the old church ladies would say was "adorable." Ugh. And my skirts were never skirts. Mom took me school shopping at Sears every school year. She bought me five dresses and two pairs of jeans. The dresses would have been okay if they were even remotely cute. Instead they had this flappy thing in the back and lace around the bottom. I looked like an overgrown baby and the kids in the lower grade levels were not so kind with compliments. I also didn't have those fancy tennis shoes like my cousins. I had these brown things that appeared to have an M on the toes. I used to argue with her that I had to wear tennis shoes for Gym day and she would tell me that those brown things were tennis shoes. I wanted to scream they weren't, but I knew better.
My oldest female cousin on my mom's side used to hand down clothes to me when I was in middle school. I used to think I was the bee's knees. I'd dress myself according to what I'd think she'd she would wear together and put hairspray on the side of my hair to make it fly out like wings. I was the cat's meow waiting for the school bus at the end of my drive and I knew it. When I got on the bus, my bus driver, the evil Miss Cindy, would snicker. As if she knew anything about looking nice, sitting there in her oversized sweaters, sporting a wart next to her thin lips. (I secretly thought she was a witch.) I'd take a seat in the middle. The front of the bus was reserved for ill-behaved students and nerdy kids.I was neither and I wouldn't be caught dead conversing with the nerdy kids. As if my reputation didn't suffer enough. I couldn't sit in the back of the bus because that's where the cool kids sat and I wasn't one of those either, though I hoped and prayed that the threads I wore would allow me internship into their circle.
As each kid entered the bus from their assigned bus stop, they'd pass me and look at me. I didn't dare look them in the eye, that would seem to eager. Instead, I just non-chalantly pretended to be interested in something else...the seat in front of me, an overweight mom in her bathrobe waving from the front porch, a dog chasing the bus. And one by one, they laughed hysterically at me. And the laughing would continue when I got to school and their friends would join in.
When I'd get home I'd put those clothes in the laundry and vow to never, ever, ever wear them again. Somehow, they made their way back into my drawers the next day and I'd have to wear them again the following week. How could I make my mother understand that those clothes were the demise of my social stature?
When I was ten or twelve, maybe nine?, I received a bicycle for my birthday. It was beautiful. It was white. It had a silver sparkling banana seat and a basket in the front with flowers. It sported white and silver training wheels, which of course I didn't needed. (I was too old for training wheels, you see.) It wasn't what I wanted, but I knew better to complain and was thankful to have a bike at all. What I wanted and what I pointed out was a BMX with mag wheels and brakes on the handle bars, and definetly not with training wheels. I wanted it in black and yellow, like a bee. I wanted to tricks like my good male friend. I also wanted to ride that sucker down the tallest hill at the Wheeley Jumps.
I said thank you and enjoyed all the family that came to my party. After everyone left, I stood by my bicycle staring at it. I checked out the chain, all greasy and smooth. I kicked each wheel, they were stiff with air. I hopped on it and rode down our driveway. At the end I wasn't quite sure how to stop so I put my feet down. It didn't stop me but the bank next the mailbox did. Ouch. Everyday, I'd ride my bike up and down Celia Road in front of our house. I was bound and determined I was going to learn how to stop and learn to ride without training wheels. My dad tried to teach me but only got frustrated. It was up to me. I had to learn. And learn fast. No one my age was riding their bikes with toddler wheels.
One day our neighbor, you know, the meanest girl in existance, came riding down the road. Now, her bike had a banana seat too. Somehow, it was much cooler than mine. She started laughing and calling me a baby. She said I was a big chicken and started doing chicken brawks and flapping her arms like wings. I yelled at her that I could ride her bike without training wheels just fine. It's just that my dad didn't have the time to take mine off yet. And then...she dared me. Crap. A dare. Now I had to prove to her that I could ride her bike.
When was I going to learn to keep my big mouth shut? I just knew I was going to throw up. The color in my face vanished. I was trying to make myself invisible. What would happen if I just ran into the house? I could just run in there, lock the door and never, ever come out again. Then something happened.
Suddenly, this mean girl turned nice. It was weird, but I liked it. It was as if she knew in her heart of hearts that this was something very personal to me and that she should not tease me about it for once. She said she'd teach me to ride her bike. That there was really nothing to it and it just took practice. She pulled her bike up into the yard where I was and offered it to me. I looked at her. This was odd, her being nice and all. I hopped off my bike and hopped onto hers. It was much bigger than mine. If I sat on the seat, there was no way I could touch the ground with even my tippy toes. I told her not to let go of me. I was trying not to show it, but I was terrified.
Mom always said that when I borrow something that I needed to return it in the same shape, if not better shape, as when it was given to me. If I wrecked this girl's bike, I would be responsible for fixing it. My dad would be very upset to learn that not only was I riding someone else's bike when I had my own that was perfectly fine, but also that I had wrecked it. I knew I would wreck it. I couldn't even ride my own bike with training wheels without wrecking it. I was caught in a dilemma. I really did need to learn to ride a two wheel bike. But, if I ruined her bike, I'd have to give her mine and then I'd not have a bike at all. What was a girl to do??!
While I was debating on whether to just say thank you but no thanks to the mean-turned-nice girl, something happened. She let go. She gave me a huge push and simply let go of me. She was laughing this wicked evil laugh. I couldn't touch the ground to stop, not even with my tippy toes! I closed my eyes tight. Maybe I'm just dreaming. My feet found the peddles and I peddled that sucker like there was no tomorrow. I started going faster and faster. I wasn't wobbling. I wasn't swerving to the left and to the right. I was riding the bike! I was riding it! I was doing it! This bike and I, we took off through the yard, down over the embankment, across the gravel driveway, through the garden, and straight ahead was the electric fence with barbed wire. And I, not being able to stop. Not remembering that the breaks where right there on the peddles. Not being able to put my feet on the ground, not even with my tippy toes, I rode that bike straight into the fencing.
I knew for sure I'd be in a heap of trouble. The wheel was bent and the tire flat. The chain popped off. The bike was no longer in ridable condition. Somehow, I was able to get down off the bike without assistance. I turned to look at the mean girl. She was just standing where she pushed me with her mouth agate as if she were trying to catch flies. I guess she didn't think I'd ruin her cool bike. I was really in for it now. I expected my mom to come out of the house and call me by two of my three names. (That's how I knew what kind of trouble I'm in. How many names mom used.) I looked up to the porch and no one was there. I looked back down at the bike thinking maybe my imagination got the best of me, yet again, and that perhaps, just maybe, the bike was still in prime shape as when I was pushed. I was wrong. Dead wrong.
The bike jerked out of my hands and the mean girl started pushing it onto the road and up to her house. She never said a word to me. Hopefully, my mom didn't see what had happened. Since the mean girl didn't tell on me, if mom didn't see, I could escape the incident trouble-free and no one would be the wiser.
I retreated to my bike on the other part of our yard. I kept an eye on the front porch, hoping that no one would pop out there to use my two names. I picked my bike up and walked it over to the lilac bush next to the house - my designated parking spot. I climbed the steps slowly and entered the house. No one said a word to me. I had escaped trouble afterall. Whew.
The next day or maybe it was a couple of days later, my dad took those baby wheels off of my bike. He said he figured that since I took off on ol' mean girl's bike like I did that I was ready. I braced for what was sure to come next: a lecture and grounding of a lifetime. But it never came. My dad smiled that wrinkle eyed smile at me and chuckled. He saw my hesitation and probably wondered why I wasn't so fast to hop on my bike. He winked at me and told me to have at it. I looked up at my mom who was on the porch smiling at the two of us. This was really weird. I must be in that show Twilight Zone that everyone at school talked about. 
So I did. I got my now two wheeled bike and took off. I started beaming from ear to ear. This meant new hopes and bounds for me! I could ride my bike with the best of them. I had showed that mean girl that I could really ride her bike. I was a two-wheel bike riding gal now and have been ever since.
I rode that bike all over. I rode it up past the landlord's house, around the bend to the railroad tracks. I rode it down around the bend past the Narrow's. I rode that bike to the creek to pick up frogs and tadpoles. I rode it down to the stream in the pasture to collect rocks under the bridge. I rode it on the other side of the road of the creepy banana spiders and their extensive webs. I know they were teasing me as I rode by, far, far on the opposite side of the road from them. I pulled over when the huge coal trucks came by. I didn't want them hitting me. Then I got bold and started racing them. I'd get the honk from their truck horns and start to giggle.
One day, I went flying around the bend by the Narrows and hit the gravel too fast. I tried to use the brakes to stop. I pushed backwards just like my dad reminded me. My back tire went the opposite way as I was trying to move. And then it stopped suddenly. I flew over the handlebars and hit the gravel. I scooted up on my belly and face. I tried to put my hands out to stop me but they only landed beside my moving body. My bike ran me over and that darn coal truck never stopped to see if I was ok. I was mad. I stood up to first access the damage to my body. It was sore and I thought I felt something trickle from my face. My hands were torn and had some red stuff on them. I wiped the liquid from my chin with the back of my hand and looked at it. Blood. Great. I was in for it now. I wasn't supposed to wear my school clothes outside and this was probably why.
I was bleeding through my shirt, just a little. I had scrapes clear up to my elbows. It hurt to ball my hands into fists. My chin was sore and it hurt a little to breathe. I picked my beloved bicycle up from the ground and there was not a darn tooting thing wrong with it. I walked it up to the house, up the driveway and parked it. I walked into the house and mom started into what I thought was hysterics.
She immediately took my shirt off to look at my upper torso. Yep. All scraped up. Some even had gravel stuck in them. She looked at my palms, my arms, my elbows. She put a washcloth on my chin and told me to hold it there. I did. Though I didn't want to. disappeared into the bathroom. Oh no. I knew it. I looked around for a hiding spot. I looked at the door hoping I could make a dash for it. I wasn't in much pain but I knew there was going to be a lot when mom came out of that bathroom. I was about to make a conscious decision to make a break for it when mom came out and said, "Now this won't hurt a bit."
Won't hurt who a bit? Because it stung like hell to me! She put hydrogen peroxide followed by bactine in all my cuts, scrapes, bruises and what nots. I was mad. I was just perfectly fine without all the stinging. I would have been fine. My torso, elbows and hands were not going to fall off just because they had a tiny bit of gravel in them. My chin would have been just fine too. Have you ever seen anyone without a chin? I mean besides the guy that you see in chewing tobacco prevention videos. No one, to my knowledge, had ever lost a body part from a mere bicycle crash.
She brought out the band-aids and fixed me all up. Dried my tears with a paper towel. She kissed my forehead and told me to be more careful. All my friends will now know that I wrecked my bike. You know, the bike I had bragged about saying that I could ride it faster than any other kid in our county. I was going to be a laughing stalk.
I went back outside and sat on the top step of our porch. I stared at my bike. How could it do something like that to me? I got rid of the training wheels. I made it cool!! We were no longer being laughed at!!
Well, I'll show everyone! I hopped on that bike and took off down the gravel rode. I rode that bike into the Wheely Jumps. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know what my plans were. I didn't know where I was headed. I just knew I had to prove myself. I rode it right on into the Wheeley Jumps and started looking around. I put my feet down, gazing upon the hills. I could do it. If I could ride mean girl's bike over the bank, through the garden and straight into the fence and live, I could surely survive the smallest of the hills on my own bike. Right?
I was sizing up the hills with my new no training wheels necessary ability and not so good braking ability on gravel, when the boys showed up on their gas guzzling, smoke producing dirt bikes. I couldn't really tell who was who because they had helmets on their heads. They also had gloves on. Why someone wore gloves in the middle of summer, I had no earthly idea. But, hey, I'm not judging. Cyndy Lauper wore a ponytail on the side of her head and she was pretty famous.
The last of the bike riders stopped next to me. He took his helmet off and it was Fred Mcdermin. His family lived across the pasture. Their were seven of those boys, him being the middle. His older two brothers were out of the house and married. The younger two were a handful, so their mother said. They were always getting into trouble of some sort. One time I saw Fred driving a tractor down the road with just his feet and he had this gorgeous grin on his face. Then he took his cowboy hat off to me and continued down the road. He sure was handsome. I loved his chipped tooth in the front and the freckles across his nose. He had more of them in the summer than in the winter. He had the clearest blue eyes I think I've ever seen on a person.
Fred nodded up towards the hill and asked me if I was going to take a ride. I replied by saying I was thinking about it. He grinned at me. He told me he thought I needed to grow a few feet before I tried. Then he put his helmet back on, messed up my hair like I was some sort of dog, then took off on his bike and popped a wheely. I couldn't believe he touched me. He really touched me. My stomach did flipflops and I was frozen. I couldn't move. I wanted to move forward and just show him and the rest of the boys that I wasn't some little girl. But I couldn't.
He was right. I needed to grow up. If I was ever going to ride the Wheeley Jumps, I needed to grow up. Or did I? I was bound and determined, I was going to ride those hills, regardless of how big I was. And so, I turned my bike around and went home.