tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47526294535269732012024-03-05T18:00:19.165-08:00Our Airborne Army LifeHome is where the Army sends us. And home is where I want to be.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-13258968704844830112020-05-06T09:48:00.000-07:002020-05-06T09:48:12.034-07:00A Letter to my Students<br />
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Dear Students,<o:p></o:p></div>
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This week I have been spoiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You sent me emails and notes thanking me for being
your teacher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Trimble got me a gift
I love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The administration at AHS put a sign
in my yard telling me how much they love me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Restaurants and stores are giving me discounts and free coffee (this one
is hard to beat, FYI).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the best gift
I have been given is you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Most of you know that I was not supposed to be at AHS this
year. The Army decided last spring we were moving to North Carolina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I had already accepted a job at a
school in Raleigh teaching 3<sup>rd</sup> grade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d found a house and were super excited to
be back in North Carolina near our very first Army assignment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way to North Carolina we got a call
that we would instead be moving to Maryland, to a tiny little Army post almost on
the Delaware line in the city of Aberdeen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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So I interviewed (again) and was offered a job (again). When
I was hired, I immediately thought I had made a mistake. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I should have stuck to elementary school,” I
kept telling myself. “These kids are going to think I am such an old lady.” But
then school started, and I met you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From
the very first day, you treated me with kindness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we got to know each other you shared your
favorite foods, favorite sports teams (sorry, I will never be a Ravens fan) and
coffee shops you thought I should try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We had very serious debates over which is better Wawa or Royal Farms
(Wawa, duh) and did our best to get through Algebra together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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So thank you for being the reason I love my job and love
this school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you for the high fives
and hugs in the morning before homeroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thank you for the unsolicited advice about my wardrobe choices ("Mrs. Trimble
I see you in your Tommy, but next time maybe pair that with some heels") and your
insistence that I never film a TikTok video (“We love you, but please don’t let
us catch you trying to be cool on TikTok”).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thank you for being the best students ever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-76154891368310587692016-06-17T17:14:00.000-07:002016-06-17T18:53:27.827-07:00I'm Not Getting Any Younger! (But That's OK)<div dir="ltr">
My brain knew it was inevitable. The in-processing paperwork last summer showed me it was true. But my mind still hasn't grasped the fact that I am....wait for it...a "senior spouse."<br />
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You military spouses know who I'm talking about. I'm the lady (shudder...I remember when I referred to myself as a "girl"or "chick") that has two flag poles mounted permanently on the rails of her on-post historic home. I'm the one you see at the commissary only picking up a few items; both of my kids are gone all day, so I don't need to make the once a week humongous cart-toppling trip on Monday morning. I'm also the one that has not only a hanging jewelry organizer but also one for scarves and unit pins.<br />
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<i>I'm old.</i><br />
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I knew it was coming. I suppose there were times I even wished for it. I've spent countless hours with other spouses that had gone before me and I was always the one changing a diaper on their floor. Or excusing myself from a steering committee meeting at the commander's house because my kid stunk up up the guest bathroom and needed help wiping. Yeah, I don't so much miss THOSE times. <br />
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I do miss other stuff, though. I miss play dates in the park with other moms. I miss Friday nights during deployments when $10 would buy 15 tamales from the neighborhood tamale lady and all of us would let our kids run around the backyard until bedtime. I miss pre-school lunch bunch once a month when we would schedule pedicures and go out for sushi. <br />
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Now my "play dates" consist of shuttling my daughter to swim practice and my son to baseball practice. My Friday nights are now wine and cheese in the backyard with neighbors while our kids do their own thing in their rooms, down the street at a friend's house or go to a sleepover. My lunch bunch these days is more like a Lara Bar while I volunteer at the Thrift Store or reheated leftovers in a random 3rd grade classroom while I am subbing. <br />
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It is true a lot has changed, but even as a "senior spouse" a whole heck of a lot is still the same. My soldier still rises before the sun to do PT. We still stare down possible deployments and PCS moves with the same "bring-it-on" attitude we always have. My kids still need me, it's just that now they need me to help with homework and make their lunches. And unfortunately my never-ending mountain of laundry still exists. <br />
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So to all of you other ladies and gentlemen out there feeling a bit more "seasoned" and longing for days gone by, remember that these are the good times, too. Enjoy running out for yet another welcome/farewell/let's talk bottle of wine. Embrace that second formal in a month and the fact that you pay more in babysitting in a month than you spend on your hair. These times will seem like the old days soon enough. And to all of you younger spouses? Your kid is welcome to stink up my bathroom anytime.<br />
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Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-27113914758430899912015-04-30T19:26:00.003-07:002015-05-01T04:34:34.735-07:00A Letter to My HusbandDear Hua -<div>
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17 years ago this month, we were a newly-married couple, barely 22 years-old (ok, fine...I was 23) and planning a commissioning party. Back then, I knew nothing about the military, the moves, the deployments, the ups and downs or the constant sense of adventure that awaited us. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure I even knew what the acronym PX stood for. (Don't worry, I now know that the PX is where I get cheap Clinque cosmetics for when my mom visits and cheap H20 Plus lotion for when your mom visits).<div>
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Today, a lot has changed. I won't take the time to list all that has changed (I already know how much you love my ever-expanding cache of dish packs), but I do want to take the time to point out one thing that has never changed. Despite my best efforts (and my nagging, and worrying, and all of my outloud "what-if's") your awe-inspiring devotion to our country has never waivered. </div><div><br></div><div>When you raised your right hand and swore to uphold and defend our Constitution on that stage in Lincoln Hall, I was so proud of you. Today I'm just as proud, but even moreso. I've watched you come and go numerous times. I've watched you fight for what you know needs to be done for the better of the Army (those poor contractors never see you coming). You never ask anything of anyone that you wouldn't do yourself, and no matter how many hours or days (or months) it takes, nothing gets less than your 110%. All the while, you find ways to be present at home for me and the kids. You've turned a quick trip to check on some guys that are working late on a Saturday night into a REALLY cool date night. Or, you work a few hours later one night so you can leave early the next to make a Little League game. And let's not forget all the nights you come home late, only to stop and get me a coffee because you know I'm tired, but that I need caffeine to be able to stay awake so we can catch up. </div><div><br></div><div> It's been a privilege to watch you serve your country these last 17 years. You deserve every accolade afforded to you today and in all the days to come. No one works harder than you do, day in and day out. And I'm thrilled we get many more years on this ride together. </div><div><br></div><div>Love, </div><div>Amy</div>
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Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-12094589064480217942014-11-01T19:46:00.000-07:002014-11-01T19:46:09.645-07:00Grandmas are UniversalMany of you know my grandma died last month. I'm sad. Grandpa is sad. We're all sad. I miss her terribly but consider myself beyond lucky to have been her granddaughter for 40+ years. She was one of my favorite people. Ever. From her I inherited my gift of gab, my affinity for pretty bracelets and a kick-butt pretzel salad recipe. But it's what she's given me since her death that is the most surprising.<br />
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First, you should know that part of my job entails working one-on-one with students. One day I may be listening to someone read and the next day I may have to administer a test because someone was absent the day before. Every day is different and I'm pretty sure that's why I like it so much. I mean, why else would I willingly set an alarm and get up and leave the house each day in something besides yoga pants and a Disney Cruise Line sweatshirt? <br />
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The day before I left for Grandma's funeral I was working with one particular boy who likes to do anything EXCEPT what he is supposed to be doing. If procrastination was an Olympic sport, this kid would be champion of the world. He frequently asks about my children, has drawn me multiple pictures and has even distracted me by talking about coffee (yes, he's THAT good). If I can get a solid 15 straight minutes of work out of him, I consider it a success. The procrastination was cute for a while but then it got downright frustrating. I had tried everything in my arsenal....and my arsenal wasn't working. I was getting ready to throw in the towel, resigned to the fact that he and I would never make a connection and the school year would be a wash. And then this happened:<br />
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As we were finishing for the day, I told my student, "Just so know, I won't be here tomorrow. I will have a sub, but I'll be back on Monday."<br />
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"No fair! Where are you going?! Take me with you!"<br />
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"Well, my Grandma died yesterday. I'm going to her funeral."<br />
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Silence. <br />
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"I am so sorry. After I finish my work, maybe you could tell me about her."<br />
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I don't know what shocked me more...the fact that a 9-year-old boy was selfless enough to try and comfort me or the fact that he said he was going to finish his work!<br />
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He did finish his work that day. And he's finished it (for the most part) every day since then. And he's also asked me how I am doing every day since then, too. Some days he pats me on the back when he walks by and some days he'll just come up and give me a hug. And in the days since I've been back, he's told me bit and pieces about his Grandma. It turns out his Grandma is one of his favorite people, too. She likes to wear diamond earrings, she takes him shopping for new shoes, and apparently she makes a mean chicken patty sandwich.<br />
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So yes, I miss my Grandma. I miss not being able to call her and tell her something funny my kids did or said. I miss hearing her laugh. And I miss teasing her about being a Cubs fan. But thanks to her, I have a new reason smile. Thanks to Grandma, I've inherited a new tool in my arsenal. And I'm not afraid to use it.<br />
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<br />Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-59053979917799095052013-09-13T07:43:00.000-07:002013-09-13T07:51:25.417-07:00September 11 and BaseballAt precisely 7:15am every weekday my boy crawls in bed with me to begin our daily ritual: he reads me the box scores from all of the major league baseball games the night before (to include division standings and any injury reports) while I silently wish I had a barista on speed dial who delivered to my bedside.<br />
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Today was no different. Except that it was.<br />
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Boy: "Mom, listen up. This is important. The Cubs beat the Reds but the Pirates won. Mom, did you hear me?"<br />
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Me: "Yes, boy. I heard you. Um, who's pitching tonight?" <br />
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By asking this, I foolishly think I can buy myself another 30-45 seconds of slumber. Wrong.<br />
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Boy: "Today is September 11th right? So tonight...."<br />
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I didn't hear what he said next.<br />
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Today is September 11th. That date still makes me feel vomitous. And I felt even more vomitous when I realized that I should probably remind him of the significance of today just in case someone mentions it at school. <br />
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Me: "Boy, do you know what today is?"<br />
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Boy: "No, why?"<br />
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I take a deep breath and tell him in the simplest words possible about today. I tell him that there are some bad people in the world but that there are hundreds of thousands of good ones, too. I tell him that his cousins have an uncle they never got to meet. I tell him that the men and women in the military work hard to make sure that our country is safe. And I tell him that today is a day to remember.<br />
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He suddenly puts down his tablet, looks at me exclaims, "Whoa. Does dad know about all of this?!"<br />
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I can't help but smile and sort of chuckle.<br />
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Me: "Yes, dad knows."<br />
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Boy: "Ok, good. Because as long as dad knows, we'll be safe." <br />
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If only it were that simple. <br />
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But for him, today, it is. And since he's grown up with a dad that has deployed eight times, a mom that survived those eight times on too much caffeine and probably not enough patience, I'm glad it's that simple for him. Selfishly, I'm glad he doesn't know too much about what happened 12 years ago today. <br />
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For now, he can spend his time memorizing ERA's and stolen base stats. When he's older I will make certain he remembers. And not just today, but every day.<br />
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Today? I will remember enough for both of us. <br />
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<br />Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-4780103271280571362013-02-19T12:06:00.000-08:002013-02-20T18:18:58.611-08:00Goodbye, Sadie Girl<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiul3fu9nP8g42wwiGjU8Hokp08voXm_PxWFKXQb1KUGgRiZOGHVyfOkOL8sPc46QAtJ6MDpwXo9eoZ8jq3bpIWdbWUhwZGysaVCJjv8d03CAmMUH8eR3hfalFmVJlTlxhY_Xwc6zekA6g/s1600/Photo++26.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiul3fu9nP8g42wwiGjU8Hokp08voXm_PxWFKXQb1KUGgRiZOGHVyfOkOL8sPc46QAtJ6MDpwXo9eoZ8jq3bpIWdbWUhwZGysaVCJjv8d03CAmMUH8eR3hfalFmVJlTlxhY_Xwc6zekA6g/s200/Photo++26.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Always where the action was.</td></tr>
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I said goodbye to my best friend on Friday....of the four-legged variety, that is. It hurts. And I'm still crying off and on as if I am one week postpartum and my milk hasn't come in. It's ugly, I tell you. Those moments are only balanced by moments where I want to shake myself and say, "Snap out of it, woman! She was just a dog! And you're running out of Kleenex!"<br />
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The rational part of my brain knows she was just a dog. But the irrational part knows she was the best dog I'll ever have. Sure, she ate two pairs of Joshua's man sandals (I cant believe I ever let him buy those, btw) when she was a puppy. And yes, until she was five or so she used to jump on people and bark like crazy when they came in the house. And believe me I was not thrilled when she once decided to eat an entire grill pan full of greasy chicken and steak drippings and then proceed to barf up ALL of her stomach contents on our brand new Army-issue beige carpet. She wasn't perfect. But she was perfect for me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMel9jZAQnxcMuMc47p7pg37UlGkx55gyClVaIm4PF8e4Yj6Jqmr1TkUnxo7yh3a5rNoYkzVthKLNwInFYRnDgA2CriN734TPRwMAdiATdoblj041On-7K0G7ytaW7ipP9CD8wHgSKmKU/s1600/Photo+++5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMel9jZAQnxcMuMc47p7pg37UlGkx55gyClVaIm4PF8e4Yj6Jqmr1TkUnxo7yh3a5rNoYkzVthKLNwInFYRnDgA2CriN734TPRwMAdiATdoblj041On-7K0G7ytaW7ipP9CD8wHgSKmKU/s200/Photo+++5.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ever protective.</td></tr>
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For 14 years she was here. Every day. All day. She PCS'd (Army moved) eight times like a champ, and always settled in to her new backyard with ease. She sat through numerous coffees, FRG meetings and bake sale preps with me without complaint. She got up with me for middle of the night feedings, cleaned my cheerio-strewn floors on a daily basis and In essence, she was my "battle buddy." When the Army sent my husband across the big pond eight different times, I would bury myself in FRG meetings and functions, play groups and volunteering at school. I did anything I could to keep myself out of the house and to make the time pass faster. But at the end of each day, I always felt better knowing I would come home to Sadie. And I could always count on her to lay in front of the couch with me when I fell asleep watching reruns of Matlock or The Dick Van Dyke Show (it's hereditary, I swear) waiting for a phone call. I specifically remember one instance where the Air Force had cancelled four rotators to Iraq in a row (shocker!) which meant we had to say goodby to my husband four times over the course of about 36 hours. It was pure torture. Each time he left I would be a crying mess and Sadie would position herself by my feet and fall asleep. After the fourth time, she positioned herself in front of the door as if to say, "Don't worry, I'm not letting him back in this time." I think she knew we couldn't handle another goodbye.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMxbDRVl88JxRZqCz_zo_8tP68FO2fvfEG0RLrjojGaveaVcaQbzdOy4LQWp-hdhyphenhyphenyMejxnDv4oHEmva0pyqW653Rm2VjzKRvybTe_sEBqI1_a1K2qO9k8NDSrJZSnXe3OJa0Tg3N56eA/s1600/Photo+++4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMxbDRVl88JxRZqCz_zo_8tP68FO2fvfEG0RLrjojGaveaVcaQbzdOy4LQWp-hdhyphenhyphenyMejxnDv4oHEmva0pyqW653Rm2VjzKRvybTe_sEBqI1_a1K2qO9k8NDSrJZSnXe3OJa0Tg3N56eA/s200/Photo+++4.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Always a good sport.</td></tr>
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On Friday, I left for work knowing I would not see her again in this life (dogs TOTALLY go to heaven, so don't even try to tell me they don't). I sat down at the top of landing and stuck my face up to hers, nuzzled her snout, and patted the ground next to me to signal for her to sit. But she didn't. She looked up at me with her now gray face and cataract-filled eyes and walked away. I heard her nails on the rug under the dining room table and when I looked, she was lying down, her head on her paws facing away from me. This time, I think she knew that neither one of us could handle a goodbye.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-72445128663810314142012-12-19T21:26:00.000-08:002012-12-19T21:44:03.667-08:00I Get It. I subbed today. Sixth grade. I had been warned by the teacher and just about every other substitute and staff member in the building that this class was, "a really, really tough class." Last week, another substitute went so far as to say, "Hey, I'll be in the same hallway that day. I'll keep an ear out and will come running if you need me." Whoa. How bad could they actually be? I'd yet to have a class at this school or in this county that had me punching out at 3:55 and pulling into the Safeway (best wine selection near my house) parking lot at 4:00. But I went in having prepared myself for the the worst.<br />
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Thankfully, that was not necessary. Don't get me wrong...there were a few "gems." You know, like the boy that thought he would stand on his chair to see if he could touch the ceiling, only to fall and take out another boy who was trying to hide the fact that he had a sleeve of powdered donuts in the front pocket of his sweatshirt. That didn't end well for the donuts. After I cleaned up the donut fiasco, there was the other young man who decided he would fashion some sort of flying device out of his recorder, a rubber band and yesterday's math test. That didn't end well for him OR the recorder. And then there was Maddie (*name changed for privacy reasons and so I don't get fired).<br />
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Maddie lit up when she saw me at the door that morning. Sixth grade girls that light up when they see a substitute only means one thing...they like to talk. Maddie was no exception. After she put her backpack away she bee-lined for me. Questions started spilling out of her at an alarmingly high rate of speed: <br />
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"What's your name?"<br />
"Do you have kids that go here?"<br />
"How old are they?"<br />
"What class are they in?" <br />
"Do you live around here?"<br />
"Where did you live before?"<br />
"Why did you move?"<br />
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Once I answered that last question, she got quiet. Really quiet. Once I explained my husband was in the Army and we moved because of his job all she could say was, "That's cool. I'm gonna do my work now."<br />
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It was odd. The questions stopped way too suddenly. But because I needed to move on and get the class lined up for music, I made a mental note to talk to Maddie later. I should have known I wouldn't need that mental note.<br />
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Fast forward to right after lunch. The teacher had mercifully built in 20 minutes of free reading time that day (teachers that do that rock, by the way). As I was walking around making sure the kids were actually reading and not playing with their Rubiks Cubes, Maddie stopped me.<br />
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"So, Mrs. Trimble. You said your husband is a soldier, right?"<br />
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"Yep. He is."<br />
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"That's cool."<br />
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"Yep. It is. Now please keep reading." <br />
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"My dad was a soldier too. He was killed in Iraq in 2006, though. I was six."<br />
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Oh dear Jesus.<br />
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Choking a little on my saliva and fighting with all of my might not to let the tears forming in the corner of my eyes actually spill onto my face, I coughed out, "Oh, he did? It makes me really sad to hear that. One of my friend's husband was killed there, too. What are some things you remember about your dad?"<br />
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I honestly can't recall what she said other than that his death anniversary was just last week. I stared at her with a combination of awe and sadness. Thirty seconds ago she was a sixth grade girl with a purple sparkly notebook and a mean gift of gab. Now she was the child of one of the 6,626 men and women who have sacrificed their lives for our country. Now she was a 12-year-old that takes the train into Arlington to lay flowers on her dad's grave every year on his death anniversary. Now she was part of my military family.<br />
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We talked for as long as I could (safely) ignore the rest of the class and then she got back to reading her book. The rest of the day passed without any major incidents but I could not shake the impact of Maddie and my conversation with her. I wanted to keep talking to her. I wanted to tell her how much I admire her for being a military kid. I wanted to give her a hug. Once again, I should have known better. Five minutes before the bell rang Maddie came up to me and said, "Thanks for talking to me about my dad, Mrs. Trimble. Not many people around here get it. It seems like you get it."<br />
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She's right. I do get it. And I always will. <br />
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<br />Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-59852013604371036762012-09-02T20:30:00.000-07:002012-09-02T20:45:50.211-07:00How a hummingbird made me cryThis move has been hard for me. There are a lot of reasons why that I could list here...worry about the kids starting yet another school, the expense of living off-post for the first time in a long time (electricity is not free in the civilian world, FYI), the exhaustion of finding a new doctor, dentist, orthodontist, and most importantly a new hair stylist (I'm not kidding...that is a REAL issue for me), etc. But the main issue is that I wasn't feeling CONNECTED. When you live on post you have a built-in community. Neighbors are in close proximity, usually with kids around the same age and with husbands around the same rank and in the same stages of their careers. You're all stuck in these not-so-great government houses with not-so-great floor plans or storage, but you don't really care. The schools are usually better (emphasis on usually), the commute for your spouse is usually shorter and the lack of a mortgage is usually less stressful. United in this kind of "yeah, this sucks but let's make the best out of it" attitude, it becomes a way of life. And a pretty awesome one, at that. As an extrovert, it's the reason I have been so happy the past seven years. (Conversely, as a huge college football fan, it's the reason my husband grumbled under his breath every time the doorbell rang or kids ran through our living room on a Saturday afternoon the past seven years). I was so happy, in fact, that I didn't even think it possible for this move to be hard for me. Big mistake.<br />
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Along with my love for most things on-post living is my love for wild birds. Is it hereditary? Probably. I remember my mom and dad always had an Audubon Society book of birds on the coffee table when I was growing up. My dad never had a pair of binoculars more than an arms reach, either. My aunt has always been a bird person too. (And much to my uncle's chagrin she is also a bunny person). So I think I come by my wild bird affection honestly. Really though, I think I love birds and bird watching because it is a guaranteed in my ever-transient life. Birds are everywhere and have surrounded every place we have lived. When Joshua is deployed, they are my alarm clock. When I am missing my dad, they are my comfort. And for the past 13 years as an Army wife, they have been my constant. Constant is good. Constant makes me feel connected. <br />
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One of my favorite birds and also one of the easiest to feed and observe is the hummingbird. I have had a hummingbird feeder for years and have spent many a summer morning/afternoon/early evening watching them through my kitchen window. I have spent more money than I care to admit on hummingbird food but I did so happily. Every early spring I would catch a glimpse of the hummingbirds coming around my window and that would be my signal to put out the feeder. The kids would help too, always taking turns climbing on the counter to peer out the window and trying not to scare them away before they could get a good look. Last summer there were so many we started naming them! And we even got a <a href="http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/ruby-throated_hummingbird/id">ruby-throated</a> at the feeder a few times! Yes, it is super dorky. But it made me happy. It made me feel connected.<br />
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A week or two before we moved this summer, I started to panic. I was moving. Moving meant I had to take all of our stuff. Even the bird feeder. There was no way were were going to clear housing with a giant red bird feeder on a shepherd's hook in the front yard. Who was going to feed my hummingbirds? What was going to happen to them when they came looking for food and all they got was a yard full of neglected weeds? I felt like I was abandoning Mother Nature and I was sad. My neighbors (love them, love them, love them) were wonderful but not bird people. I made a last ditch effort the day the movers showed up and tried to give my feeder to one neighbor but it didn't work. Apparently she thought two dogs, a cat, two kids and a deployed husband was enough to worry about. I couldn't blame her. Totally depressed, I dumped out the food, washed the feeder and let Leroy wrap it up and pack it next to my pink toolbox and my "T" welcome mat.<br />
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As I was unpacking at the new house one day I came across the box with my bird feeder and toolbox and welcome mat. Since the feeder was wedged ever-so-tightly in the bottom of the box (nice work, Leroy) I got careless and yanked. I yanked hard and in the process the feeder flew out of the paper and crashed to the ground. It was at that moment when I saw that also wedged in the bottom of the box was the hummingbird bird food. And the cap had fallen off. Do you know how sticky hummingbird food is? Think liquid jolly rancher. Nasty. And now it was coating everything in the bottom of that box, the box under it and my laundry room floor. Curse you, Leroy. I threw everything in the sink next to the washer and forgot about it. On to the next box.<br />
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Two weeks later the house is set up and I'm still not feeling connected. As I put in a load of laundry I see the red, sticky mess in the laundry sink and decide to clean it up. As I am washing out the feeder I notice that I think it has a leak. This stinks. It probably happened when I yanked it out of the box. I couldn't bear to throw it or the remainder of the liquid food out, so I mixed up a batch, filled the feeder, grabbed the hook and marched out to the front yard. I got the feeder up and it started leaking. It was a slow leak, but a leak none the less. Or so I thought. I went back inside, glancing over my shoulder as I went, hoping to see a hummingbird but knowing I would not. <br />
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Weeks go by and I obsessively check the feeder. As I walk out to my car every day I try to gauge whether the fill line has moved at all. I think it has, but I am never sure and I convince myself that there IS a leak and that no birds whatsoever live in Northern Virginia. During those same weeks, I am still struggling to meet my neighbors, explore the area (my GPS is taking a beating) and keep my kids entertained until school starts. My mind started to mess with me. What if the final six years in the Army are going to be this way? I have always loved this life and the multitude of opportunities it brings us. If I can't recover from a 50 mile PCS (permanent change of station) how am I going to handle the inevitable PCS back to North Carolina in a few years or even a PCS overseas? What if I don't snap out of this? It was starting to scare me and it was starting to affect my family.<br />
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And then a few days ago it all turned around. I was working out in my driveway and walked around the side of the house to take a breather (Don't judge, I was in the middle of a particular nasty workout comprised of sit ups, burpees and squats). As I rounded my car I saw it. A hummingbird at the feeder! In a split second it was gone but I saw it! The feelings of relief from the doubt and uncertainty kicked in and I cried. I kind of cried a lot. I actually cried so much that I couldn't finish my workout. Silly? Yes. A bit dramatic? Yes. But it restored my faith in this life we live. And it reminded me that things aren't always easy. Things worth doing usually never are. And thanks to a hummingbird, it is something I will never forget.<br />
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<br />Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-8464463885926447572012-08-15T20:09:00.003-07:002012-08-15T20:33:20.333-07:00Is Taps on iTunes?Moving is part of Army life. It's not something I love, but I don't hate it either. It has its challenges (there are LOTS of them, in case you were wondering) but it's nothing we can't handle as a family. Worry is a big part of moving for me. (So is unwrapping my 18 dish packs at each new house, but we'll save that for another time). One of my biggest worries each time we move is my kids. I've said many times before how special I think military kids are. But that comes with a price. And moving every two to three years comes with a big price tag for such little kids. Over the past seven moves or so that I have done with children, I like to think that I have perfected the art of worrying. I have worried about finding just the right teacher for my supremely mature yet kind-hearted daughter. I have lost sleep over my son and his numerous quirks (you must remove the ENTIRE yogurt lid before you give it to him or he will be consumed with the tiniest piece of left-behind silver foil until the yogurt is warm and therefore inedible in his eyes) and whether or not kids will make fun of him. Don't even get me started on doctors, dentists and specialists. If worrying about transitioning your kids was an Olympic sport, I would put Michael Phelps and his 18 gold medals to shame. In short, there is not a worry out there that I haven't worried over when it comes to a military move and my kids. <br />
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This summer we moved. And for the first time in seven years, we are not living on a military installation. We actually have a real house! With real wood floors! And a real electric bill! It's been an adjustment for me to not have the immediate bond with the neighbors like you do on post. By the time I had lived at my last house this long, I had a key to two other neighbors' houses and had a few neighborhood dinners under my belt. Not so here in the civilian world. But the kids seem fine, we've had a few play dates and I had pretty much decided that off-post living was going to be my adjusment and mine alone. Wrong.<br />
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Last night I laid down with my daughter when I went to kiss her goodnight. This is a rarity because these days if I lie down with her the next thing I know it is 5am and I have the arm to an American girl jammed in one ear and her snoring in my other ear. But I did it anyway. It makes her happy and I know she won't let me do it much longer. She happily giggled, snuggled in next to me and said, "I'm glad you're here. I need to tell you something." Worry alarm! Alert! Alert!<br />
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"Oh yeah, what's that?" I calmly asked.<br />
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"Well, it's just that I can't sleep in my new room." What is this? A new worry I had not considered?!<br />
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"You see, every night since I can remember I have heard Taps play before I fall asleep. I know it is supposed to be a signal for soldiers to go to bed, but I always kinda pretended it was for me too. And now I can't go to sleep without it. Do you think we can get Taps on iTunes?"<br />
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For those of you who don't know, military installations play Taps over the loudspeakers every night at 2100 (9pm). Twenty-four trumpet notes that are the most peaceful and reassuring way to end the day, in my opinion. Apparently, I am not the only one. And guess what? Taps is on iTunes. And yes, it's on my daughter's iPod now too. Sweet dreams.<br />
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Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-5381990328500976182011-08-30T19:58:00.002-07:002011-08-30T20:10:02.283-07:00To Hug or Not to Hug...If you know me, you know I love being a military wife. Okay, I don't love ALL of it (wet PT clothes in the bottom of the hamper and vibrating Blackberry's at 3am are the devil), but for the most part, being a military wife makes me happy. I love the feeling of adventure when we move every few years. I love experiencing the "firsts" with my family at each new duty station. And I love that my kids are growing up with friends all over the world (for real...they have friends in Italy!). But I think what I love the most is the special bond I have with other military wives. Corny? Yes. True? Yes. Here is my most recent example...<br />
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I have a good friend, Jen, who lives in Tennessee. From the years 2003 - 2005 we were pretty much glued to each other. Our husbands were deployed ALL the time, our kids drove us crazy ALL the time and so we hung out ALL the time. And by hang out, I mean I would spend 5-6 hours a day at this woman's house. I believe my love of polish pottery started at Jen's house. My affinity for tortilla soup started at Jen's house (Jen is a really good cook, btw). I learned all about raising boys at Jen's house (turns out they like to be left alone while bathing starting at about age 6...sorry Jake!) Jen's daughter Rileigh would entertain my daughter Natalie. I helped Jen deliver a litter of puppies in her laundry room, for goodness sake! Do you see where I'm going with this? Jen and I were tight. <br />
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About 2 months ago Jen messaged me on Facebook and asked me if I'd do her a favor. Well, duh! Of course I would! Jen's friend Beth's was being stationed with me! Jen wanted to pass my name on in case Beth had questions about the area/schools/housing, etc. I was more than happy to oblige. Beth and I chatted a few times on Facebook, giving my two cents when asked. During the summer I watched (is that what you call seeing someone's status every day in your newsfeed?) as Beth packed up, moved here and subsequently had to spend WAY too much money on school supplies. (Did you know high-schoolers need $150 calculators? Ugh!) <br />
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Fast forward to last Thursday. I arrived at the annual spouses club sign-up for our post. For those non-military types, this is just an opportunity to drop in, eat some yummy food, fill out a membership form for the upcoming year, pray your kid doesn't spill his plate of food and chat with some ladies that you may not have seen since last spring. I glanced around to find an empty place to sit and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar face. Inside my head it sounded something like this, "Oh, there's Beth. I'll go sit by her. Wait, is that BETH? It looks like Beth, I mean it looks like all of the pictures I've seen of her on Facebook, but I've actually never met the woman before. It must be Beth! Do I hug her? What if she's not a hugger? But Jen's a hugger, so Beth must be too, right?" (And yes, all of that flashed through my brain in about .5 seconds...scary).<br />
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It turns out Beth was already sitting with my friend Suzanne and as soon as I got close enough she blurted out, "Hi Amy..." And that was that. We talked for the next 15 minutes and it was kind of like we had always been friends. It was that easy. THAT is what I love most about being a military wife. I cherish more than anything our connections to each other <i>because of</i> each other. Yes, Facebook and social media are a big part of what keep us connected, but there is something else too. There is something about the commonality we share that is unique to just us. Not everyone can do what we do. Not everyone is cut out for this lifestyle and that's okay. But for those of us who do it, our relationships with each other are what make the military and our way of life so special and so rewarding.<br />
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Now, if I could only find a way to get rid of that Blackberry... <br />
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Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-70043722030972878592011-07-05T19:37:00.000-07:002011-07-05T19:37:15.897-07:00Footloose and fancy free! Just like our country.The stars have aligned yet again this summer and we were able to <strike>dump our kids off</strike> let our kids spend some time with their grandparents. 12 whole days with no kids...just me and my soldier. We plan on doing our best to cram everything we can into these 12 days. And I'm fairly confident the grandparents will be doing the exact same thing.<br />
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Since last night was the 4th, we decided to just walk down to the golf course to see if we could see the fireworks. Fresh from our kid-free dinner at my favorite Mexican restaurant, I didn't really care where we watched from, I was just happy to not have to be schlepping a gazillion blankets, chairs and snacks down there with me. <br />
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So there we were, walking hand in hand, dog on leash at our side (just like it was 1999...hey, it rhymes!) and talking about our kids. I mentioned to my soldier how much our daughter missed him on our trip. I went on to describe how she kept asking to call him while we were on vacation, how she got tearful when she realized she would miss his birthday this year, and so on. And then my soldier said, "Just imagine what she'll be like during the next deployment." <br />
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BUZZKILL. <br />
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"Uh-huh. Oh, right. Yep, that will suck," I replied. <br />
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And that was it. We moved on to the next topic. But 24 hours later I haven't moved on. After eight trips across the big pond you'd think I would move on a bit faster, but I haven't yet. I know he'll go again. It's not if, it's when. But something about the matter-of-factness way he said it got to me. <br />
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We continued our walk, arrived at the golf course and the fireworks started. Standing there with him for those 20 minutes reminded me that my soldier's matter-of-fact attitude about his deployments is the reason our country is so special. He and thousands of others just like him are willing to do what is asked of them over and over again (insert shout-out to my BFAM, Sean here). They do what is asked of them so that this country can remain free. <br />
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I hope the next time a deployment arises I will remember to have the same attitude. Until then I will spend the next 12 days enjoying my freedom. As a matter of fact, I hope you all do too.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-77041156992262558542011-06-10T09:23:00.001-07:002011-06-10T09:24:43.126-07:00A few reminders...Due to yesterday's Nerf dart incident (Nerf dart drive-by, side of head, from boy wearing nothing but underwear, 7am, pre-coffee) I feel the need to post some gentle reminders for my son as we officially start our summer vacation together. It's for his own good, really. And as an added bonus, they'll be written down as evidence to show his therapist when he's 25 and living in my basement. Even better, I can show his girlfriend/fiancee/wife at some point as proof that it's not MY fault. I tried to reign him in at an early age. I really did.<br />
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#1 - There will be no Nerf play before 9am or before mommy has had at least 2 cups of coffee, whichever comes first. And God forbid a Nerf dart land IN the coffee. Consider yourself warned.<br />
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#2 - Mommy's shirt/shorts are not to be used as a tissue. You are old enough to use a tissue (or a piece of toilet paper, for all I care), so please do so. Wiping your nose on mommy and then exclaiming, "Yuck...that one was nasty!" will not be tolerated. <br />
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#3 - We will be going to the pool this summer. DAILY. You are now old enough to carry your own towel and your own snack bag. Mommy is not a pack mule. <br />
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#4 - While at the pool, please keep your hands to yourself. Just because mommy is wearing a top that ties in the back or shows more skin that a tshirt, does not mean you are free to fondle mommy. Your dad has that covered. Trust me.<br />
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#5 - Please keep your hands out of your pants. Mommy doesn't care if they are "just resting there," it's not polite. <br />
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#6 - Please keep your hands out of MY pants. Coming up behind me while I wash dishes and sliding your hands up my shorts or up the front of my shirt was cute when you were two. Now, it's just plain creepy. Besides, your dad has that one covered too.<br />
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#7 - Mommy will be making 3 meals a day. Not 10. Mommy is not a short-order cook. <br />
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#8 - Mommy loves to play UNO. Mommy doesn't even mind if you beat her 7 games in a row. Mommy does mind, however, if you refer to her as, "Mommy, the UNO loser," and point at her while in line at the commissary. That's not nice.<br />
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#9 - Mommy always welcomes a "squeeze hug" or a "nose kiss." Those will always be allowed. Even before she's had her coffee.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-89294192257575021592011-04-25T05:19:00.001-07:002011-04-25T08:30:07.176-07:00Month of the Military ChildSome of you may or may not know that April is Month of the Military Child. Consequently, it is also Sports Eye Safety Month, Irritable Bowel Syndrome Awareness Month and STD Awareness Month, but I think I'll let someone else blog about those happy topics. I'm here to blog about what I know and love... military children.<br />
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I like to think I am somewhat of a subject matter expert on these particular little members of society. I have spent countless hours volunteering in their schools. I have babysat multitudes of them on a regular basis. I have cared for them during the happiest of moments and have held their hands during the darkest times of their lives. Oh, and I just so happened to have given birth to two of the cutest military kids you'll ever meet. This post is for them.<br />
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The best way to exemplify how special these kids are is to give you a recent list of statements/questions overheard at our house in the last few months.<br />
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"Are we moving today, too?"<br />
"Is Daddy coming home tonight?"<br />
"Is Uncle Sean in Iraq or Afghanistan?"<br />
"When we move, will our new house be one-story, or two?"<br />
"Where will we be living when I turn 10?"<br />
"Why does my friend's dad have a cane?"<br />
"Why do you drink coffee every morning?"<br />
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Ok, that last one isn't specific to military children, but you get the idea. I field a lot of questions from my kids on a daily basis. A LOT (I'm looking at you, Aunt Carrot). Lately, I've had to pause before answering some of them. The absurdity of the questions coming out of their tiny mouths overtakes my emotions. It is simply not normal for a five-year-old boy to wonder if his daddy will be home every night. How sad is it that a nine-year-old girl must accept the fact that she will move every two or three years? Or that her uncle will be gone for a year and that countries named Iraq and Afghanistan are a frequent part of her vocabulary?<br />
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But I can't let myself go there. The kids don't go there, so why should I? The kids don't know any different. They've grown up knowing their dad will be home sometimes and sometimes he won't. They know their friends will move just like they will move. And they know there will be new friends awaiting them at their new school and in their new neighborhood. The kids also know that their uncle is gone, but that it's ok. Their cousins will be fine, just like they are fine.<br />
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Military children are lots of things. They are resilient. They are flexible. They make friends easily. They're responsible. They recognize the importance of selfless service. They have what it takes to succeed in any situation. In short, they are my heroes. So, this month I've made a point to ask THEM some questions. It looks like they just might have all of the answers.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-51569704303314711442011-03-29T08:06:00.005-07:002011-04-17T16:00:27.250-07:00Too Legit to Quit<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Vince Lombardi once said, "Once you learn to quit, it becomes a habit." I confess that I have a BAD habit of starting something and then quitting before I finish. (Here is where my husband most assuredly will smirk, raise his left eyebrow and try not to laugh). But seriously, I have not followed through with quite a few things in recent years and it is disappointing not to mention embarrassing. To make matters worse, they were things that I thought I would be good at and really wanted to do. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have tried my hand at two different home-based businesses which failed. Quitter. In 2007, I enrolled in a course to be a certified medical transcriptionist and never finished. Quitter again. I had a litany of excuses at the time, but in reality I think I was just plain lazy. That, and I tend to over-extend myself in the volunteer arena (note to self: FRG leader two times is two times too many). Maybe I would have been good at that them if I had put in a little more time and a whole lot more effort, but I didn't. I feel like I have not set a good example for my children and it really bothers me. I hate thinking of myself as a quitter. Thankfully, all of that has changed in recent months.</span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before I continue, the 11 followers of this blog need a few details. (Btw, if you're not a follower...please feel free to click that little follow button on the right side of the page). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1. Last October, a friend asked me to be her workout buddy. She said she needed motivation and having a "buddy" would help.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">2. She also mentioned she was doing something called CrossFit in her friend's garage. I thought I heard of it before, but I wasn't sure (another note to self: always research a new workout regime before you try it).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">3. If you don't know what CrossFit is, <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.crossfit.com/">click here</a></span> and then continue reading. Sounds insane, right?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">4. Three weeks after I started, my "buddy" had a sciatic nerve flare-up and has been in physical therapy ever since. (Don't worry. I still love ya, Lisa.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That left me and my new favorite trainer/coach/friend, four days a week, in her garage, training. Well, she wasn't training, I was. And when she couldn't be there, her very patient husband/soldier/trainer would train me. Can you say INTIMIDATING? Here I was a caffeine addicted, stay-at-home mom of two, trying my hand at a strength and conditioning program geared toward the military and elite athletes. I was either a glutton for punishment or certifiably crazy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But over time, something happened. Little by little, I got stronger. I didn't feel like puking after every single workout (but I was close several times). My favorite jeans I bought after I lost my baby weight in 2003 fit again (and they were still relatively stylish, which was a bonus). I no longer did girl pushups on my knees, I could do REAL pushups! I was starting to like this.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fast forward to one day two weeks ago. I walked in the garage, looked at the wipe board to see what the workout was and saw the acronym I had been dreading since I learned of its existence. HPSU. <b>Handstand Push-up</b>. I wanted to run. I can't do this. I can't do a handstand. At this point, I think I was having a panic attack. She's crazy! I'm crazy! I.CAN'T. DO. THIS! I wanted to do it, but was scared. It would be easier not to try. I could substitute a different exercise for this one. I was still too new at this. I might fall. I might get hurt. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then I thought of all of the things I had quit and not finished. I was tired of being a quitter. I didn't want to give up anymore. I looked at my trainer/coach/friend as she pointed at the wall and said, "Do it. You can do it." Fighting the urge to cry, I took a deep breath and threw myself into a handstand. I held it for 10 seconds came down and did it again. And again. I still haven't stopped smiling.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Before you give me too much credit, I didn't do the push-up part, just the handstand. I am also still a caffeine addict. I still don't have a home based business (unless this blog thing somehow starts generating some cash, which would be lovely). I am not a medical transcriptionist. But I am no longer a quitter. In fact, next time you see me, ask me to do a handstand and I'll prove it.</span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-5229372305557389722011-03-18T11:02:00.002-07:002011-03-18T11:02:50.080-07:00I may be early, but I hope I am not too late.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nearly 13 years ago, one day after a mini-blizzard, was a glorious, sun-shine filled day that still resonates in my mind as if it were yesterday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was nothing to forget and everything to remember. - family, friends, good food, excellent music and at least one beautiful lady, dressed in white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a day to stand up in front of the world and God and profess something that I had known for quite some time, that I had found the individual that is my perfect, and better half.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There she was, a lady that filled the room with a smile, was friends with everyone in the room, held her own with my closest friends, adored by my family (boy were they happy I found someone that they could like better than myself), and appreciated me for who I was/am - each of these individual qualities being difficult on their own, but truly amazing as a package.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But, it was not only these attributes that convinced me that I could love no other, it was also the little things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In honor of a few of those, I have compiled a list of 13 – a list to represent 13 happy years of marriage that are just the beginning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a combination of the reasons why I love you, Amy, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and illustrations of times I knew that it was true love.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">13.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The way that you will still love me even though I will lose cools points extracted from my Man card for professing my love on a Blog (hopefully I had a credit up to this point for being in a profession that wears<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a uniform and jumps from airplanes; and forgive me for hacking your account)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>(13.a The way you will tell my sisters to pound sand as they pick apart my grammar on this post.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">12.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact that the Marching Illini CD was in your car’s CD player in college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Love at first sounds.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">11. The way that you wrote me a letter every single day of basic training, helping me through some of the sleep deprived days.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">10. The way that my friends always wanted to know if you were coming too because you had become just as much a part of the group as the rest of us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">9. You still laugh at me and my friends, probably encouraging some really poor humor.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">8. The way you can immerse yourself in my family events without question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no question that you are a just a big of part of my extended family, as well as your own, and I can’t imagine it any other way.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">7. How nothing will faze you to the point of inaction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You may be anxious about something (moving kids in the middle of a school year, multiple deployments, constant uncertainty about where the Army needs us next, etc), <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but it won’t affect your ability to act cool, calm, and collected in front of others – especially those that are leaning on you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can roll with the punches.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">6. The way you volunteer to help others, whether at church, school, neighbors or a random act of kindness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The world needs more of that from everyone.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">5. Your understanding of my conviction to the job at hand, and your willingness to sacrifice family time and other life’s perks to support that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4. Your same conviction to this country and the principles for which are dear to us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3. Your ability to sustain a household that I do not always get to spend adequate time at.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2. Your dedication to our beautiful, healthy, intelligent children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They smile every time they look at you and want you there with them in both good times and bad. They deserve the best parents and you are certainly upholding more than your part of the deal.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1. You inspire me, and you mean the world to me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If the roles were reversed, I do not think I could accomplish what you do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I certainly could not do it as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You amaze me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You inspire me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fell in love with you over 13 years ago, and have only grown to love you more.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, it may not be the 21<sup>st</sup> of March yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may be too early to remind you of how much I love you on our official anniversary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I hope I am not too late to tell you the same.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Joshua</span></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-25003232251000574342011-03-09T14:41:00.004-08:002011-03-09T14:53:54.050-08:00What IS my job, anyway?<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can always count on my children to give me fresh fodder for blog posts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today was no exception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Driving my youngest to preschool today I had the radio on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of my favorite songs, "Children of God" by Third Day came on, so I turned it up a little. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We rock out to Christian music as we travel to and from school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's either that or endure the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">one</span> millionth viewing <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Incredibles </i>on DVD, so I'll take the Christian music hands down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This morning, our conversation went something like this:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Son:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Mom, am I a children of God?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Yes, you are a child of God."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Son:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>" And God takes care of us, right?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Yep."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Son:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"And he loves us no matter what?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Yes, son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He loves you no matter what."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Insert LONG pause.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here is where I start to brace myself for the confession that is surely to follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since he accidently bloodied a boy's nose yesterday, I am in no mood for anymore drama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cringe, taking a glance in the rearview mirror.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Son:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Then what's your job, mom?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I'll admit, that is funny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And about 10 different responses were on the tip of my tongue, starting with taxi driver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't think my car is going to have any resale value because I'm pretty sure my rear end has made a permanent indentation in the driver's seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rounding out the list was laundress, cook, FRG leader, PTA volunteer, grocery shopper, dog walker, booger wiper, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother-in-law had a good one too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She suggested I tell him, "To keep you out of trouble!"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I responded with a simple, "To be a good mommy," but for the rest of the day I have been thinking of what my job REALLY is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes, my job is to be a good mommy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And a good wife, I suppose (love ya, babe).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also try hard to be a good daughter, a good sister, a good friend, a dependable volunteer, etc. But<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have racked my brain all day with what my "job" is or what it should be and I have been coming up empty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then it hit me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't care what my "job" is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who says I have to have a title for what I do every day?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obviously, my son thought my job was to take care of him and love him no matter what.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me, that's pretty darn special.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So I will continue to take care of him and love him no matter what.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And his sister, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And their dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don't need a job title to do any of that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe just some coffee, a little bit of patience every now and then and the knowledge I <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>am a child of God, too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He will take care of me and love me no matter what.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that my friends, is good enough for me.</span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-15165428706205193502011-03-02T19:50:00.008-08:002011-03-02T20:05:37.550-08:00My Cheatin' HeartI would like to start this post by first publicy apologizing to Facebook. Facebook, I have been cheating on you. You were good to me for the past two years. You welcomed me with open arms while I earned hundreds of medals on Bejeweled Blitz. You were there when I planted my first crop on Farmville. You stood by me when I amassed a fortune in mega casinos in Mafia Wars and then sold them off so I could try my hand at Cafe World. Sadly, there is a new time-waster in town and his name is "the blogosphere". <br />
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From now on when I should be folding clothes, making dinner, or being any sort of productive, you will find me keeping up with my not one, but TWO blogs. That's right. When I cheat, I cheat BIG. Sorry Facebook. Blogging is where it's at. At least that's what I hope, anyway. <br />
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I know the suspense must be killing you, so I'll get right to it. You can find the new blog <a href="http://www.thefamilyaddiction.blogspot.com/">here.</a> This blog is simple. We (me and my two sis-in-laws) will read and review a new book each week and you get to tell us what you think. Don't worry. We won't bore you with books about Army life, raising toddlers, or the 4 P's of the Marketing Mix. I promise we'll do our best to mix it up and keep it interesing. We have been known to compete over who can sell the most books at a garage sale (scary AND true) but we do have varying tastes in literature, so there will be something for everyone. I may even feel the need to review some of the pre-teen books I have been <strike>forced </strike>asked to read by my daughter. That should at least be entertaining, right? <br />
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By all means, let us know what you think. We're tough, we can take it. Unless of course you're cheating on us with another book blog. That would drive me right back into the arms of Facebook and I'm not sure he's ready to take me back.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-9388879467653244672011-02-25T11:17:00.005-08:002011-03-01T18:25:04.882-08:00A new inducteeYesterday I attended a ceremony of sorts. It wasn't a promotion ceremony (those are fun because it means someone is getting a pay raise!) or a retirement ceremony (those are fun because it means someone is getting out of the Army, which also means a pay raise!). It was an induction ceremony (and no, no one came home with prescription narcotics and a screaming infant). I'll get to the ceremony in a moment. <br />
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My family and my 2 college friends that read this blog know that my son has one teacher I really like, and one I could do without. For the purpose of this blog, we'll call the one I like Ms. T. Ms. T is the MOST WONDERFUL preschool teacher of all time. Why? Because she loves my son like he is her own, that's why. I drop my son off each morning knowing that if he can't be with me or his grandparents, she is the next best thing. Needless to say, she is very special to us.<br />
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So, when I heard that her 19 year-old son left for a year in Afghanistan last week I wanted to cry. This wonderful woman who gives so much to my son day after day, now has a son in what I consider to be the worst place on the face of the earth. I hate Afghanistan. (I hate Iraq too, but right now I hate Afghanistan more. Some of my favorite peeps are currently in Afghanistan, so I hate it more). However, now is not the time to cry (<a href="http://ourairbornearmylife.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2010-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-05%3A00&updated-max=2011-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-05%3A00&max-results=11">I cry when I read to my daughter's class</a> or when I see that one coffee commercial when Peter comes home to surprise his parents on Christmas morning). Now is the time we rally and welcome Ms. T. into our fold.<br />
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Another mom, Ms. Awesome, suggested we put together a deployment basket for Ms. T. So four of us moms (who all happen to be Army wives, by the way) assembled a basket of goodies to get her through the next year. <br />
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The basket contained:<br />
Blue star sticker for her car or window<br />
Army travel mug<br />
Coffee <br />
Trashy beach read<br />
Chocolate (duh)<br />
Bottle of wine (double duh)<br />
Stress-relief/relaxation tea<br />
Handmade cards from our kids<br />
Notes from us<br />
380 marbles and 2 Ball jars (so she can transfer one a day until he is home)<br />
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Ms. Awesome wrapped it up in cellophane and tied it with a big yellow ribbon and bow. It was beautiful! (I SO wish I would have taken a picture).<br />
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Yesterday after school we, along with our children, presented it to her. She cried. We cried. We freaked out our kids. It was awesome. She was speechless, and thanks to our tears, so were we. I think we each hugged her 2 or 3 times before one of us (totally not me) composed ourselves enough to spit out how much we love her and will support her in any way we can. <br />
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Welcome to the sisterhood, Ms. T! May the year go fast, may you get many emails and phone calls from your soldier, may you not watch too much TV news coverage, and may you accept our thanks for raising such a fine young man. We love you!Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-86229061893501561982011-02-19T14:52:00.001-08:002011-02-19T18:57:46.089-08:00The Fab FiveEarlier this week, a friend posted an article on Facebook about the 5 friends Oprah says every woman must have. <a href="http://www.oprah.com/relationships/5-Friends-Every-Woman-Should-Have">You can read that article here.</a> I thought it sounded interesting, so I read on. Truthfully, I read it to see if <i>I</i> had any of the friends that Oprah says I should have. I do, but as I do with any advice/self-help/opinion pieces I read, I try to decipher how this pertains to me as a military spouse. You know what's coming next, right? Without further ado, I present The Five Friends Every Military Spouse Should Have, according to Amy. <br />
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<b><i>The Senior Advisor</i></b> - No offense to all of you "senior" spouses out there, but you know who you are. I have been fortunate enough to have a handful of these in my almost 13 years as a military spouse and am even more fortunate that hardly any of them are on Facebook or blogger. I wouldn't want to have to admit that I consider them a "senior" anything. The senior advisors are your friends, but they are also your mentors. They usually have older kids, a higher-ranking husband, and really cool furniture they've gotten from their overseas duty stations. These ladies are never short on good advice, a calm demeanor and some sort of yummy baked good they just so happen to have made that morning (and seriously, HOW do they DO that?). Their door is always open and they always have time for a toddler-crazed stay-at-home mom with a quick question. If you don't have one of these in your military spouse arsenal...get one. <br />
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<b><i>The Decorator</i></b> - The decorator is one of those women that makes living in a different house every two years look easy. Her furniture ALWAYS fits and LOOKS GOOD where ever she puts it. She can pick up an ottoman at IKEA, a rug in Texas at a flea market, some curtains at Target and make them work in every house she lives in until they retire. And, painting? She makes it look like a breeze. The decorator will paint every room in every house they live in even if it means she has to paint it back before they move. The decorator most likely also has a husband that gives her semi-free reign to decorate as she pleases, thus making her even more valuable. Husbands frequently go along with decorating changes if some poor sap down the street has had to endure it too and they can share fabric shopping war stories. The decorator is always willing to come help you move a couch or give you her opinion on a new coffee table. I love a good decorator friend.<br />
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<b><i>The Fertile Myrtle</i></b> - Everyone needs at least one Fertile Myrtle in their friend bank. The Fertile Myrtle has numerous children, numerous pets and an unlimited supply of patience. NOTHING fazes the Fertile Myrtle. Your toddler spilled milk on her rug? No biggie. It matches the spill one of her children placed there earlier this morning. You need someone to watch your two kids at the last minute because your babysitter canceled? Puh-lease! What is two more kids when you already have four or five of your own? The Fertile Myrtle is happy to oblige. Her theory is the more the merrier and she honestly believes that to be true. The Fertile Myrtle is who you thought you wanted to be, but 2 kids and a deployment later you realized there was no way that was going to happen without winning the lottery and hiring a full-time nanny. You might not aspire to be a Fertile Myrtle, but you need one as a friend. Trust me.<br />
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<i><b>The Anti-Spouse</b></i> - The Anti-Spouse is a different breed. She is the one that says things like, "I don't know what my husband does, because we don't talk about his job when he gets home." She may not even know what the inside of his office looks like, because she's never been there. To her the Army (or Navy, or Air Force, or Marines) is just HIS job, not THEIR way of life. He does his thing, she and the kids do theirs. It may seem strange to you, but it works for them. You can hold endless conversations about fashion, child-rearing, dieting, relationships, just about anything and the military will never enter the conversation. The Anti-Spouse always provides a good reality check if you find yourself using more acronyms than actual words in a sentence. Warning: Do not confuse The Anti-Spouse with The Angry Spouse. The Angry Spouse is a sad, bitter woman full of endless complaints about the military. The Angry Spouse is usually not happy with her marriage, her children or even the produce at the commissary, and she will find a way to work her discontent into every conversation. Stay away from The Angry Spouse. Or better yet, find another Angry Spouse and introduce them to each other.<br />
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<strong><em>The Battle Buddy</em></strong> - The Battle Buddy is by far the best friend for a military spouse to have. She is your go-to gal for all things, all the time. Need a pair of earrings to match your formal dress? She'll bring over her entire jewelry box. Think you might want to train for a 1/2 marathon? She'll lace up her running shoes and train with you. Need a good cry because you haven't talked to or gotten an email from your deployed husband in a week? She is at your door with a kleenex 3-pack and a movie to occupy the kids so the both of you can cry in peace. The Battle Buddy is worth her weight in gold. If you are extremely lucky, you may find a Battle Buddy at each duty station. If not, don't worry. There is an unwritten rule that once a Battle Buddy, always a Battle Buddy, even from thousands of miles away. <br />
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So there you have it. My unofficial guide to The 5 Friends Every Military Spouse Should Have. Thoughts? Comments? I'd love to hear them! Unless of course you think of ME as your senior advisor. You can keep that thought to yourself. :)Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-56767681559219553252011-02-02T12:15:00.000-08:002011-02-02T12:15:04.380-08:00A (bittersweet) taste of freedom.Today was truly a test. And by test, I really mean a nail-biting, gas-producing, check the phone every 5 minutes whopper of a test. Today was the first day I was going to leave my son at preschool past the normal pick-up time. He was going to be there a whole 5+ hours! Mind you, this was the PERFECT situation. He was staying in the same room. I packed his favorite lunch (dinosaur shaped pb&j is always a hit). My favorite teacher was going to be watching him. There were only 5 other kids staying. I say again...PERFECT. <br />
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So what was the test, you ask? It wasn't a test for him. It was for ME. What was I going to do for ALL.THAT.TIME? I have been a stay-at-home mom for almost 9 years. 9 years. Yes, we have done a weekend away from them here or there. I go out with the girls on occasion. I no longer have them attached at the hip. (Insert shout out to my sister-in-law, Sarah, here). But this was different. This time, I wasn't going to a movie with friends. I wasn't on a trip to watch my beloved Illini football team in the Rose Bowl. I wasn't spending an afternoon shopping for clothes. I was going to be home...alone.<br />
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I just so happened to have a brunch to attend, which took care of 2 hours. But, now what? I have dreamed of this day for YEARS! Those dreams have ranged from several hours in a row of sipping coffee and reading books at Barnes and Noble to meeting old friends for a long lunch (and, of course, wine). So, I started slow. I called an old friend and had a nice middle-of-the week chat. I kept the ball rolling and sent my sister-in-law a few (dozen) texts. Then I really got into it and stopped and got my husband the razor blade refills I kept forgetting to pick up (and why do those have to be SO expensive, I ask?). Just when I was hitting my stride, I unexpectedly ran into a good friend in the drug store parking lot. <br />
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We chatted for a few minutes, and when she realized I was alone she asked, "What are you doing? Where are your kids?" Trying not to do my best Sammy Hagar kick and run around the parking lot in circles, I explained that I was alone. Both kids were at school. "This is what my life will be like in August when everyone is in school full time!" She smiled, but it was a half-smile. She shrugged her shoulders and said, "What I wouldn't give to have all of mine little and home with me again. Now, it's just me and the dog." <br />
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I think you could actually hear the air deflate out of my lungs. She went on to say how her youngest had left to go back to college today and her husband was on yet another government sponsored vacation, so it was literally just "her and the dog." How depressing is that? I started to rethink things then and there.<br />
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My life for the last 9 years has been all about them. Feed them. Diaper them. Dress them. Heal them. Teach them. Tickle them. Play with them. Read with them. And the truth is, I have loved every minute of it (ok, not every SINGLE minute, but you get my drift). These kids are the reason I am who I am. They make me laugh, they make me feel needed, they are my shopping buddies, they keep me company during deployments and they teach me to be more patient (they teach their dad that too, by the way). <br />
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Don't get me wrong, I still plan on enjoying my alone time with friends or volunteering at school without a toddler pulling paper out of the teacher mailboxes. I still can't fathom a time when my children won't be in my house. It seems like ages from now, but I know it's not. And I know it will be here before I know it. So from now on if you run in to me in the drug store parking lot, my Sammy Hagar kick may not be as high. I may only do one lap around the parking lot instead of two. I have to be careful, you know. I wouldn't want to injure myself and not be able to take care of the dog.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-90958716677957565912010-12-21T10:40:00.003-08:002010-12-23T06:03:23.437-08:00Mrs. Trimble, guest readerA note came home from school the second week of December. Mind you, notes have been coming home on what seems like a daily basis. Everything from picture retake reminders to requests for donations for the mitten tree. But this one was "special," my daughter said. This one was asking for parents to come in and share a favorite Christmas book or tradition. With big blue eyes my daughter handed it to me and asked, "so what book are you bringing, mom?" Fine. If this will make her happy, I can certainly find 20 minutes out of my Christmas season to go sit and read a book or talk to her class. No problem. Add it to my list of things to do. I got it covered. <br />
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I checked the "yes" box and sent the form back to school. But that was on December 10. I told myself I would worry about what I was actually going to read or share later. Well, later was yesterday. Suddenly it was time to go to school. I grabbed the first book I saw, dropped JT off at the neighbors house and raced to school. I got to her classroom on time to find 18 3rd graders sitting in a perfect semi-circle on the floor. I saw what was obviously the teacher's chair perfectly placed in the middle of the semi-circle. And then I saw it. THE BOOK. The book I bought for Natalie 4 years ago when her dad was deployed for Christmas. The book she had obviously picked for me to read and brought with her to school in her backpack. The book I cannot make it through without crying. This was not going to end well.<br />
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I said a little prayer that went something like this, "Lord, please don't let me scare these children by boo-hooing all over the pages of this book," picked up <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Soldiers-Before-Christmas-Little-Golden/dp/0375837957">The Soldier's Night Before Christmas</a> and started reading. Little giggles erupted every now and then and things were just peachy until page 10. You see, page 10 is where the Santa of Soldiers stands back, takes a look at the soldiers asleep in their racks, and renders a salute. It gets me every time. This time was no exception. Except this time I had 18 pairs of eyes on me. I couldn't hide the fact that my voice was breaking with a cough. I couldn't pass off my tears as "something in my eye." They were on to me. <br />
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I summoned the courage to look at them and what I saw surprised me. I saw one little girl with her head down, crying. One little boy was up on his knees trying to crane his neck to look at me from under the book, tears in his eyes. And I saw my daughter wiping away the tears from the corners of her eyes too. I was expecting them to think I was nutty. Why was this mom in here crying while reading us a book? What's her deal? I expected a bunch of, "what's wrong with your mom, Natalie?" "Hey, Mrs. Trimble, why are you crying?" However, that was not the case. These kids were WAY more mature than I gave them credit for.<br />
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I made it through the rest of the book without too many more stumbles. I closed the book, took a deep breath and said, "Raise your hand if your mom or dad has ever been deployed during the holidays." What followed was one of the most moving conversations I have ever been a part of. I wish I had a video recording of it. So many stories. So much pride in their voices talking about their moms and dads. These little people have endured so much in their mere eight or nine years on this earth. And they do it over and over again. They do it with grace. They do it with courage. They do it without even knowing they do it. That's what makes them so very special. <br />
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As I was leaving the classroom, I heard a little girl whisper to Natalie, "Natalie, your mom is cool." I smiled. Little does that girl know, I think she is the cool one. I would tell her myself, but it would probably make me cry. Again.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-45467036530353369302010-12-08T17:00:00.000-08:002010-12-08T17:00:38.258-08:00Wordless Wednesday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWMTkEfktBc42tGLs3BT7cgyf3qs_KpIDKNbS2l6DmYFV4FzkP0eQ8mrS7pFM7CI7bOcYaLDqnbdPIkAP7IdvzKf93Ysyc5bwRnY5FOmhoaU7Y0lz18YWgUQOFJwsnBsTNoNe8twZiSk/s1600/2010_11_11_2522.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWMTkEfktBc42tGLs3BT7cgyf3qs_KpIDKNbS2l6DmYFV4FzkP0eQ8mrS7pFM7CI7bOcYaLDqnbdPIkAP7IdvzKf93Ysyc5bwRnY5FOmhoaU7Y0lz18YWgUQOFJwsnBsTNoNe8twZiSk/s320/2010_11_11_2522.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-65162262839309195782010-12-03T13:52:00.005-08:002011-01-12T14:47:29.030-08:00It's Hip to be Square.When my children were younger, say about 5 years ago, I vaguely remember my mother telling me something like, "just wait till they're older." Maybe it was, "this doesn't get easier, it only gets harder." Either way, at the ripe old age of 31, I thought she was crazy. What does she know about single parenting during a deployment? She had me in the 70's, it's nothing like that now. I even remember thinking that it would not be that way for me, because I was bound and determined NOT to be like her! That's right, I thought I knew everything. I thought nothing could be harder than the physical demands put on you by being a stay-at-home mom to two children while your husband was out collecting stamps for his government-issued passport . I was wrong.<br />
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That being said, I can always tell what kind of day my daughter has had from her expression the moment she steps off the bus. Yesterday was no exception. She stepped off the bus, rounded the corner and I saw the tell-tale signs of a bad day. Splotchy cheeks (thank you, Aunt Sissy) and tears in the corner of her eyes (I'll take the blame for those). She hung her head, waddled up to me thanks to the weight of her backpack and cumbersome violin case, and said, "Mom, someone called me a name today." Mind you, I was still reeling from our conversation earlier in the week about "the bad words in the dictionary those men gave us," but that is a whole other post. I have not quite recovered from that one, and I'm not sure I ever will. (I will tell you that "those men" are members of the Rotary Club that handed out dictionaries to all of the 3rd graders at her school. "Those men" sounds bad no matter how you phrase it, so I felt the need to explain). <br />
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We got back to the house and the dam broke. So many tears. After much coaxing and a bribe in the form of a piece of apple pie she told me that a girl in her class called her....wait for it....wait for it....square. Yep. She called her "square." I choked down a chuckle behind a fake cough and asked my daughter if she even knew what "square" meant. Of course she did. She looked it up in the aforementioned dictionary! (I swear I'm going to burn that thing)! <br />
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I then did what I do best, and dug deep into my Cosby Show memory bank. Wasn't there an episode about Rudy getting called a name at school? What did Cliff say to make her feel better? Before her piece of apple pie was finished I had paraphrased Heathcliff Huxtable so well she was drying her eyes on her napkin and belly laughing like the 8-year-old I know and love. Crisis averted.<br />
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After the week I've had, I wonder what the 41-year-old mom I will become has in store for me. On second thought, no I don't. But if I ever do want to know, I should probably just ask my mom.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4752629453526973201.post-17595153790277488012010-11-17T19:16:00.003-08:002010-11-17T19:44:16.684-08:00Some fun statsMy sister-in-law, Sarah and I were talking today about our blogs and she asked if I had ever checked the "stats" section of my blog profile. I had only ever checked it once and I'm pretty sure that was by accident, but I went ahead and checked it again today. It told me that 123 people that have read this blog did so using Internet Explorer. Huh. It also told me that someone from Alaska read my blog today. Huh. And, my stats also say that 1% of people that read my blog do so from an iPad. Huh. I'm not sure exactly how or why eblogger knows that, but I thought I would give you some actual stats about us that might be a tad more interesting.<br /><br />*On average, I make 4-5 "special meat" sandwiches a week. (For those of you wondering what in the world "special meat" is, it is what Natalie calls liverwurst. My mom got her to try it once when she was little by calling it "special meat" and Natalie fell in love. She now takes it on bread almost every day for lunch. Don't judge. It's protein.).<br /><br />*Twice a day JT tells me he "so misses me." Once when I drop him off at preschool and once when I pick him up. I love that boy.<br /><br />*JT has not had a timeout at school in the last 8 days. That is our longest streak yet. (I hope I am not jinxing him).<br /><br />*Natalie reads at least 5 books a week, usually more. The girl is almost never without a book in her hand. The only thing that slows her down is her tendency toward motion sickness. She said today, "Mommy, sometimes I think if I had one wish, it would be that I could read in the car." I love that girl.<br /><br />*I have used my pressure cooker 6 times in the last 2 weeks. It has now earned a coveted spot on the kitchen counter. That is high praise! (And thanks to Sarah for the awesome gift).<br /><br />*My brother-in-law, Sean (wife is aforementioned Sarah), left this month for a year in Afghanistan. By the time he returns, he will have officially missed 1/4 of his daughter's life, not to mention the vast majority of his 8 month-old son's. Some statistics really really suck. This is one of them.<br /><br />*Joshua's Blackberry went off at 4:52am this morning, and since I couldn't go back to sleep, I have been up for 18 hours. Statistics say I should go to bed.<br /><br />Good Night!Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02918833767468681223noreply@blogger.com1