Extension

Kiki wondered how I'm feeling about our six-year extension. This is probably a lot more answer than she was looking for (sorry, Kiki!) but I wanted to think it through for myself, too. . . .

There was a stretch in there, between "I am never getting married!" and "Are you serious? . . . Really? . . . You're not kidding? . . . Okay, yeah, let's get married," where I was no way going to marry a guy who was in the military. At least, not a career military guy. My dad's deployments were hard on us, when I was growing up. I didn't want to do it again as the person in charge of keeping it all together.

But here I am. The papers are signed, the oath has been sworn. In April, Dan will have been a soldier for ten years. In six more Aprils, we'll be just four years short of being able to draw military retirement pay when Dan hits sixty-five. At that point, barring circumstances I can't even imagine, it's a no-brainer to extend for the final four. We're officially lifers.

I'm relieved to have the decision made--and made for a good long chunk of time so that I don't have to go through this again this time next year. I would have been disappointed, I think, if Dan had chosen to get out. But I felt a little sick to my stomach when I read his post script anyway.

I have such a hard time with not being able to control my life--look down the road, assess the risks, make a plan that works around them, and then make it happen. It sounds kind of funny written down, but I'm not trying to be funny. It's a tough thing for me. I was all set to put my well-researched and carefully budgeted plan into motion three years ago when it got torn up in little tiny pieces and flushed by Elijah's birth. It was a hard-hitting reminder that I can't make life fit the plan. The decision to extend was as informed and thought through as we could make it, and it's not nearly as well informed as I wanted it to be.

I haven't had a chance to talk to Dan yet about what finally decided him on which way to jump. But I'm guessing school was the deciding factor.

The civilian Physician's Assistant programs that seem workable for our family last two years, cost around $50,000, don't allow you to work while you're enrolled, and require a Bachelor's Degree to apply. Dan is about a third of the way through requirements for his Associate's Degree. The Army's PA program does not require a degree of any kind to apply as long as you have the right prerequisites taken care of, the G. I. Bill is paying for those prerequisites as long as Dan is enlisted, it's "free" with a four-year Active Duty commitment afterward, and they pay you while you're going through the program.

We have options other than the Army. There are scholarships and loans. On the front end, I think it would be a lot easier to go that route. Dan could get his degree a lot faster if he wasn't working to support us and keep us in medical insurance. Deployments wouldn't keep interrupting his classes. But we'd end up, according to my generously low, off-the-top-of-my-head calculation, with at least $250,000 in loans : a second mortgage, for a house a lot nicer than the one we're buying now. We've gone 'round and 'round the mulberry bush on this decision a lot over the last four years, too. We finally decided, on Christmas Day, that it was school-and-the-Army or no-Army-but-no-PA-school. And Dan doesn't want to spend the rest of his life regretting not having finished his degree.

I'm good with that. I think the nervous tension comes into play because the extension is a big blinking lighted sign, reminding me again that my life is officially out of my hands. I'm committed to this path, now--he swore an oath--and whether or not it goes according to plan, it's going to be hard sometimes. I'm still afraid of hard.

But alongside the reminder of my lack of control, our struggles since Elijah's birth have given me mounting evidence that hard isn't necessarily bad. I have so much good in my life because of the hard things in the last three years. God has given us what we needed, plunked down an oasis in the middle of the desert for us. That doesn't mean it wasn't agonizing, and it doesn't mean that what's coming down the road to us will be easy. But looking back I can say that the hard stuff has been worth it, so far. That's incredibly comforting as I stand here, looking out at the unknown.

Recovering?

Being forced to clean the house (or at least put all the clutter in one room and sweep the floors) for my in-laws' visit appears to have reenergized me just enough to make cooking feasible again.

Dinner was pre-cooked frozen shrimp, sauteed in olive oil, freshly ground pepper, powdered ginger, and salt in the wok, with halved cherry tomatoes, halved crimini mushrooms, and torn up red chard thrown in after the shrimp had started to thaw. Mmmm-mmmm! Simple, easy, but delicious. It really hit the spot.

So I hear rumors that there's a definitive point where you come out of the deployment slump and things start to get easier. I must have reached it at some point in our last deployment, because R&R tore it all up again. I don't think I recognized it when it happened last time (I didn't know it existed, last time) but I know I haven't gotten there yet this time.

Maybe it's because, even though we're four months into the deployment, I'll believe "it's-only-gonna-be-a-twelve-month-deployment-total-cross-our-hearts" when I see it. I mean, the Army is famous for changing its mind, and what's the point in counting down to a date you're expecting to change? Maybe it's because, even though we're (theoretically) four months into deployment, it's only been two months since I've seen Dan. Maybe it's because Elijah's birthday, Christmas, and my post-Christmas paralyzation, (though in a much milder form than I've seen in years gone by) all hit at about the same time as the four-month mark. Whatever the reason, missing Dan has been at the forefront of my consciousness this past week or so. Emotionally, I hurt all over.

***

I write to Dan, and I email him--at his request--and when I get a response at all, it's usually a line or two that fails to address most of the questions I asked him. Sometimes I can remember the stressful situation in which he's living, the natural bent of his personality, and the huge volume of phone calls I get, and be okay with it. Other times, not so much.

Today I got an unsolicited, four-paragraph, newsy email, complete with some warm fuzzies at the end. It doesn't make it all better, but it sure helps.

The post script: I forgot to mention. I extended for six. Guess that takes care of that question for a while.

We’re home again. The house was so cold when we got here that the refrigerator felt warmer inside than the rest of the kitchen, but the first thing I did was start a fire (we don't have central heating, and we've been gone for a week and a half) and it's much better now.

Christmas was nice. I really missed Dan, but the time spent with my family--both sides of it--was good. Not everything was perfect, but we weren't pretending it was. There was some fighting, but there was also dealing honestly with the hard stuff going on in each other's lives and talking about things that are important to us. It made this Christmas sweet.

Christmas Eve I was expecting Dan to call, and was disappointed not to hear from him. He called me at his parents’ house today, though, just after I'd put Elijah down for his nap. He sounded beat. After a few minutes of how-are-you-fine-how-are-you and long pauses, I said I’d missed getting to talk to him the day before and he said something about Christmas fireworks. Just not as pretty. And louder.

He was running on four hours of sleep after having been awake for the previous twenty-four. He’d been putting together the gingerbread-house I sent him when somebody banged on his door and he grabbed up his gear and ran to the truck. He spent the next nine-and-a-half hours helping a convoy that had run across some IEDs. Nobody was hurt.

I was reminded again that it doesn’t matter how statistically safe Iraq is becoming if you’re the one who's injured, that there’s no guarantee of Dan’s safety—and that God is holding Dan, holding us, promising us good, even if. . . .

Dan is really hating life in the Army right now, and is still agonizing over whether or not to reenlist--torn between his desire to finish going to school and his desire to be a present father and husband. The finances of school-without-the-Army-to-help-pay-for-it are daunting, and we talked through all our options again today, and we don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what I want him to do. I don’t know what’s best.

But we got to talk for a long time. We talked about something beyond the surface stuff, and I felt like we actually connected and were really communicating—something that doesn’t happen all that often for me during deployments. It made my day to hear from him.

I wish I could be with him tonight.

Merry Christmas

Christmas Eve

The oyster stew is cooking (it's a German thing, I think). Grandma W's five-cup fruit salad is chilling in the refrigerator. The presents are all wrapped and sitting under the magnificent twelve-foot tree. My sister is upstairs on the phone with a friend, and my brothers and parents are playing Five Crowns at the kitchen table. Elijah is playing the pots with a large metal spoon at the foot of the stairs. Christmas has begun.

Playing in the Snow

My sweet little boy, "pulling" his kind, patient uncle in the sled:






Yes, my brother is pushing himself up a hill on a sled. You can't buy this stuff.

Snowed In

Still here--and safe, warm, and dry. Aside from minor inconveniences (first broken pipes in the barn--think no showers or handwashing--and then a broken washing machine--so now no clean clothes) I am enjoying the excuse to go nowhere and do not a whole heck of a lot.

I'm spending the evenings sitting on the couch or the floor in front of the fireplace under a blanket, while my parents and sister each sit in their respective easy chairs under their blankets. M and I crochet--I'm just over halfway done with the blanket I'm working on--and we talk, or read, or write letters, and are just together. It's a good time, and very restful.

Weather forecasts (and weather actualities) being what they are around here, I've stocked the cat up with food and water, left the space heater on in our bedroom for him and the water running in the kitchen sink so the pipes wouldn't freeze, and "moved" up to my parents' house, to ensure that Elijah and I don't end up spending Christmas at home alone. We've got ten inches of snow, with more falling steadily, and predictions are that conditions are going to go from bad to worse in the next couple of days.

The world is hushed and white. The trees are incredible. Every bare branch is picked out in ice, brittle and lacy, every evergreen is ponderous under the weight of the snow, and the road runs under a close canopy of intricate icework and heavy ermine. The roof is edged with icicles, some two feet long. The sledding is excellent. I wish Dan was here to see it. He gets as excited about snow as any kid. He'd be out in it all day long, and enjoying it more than anyone else.

***

I think he may be getting a little homesick as Christmas approaches. He's called the last four days in a row. The first two were business oriented (see the last post), but yesterday he called me in the thirty seconds he had while waiting for Sar'nt E to get their tent assignments to say Hi! We just made it to ________. I just wanted to tell you that I love you.

When the phone rang this morning, it was him again. He'd eaten, worked out, and had five minutes before he had to meet the guys at the truck. I love you, Babe. Have a good day.

The reminder that he loves me, the knowledge that he's thinking about me and that he cares enough to use his five minutes of spare time to call, is wonderful. It makes me miss him more than ever, but the comfort outweighs the sadness.

I have nothing coherent tonight, but . . . reenlistment . . . or not . . . three years, or six . . . now, or later . . . bonus, education, future career prospects, blah, blah, blah. We had The Discussion again yesterday and today, ended up in the same place we've ended up every time we've talked about it over the last three years--and I feel can-barely-stand-up-straight-or-talk-without-crying crummy tonight. I really don't know why.

Just a quick post to let you know that the laptop is headed to the shop tomorrow, and normal blogging will resume . . . whenever it's back to its usual self (sigh).

Dan asked today whether I was talking to any of the other Army wives at all. I laughed and said, "Not from your unit. I talk to some online--mostly active duty wives whose husbands are deployed right now, too." This reminded me that his unit--his old unit, the one he's been attached to for the last nine years, but which he is not deployed with--called to invite me to the family Christmas party at the armory in early December, and I mentioned it to him. "'Course I didn't go."

Apparently it wasn't an "of course" to him. He wanted to know why. Well, to start with, it's three hours from here, one way. But aside from that, I don't know anyone there. The only people associated with that unit who I know are his friends--all deployed. And in nine years, I've never built any kind of a relationship with the families in that unit.

Part of this is the distance. The only reason I'm there for the family days is because I drive up with Dan on drill weekends to see my grandparents. We’re not available to go out on a Friday night and have drinks with Dan’s friends and get to know their significant others. Part of it is that there really aren't a lot of families at the family days, and none of them are the families of people Dan hangs out with. Part of it is my own personality: You couldn't tell it from how I rattle on when you put a keyboard in front of me, but I'm shy and quiet in person until I get to know people well. It's difficult for me, during the two family events his unit has every year, to make friends, or even acquaintances. Really, even if we lived thirty minutes away from the armory, I probably wouldn't have gone. I'm usually bored, acutely socially uncomfortable, or both, even when Dan is here and I do go.

During Dan's last deployment, my friend T (whose husband was deployed over almost exactly the same dates as Dan) rented a room in our house. It was wonderful to have someone nearby who was walking in my shoes, day in and day out. I felt less wounded, a little more whole, when I was with her than when I was with my other friends. She was bleeding from the same wound as I was. And I didn't notice my own difference from the rest of the world as much when I was with her. I miss that a lot right now.

I've always suspected that the dismal failure of the family days I've been to was just the nature of the Guard. The military is structured for the Active Duty lifestyle, and so the Guard units jump through some of the same hoops (like two Family Days a year) even though the Guard isn't geared that way. I can see how, if you knew the other families in your unit in real life, the annual picnic and the annual Christmas party could be more fun.

But the experience I had at Dan's deployment ceremony makes me wonder whether it's not just the individual character of our unit, rather than the National Guard as such. (Can anyone else out there shed any light on the subject for me?) In any event, our conversation this morning got me to wondering whether it might be nice to have a military community around us, and wishing we lived closer to the Cav unit Dan's attached to. But I guess I'm not really wanting another Christmas party at which to make small talk. I'm wanting another friend like T.

Snow Day

Well, the tea and honey didn't do much good--I was up till almost four this morning, coughing and generally miserable. So far I feel much better today than I was expecting to, and Elijah's new toys are keeping him mercifully occupied so that he's not wanting much from me so far today.

Dan asked for pictures of the snow, and the ones I took last night weren't good for much, so we bundled up and went out again today for some more. Most of the snow had blown away in the night (because that's what snow does here--blow away). But it's beautiful here today, anyway.

This Way to the Party

I'm sitting here with a cup of Sleepy-Time-tea-and-raw-honey, trying to soothe my cough before I go to bed. I have one of those colds that's a vaguely sore throat and some minor pressure in my head during the day and then becomes a savage beast with unstoppable, rib-cracking coughs, streaming eyes, and a stuffed up nose when I lay down at night. Ugh. I'm also uploading pictures from the evenings festivities to send to Dan, and I thought I'd share some with you, too.

The year Elijah was born (and every year subsequently) my younger sister has been away at college on his birthday. So we celebrate in a small way on The Day Itself, and then pull out all the stops and have a party a week or so later, when his aunt can be there.




Today was the day. I decorated with yellow crepe-paper streamers, and the old Winnie-the-Pooh train that hung in my room when I was his age. And of course, a birthday banner:




The house looked quite festive, though I say it myself. Various scheduling constraints required that I decorate Friday night, even though the party wasn't until Sunday afternoon. When Elijah came downstairs Saturday morning, he saw the banner and said, "Oooooh, pretty! Tell me what this one says, Mama!" After we read each letter of his name individually, and then read the whole thing together, and talked about it for awhile, he said, "It's a rainbow!" And I had wondered whether he would even notice the decorations. . . .




The birthday-cake-and-ice-cream routine is not a big hit with a kid who doesn't eat by mouth and has texture sensitivity (so he usually dislikes touching things that are the texture of frosting, and dislikes cold foods. . . like ice cream). I've tried the last two years to introduce him to it, and I gave up this year and made whole grain muffins instead--so that I could eat them without feeling blah afterwards. And you know what? Elijah ate part of his. (This is the part where we all stand up and cheer.)



We used these fun napkins--a gift from my sister-in-law--instead of plates. They are bright and colorful, the moomins are cute, and it cut down on clean-up.






And of course there were the presents. Getting him to open presents has been like pulling hen's teeth this year. He'll open the first one with not much trouble, but after that he's finished, and we had to cajole him into opening the rest. These pictures are of him and one of his uncles using the car keys on a particularly difficult package. Once we finally got him to open it, the laptop (like Mom's and Dad's! and with a talking monkey inside!) was a hit.



And we had snow today--a rarity, at our elevation. After it became clear that the snow was not going to prevent our guests from arriving, there was great rejoicing. I took this picture, and some others, for Dan, who loves the snow.

***

On a side note, he called last night and this morning. He thinks he's finally going to get an ASV that's not hopelessly deadlined--and he has tentative R&R dates. It's extremely unlikely to happen when they say it's tentatively going to happen (because that's how the Army works, ladies and gentlemen) but surely the issuing of a date means it much more likely to actually happen at all. (Right??)

I was driving home with Elijah this morning when the traffic in front of me stopped. What's the deal? I thought. Then my heart hit the floor. There were two men in leathers holding American flags in front of a church parking lot, and a man in an orange vest directing traffic. Not again. As we passed the parking lot, I saw the rows of motorcycles parked off to one side, and more flags.

I try to avoid the news while Dan is deployed, and my first thought was that we’d lost another local soldier or Marine. I don't know how many of you are familiar with the Patriot Guard Riders. The last time I saw them was at the ribbon-cutting ceremony for G’s new house; the time before that it was at her husband J’s funeral. The two-year-anniversary of J’s death—from injuries sustained in Iraq—is coming up soon.

It dawned on me, after my heart had stopped pounding and I’d driven several more miles, that the Patriot Guard probably attends funerals for all veterans, and when I checked out their website after we got home, there was a ride today for a WWII-era veteran in our area today.

But I’m still reeling from that first split-second when I saw the flags and my heart just stopped. And I’m still thinking about J, and G, their kids, his parents. J was injured the day after Christmas, and died January 5^th. If you can make the time to contact his family this month or next, and let them know that J isn’t forgotten, would you email me (PstTnbrsLx@gmail.com) or leave me a comment with your email address, and I’ll give you the address so you can do that? I know it would mean an awful lot to them.

Complicated

People ask a lot, Have you talked to Dan lately? Do you hear from him much? How's he doing?

Yes, I talked to him today, in fact. And yes, I do hear from him pretty often, though he often doesn't have much time to talk, or much to say. He called a few days ago as he was about to run out to the truck for a mission, just to say hi, and tell me he loves me.

How's he doing? He sounded better today. He was pretty sarcastic the last time he called--a sure sign that he's angry.

About a week ago, some E-7 wanted Dan's humvee. So he got it. Dan got the pieces of an ASV to replace it, and about two days to get it mission-ready in. Once they cleaned out all the trash, untangled and sorted the huge ball of wires for the electronic equipment, hooked up all the equipments, pumped the bilge out of the belly armor, and several other things I'm forgetting--they discovered that the pile of pieces didn't include pins to hold on their weapons mounts. No pins. No weapons mounts. No weapons. No missions. They searched for days for pins--at the junk yard, the fabrication shop, other deadlined vehicles. No pins to be had, for love nor money. And no, they can't get them made there, they tried. The pins have to come from the manufacturer to ensure that they're strong enough.

So they had to borrow an old truck with so-so armoring from somewhere else for their mission, and it was full of trash and out of gas and oil--despite the fact that they leave their truck clean, with a full tank of gas and a stash of food and water, in case someone else breaks down at the last minute and needs it. And of course the borrowed truck malfunctioned five minutes out, and left them missing some important equipment for most of a mission. They got back to find that the guy who was supposed to be fixing their ASV while they were gone--didn't.

And then the platoon leader took them to task for not being "proactive."

When I asked Dan today how he was he said Tired of getting the short end of the stick.

***

I never feel like I can say, "Fine!" when someone asks how Dan is doing. He's in a war zone, far away from his family and friends, doing a job that is stressful and boring all roled into one. Just being their must involve some level of constant tension. And then all this stuff keeps going wrong.

At the same time, I feel badly for launching into a rendition of "what's wrong this week" every time someone asks how he is. One one level, he *is* fine. I'm grateful that his problems have so far been confined to being badgered by MPs and jerked around by the chain of command. He gets to shower regularly, which is more than a lot of guys have going for them. He was about to go running, on a treadmill at the gym, when he got off the phone with me today.

Now you know why there's always a long pause before I answer when you ask me how Dan is doing. . . .

Putting It Into Words

Sarah has neatly summed up one of the things that makes deployment so ridiculously hard for me.

I think what she's talking about affects Dan's and my marriage all the time, but the special circumstances and stresses of deployment multiply that by about a thousand.

I Love a Man in Uniform. . . .

Dan's sister is getting married while he's gone. I looked through all of our pictures (since the advent of the digital camera) and could only find two that were even passable of him by himself (because Dan tends to do a Calvin smile whenever the camera is aimed at him). So L asked him to take a good picture and send it to us, so that she could frame and put up a recent picture of him at the wedding. This is what he sent:



I love it. I'm lobbying for a life-size cardboard figure at the wedding, rather than just a framed 11 x 14.

***

The poor guy called today and (along with six of his buddies) sang "Happy Birthday" to Elijah, who wouldn't even give him the time of day. Sigh.

And he's got a lot of stressful stuff going on--some of it more directly mission related, and some of it dealing-with-the-ridiculous-rules-on-the-FOB related.

I wish I could make it all better. Heck, I wish I could help. I wish there was some way that my caring could positively affect his life right now.

The best I can do is send an email with pictures of Elijah, and try not to tell him more than once a conversation that I miss him.

See How Far We've Come. . . .

Two days old. Four pounds, five ounces. Fingers so small it was hard to believe there could be bones in there.




And now look at him. Three years old tomorrow. Thirty pounds, give or take (it's so exciting when they don't care any more exactly how much your baby weighs). Same Mama's hand as before, but would you look at the size of those feet. . . .




When Elijah was born, he was the length of my forearm, from my elbow to my wrist. Tonight, as I sat in the rocker in our room and snuggled him before bed, he sat with his head against my chest, just below my shoulder, his butt on my lap, his thighs across my thighs, and his feet hanging down off my lap.

Tonight, even though it was past bedtime, I sang songs and reread his letter from Daddy, and enjoyed the way he holds onto his hair when he's sleepy, and the way the light picks up the golden threads in his darkening hair, and the feel of his little hand brushing against my lips. Every milestone still comes with a sense of awe: He's still here. I'm in awe that we've had the gift of three years with this little person.

When I finally carried Elijah to bed (a rare privilege, now) and laid him down, still holding onto that tuft of hair, he looked up at me with a sleepy smile and said, "I'm your baby."

Yes, Sweetie. You're Mama's baby. I love you.



Tomorrow is a big day. We'll read books and go to the park, open presents and play with Playdough. No chores for Mama; the whole day belongs to you. So sleep tight, little man.

Daddy and I are so glad you're our son.

Stop the Presses

S stopped by tonight to dig through Dan's gear and see if any of his (S's) gear had gotten mixed in with it. His brother, J, is currently at Camp Anaconda, where Dan was for his last deployment. S says that J says that they haven't had a mortar attack since he's been there.

Ladies and Gentlemen, that's no mortars--no incoming mortars--for the month of November.

When Dan was there, on a good month, they had at least one mortar strike a day.



Anecdotal evidence, I know--but can I hear three cheers for the surge?

Cue the Hallelujah Chorus

A couple of months ago, some friends of ours were getting rid of an old treadmill. It still worked, they just weren't using it. So I, who have always wanted my own treadmill-or-exercise-bike-or-eliptical-machine-or-something-that-would-let-me-get-some-cardio-indoors, said, "I'll take it!"

Then I plugged it in and turned it on, and the motor appeared to be so weak that the mat wouldn't turn with me standing on it. I was disappointed, and a little bummed that I was now going to have to find a way to get this thing to the dump. Then I brought Dan's Easter present home and piled it on top of the treadmill in the garage, and forgot about it.

This evening, as darkness was falling, I was sitting on the couch reading Curious George Goes to the Movies for the umpteenth time when Elijah mercifully asked if we could go outside. I was feeling a little bummed because I hadn't gotten a walk in yet (thus breaking my fabulous week-long consistency-in-exercise record) and it was too dark to go now, when it dawned on me that I could give the treadmill one more try.

So I shifted the Easter present, sprayed WD-40 under the mat, stationed Elijah on the riding lawnmower, plugged 'er in, and turned 'er on. Then I fiddled with the speed control while I was not standing on the moving mat. I discovered that if I get the speed up high enough before stepping on (and stop once to spray some more WD-40) it works!

I am so excited.

The treadmill isn't beautiful, and it whines like none other (which S tells me a little more WD-40 in a few crucial spots I missed might fix)--but it goes fast enough that I can even run on it. Now I can exercise while it's raining, or when it's dark, or when it's Elijah-won't-sit-still-in-the-stroller. And Elijah can play happily with a few toys on the garage floor, or drive next to me on the riding lawnmower.

So excited.

Home Again

We mailed Dan's Christmas packages yesterday--one with his gifts and one with a "live" evergreen wreath for the door of his room. (Can you believe the cost of postage these days? $40 to ship the two boxes. Ouch!) Conveniently, Dan called last night, so that I could warn him not to read the customs declaration on the box of gifts.

Elijah helped me hang the swag on our front door. He held the scissors and handed them to me so I could cut the five-fifty cord that's holding it up. (You might be a military family if. . . .)

Last night, after Elijah was in bed, Dan's sister and I put up our Christmas decorations. When Elijah got up this morning, he came into the living room and said, "Are these our string of lights!?! May you turn them on?!?" He's still clueless about presents and stockings and all that good stuff, but he's loving the Christmas lights.

This is one of my favorites:

The "Peace on Earth" chunk of Christmas has hit home for me in a much more personal way since the first Christmas that Dan was deployed, in much the same way that fireworks will never be the same. I get in my gut, now, what the promise of peace means, in a way I never had before.