I know, I know... good intentions petered out fast. It's been a few months. But something struck home this weekend and I gotta write it down so I don't forget.
I have a bachelor's in Dance. I spent an ungodly amount of time at a private university to earn said degree and then a few years later...not use it. I did for a while, then kids, our nomadic life, blah blah blah.... forty pounds and four kids later: I don't tell people that I was a dancer. I hate having people look at me and think, "Hmm.... that on pointe shoes? in a tutu? Ick." Obviously I am a harsh judge of myself, but I don't want to admit to a life that is no longer mine: a dancer. Four kids and two surgeries later.... by body has clocked out of the studio. My back and feet are so jacked up, there are mornings that the severe arthritis in my feet make it painful to walk.
Here are the things I am SICK of saying to people:
I used to be a dancer, but...
I used to travel, but....
I used to speak Russian/Spanish/French/Italian, but...
I used to
I used to
I used to
I USED TO
I don't ever want to say that again. Why don't I do any of those things? 2 reasons: Kids and husband. It sounds harsh. I got married to a complicated man, and I had four kids. "Complicated" in a sense that he has a tricky job. We have moved 17 times in 12 years of marriage. We are anticipating a series of moves in the next couple years right now. That makes it awfully hard to establish a name as a dance teacher anywhere. The languages thing? Well, I find it difficult to speak coherent English these days with the chaos of children and sleep deprivation going on in my life for the past 9 years.
I read something about "LIFE" (the platitudinous term) that really hit home. The organic flow of life makes it difficult to dictate the outcome. We may fight and fight to achieve our perceived outcome of how our lives are supposed to look, and not realize the beautiful mess we are in has evolved into a gorgeous symphony of cacophony and color. I'm starting to acknowledge that in my own life. I don't do any of the things that I did as a single woman. Hell, I'm not sure I knew who I truly was when I was single. The purifying fires of trial after trial hadn't been a reality until after I was married. (Okay, it's not my husband's fault... it's his damn profession that isn't family friendly).
So recognizing that the chaos that fills my every hour is what will shape ME has been an eye opener. I am more patient. I am calmer. I have found a deeper spirituality that I didn't have before-- even when I was a full time missionary in my 20's. These moments are here to prove what we really are made of. I don't want to continue to carry my collection of "I used to"s around on a string like a lame dog. It's a pile of shit that can turn a person into a victim. I am not a victim of my circumstances! Time to recognize the beauty of this moment. This very moment where I have slowed down enough to write in my lame journal, listen to my baby sleeping while the twins watch Rugrats. It's a good moment. I know I can continue to recognize the good moments. There's my challenge.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Friday, September 7, 2012
Here's the Skinny.
I haven't blogged in three years. In those three years I have been to the gates of Hell and back with trials and absences. I totally just had a fourth baby, and I haven't been keeping a journal of the little things that have gone on in the house or my family.
Time to start writing again. This journal is a record of my children, our experiences on the other side of the continent, and a way to return to my roots. I feel like I've been at sea, constantly adrift and trying to keep the rafts together while treading water. I know that sounds morose, but doesn't every mother feel that way sometimes? Not enough time or enough mom to go around?
My husband took this job in 2009. Since moving out here, I have struggled to feel a sense of belonging and really liking my community. I have since made great friends and loved volunteering here, but I still feel like I'm not at home. A lot of that would have to do with my house... this house has been a dissapointment. This is a house we live in, it is not our home. Our "home" is our family being together! Perhaps I will get petty and take pictures of my house and show you what I'm talking about. I mean, 24-inch doors to a 36 inch closet-- in ALL the rooms? No kitchen counter space? Seriously. Dur.
Only 1 of 2 showers work, 1 of 3 toilets function, A/C breaks down at the hottest point of summer (118 degrees with the heat index, 80% humidity? Who can like this?), and snow drifts through my front door in the winter. The cockroaches could pick up and carry my kids away at night they are so huge. And don't get me started on the mosquitoes the size of C-130 bombers. I have permanent scars on my legs thanks to an allergy to mosquitoes here. The pollen levels are so high that my middle son has chronic allergy issues, along with a severe case of atopic dermatitis. That makes is impossible for him to play in the grass in our backyard without breaking out in hundreds of red welts. Currently he has a rash IN HIS EYES thanks to the high pollen count. Oh, and flu season? Year round here. Whooping Cough is prevalent thanks to the dumbasses who listened to celebridiots like Jenny McCarthy and decided immunizations were "bad." Polio is back. So is measles, rubella, and whooping cough. Durrrrrr.
So, the first day we moved in, we drove toward our house in the sweltering heat and humidity in our rented van. Husband had bought the house two months prior to me and the kids arriving, so our first view of the neighborhood and the house was when we moved in. The whole way there, I was thinking, "No, NO, NO, NOOO! This isn't right. This won't work. I don't like this. I don't like this neighborhood." Then we rolled up to our salt box. We walked in, I immediately started to cry. "Whoa, this is SMALL!" said my oldest boy. Yes, Monkey, it was small. Even without furniture I could tell it was too small. My husband looked at me and said, "Oh, those aren't the good tears."
So began our life here on the East Coast.
Now here's the skinny. We are in a good neighborhood. We have sane neighbors who aren't gang bangers, drunkards, or overly red-necked. This whole region has an air of agression, and heaven forbid you drive into the wrong neighborhood. It was a banner year in 2010 when there was only one murder in our neighborhood. Back to the good parts. The elementary school is ranked high, we have been pleased with the teachers and the commuinty. The neighboring high school is also ranked high with little gang drama or issues with troubled teens of all varieties. So our location is good. Very blue collar, loaded with military, but good.
I know I sound ungrateful. I know I sound petty or covetous. But these past three years have been enormously challenging, and I can't communicate this fully to my husband without him becoming irritated or hurt. So what's a wife to do? Nag, whine, moan to a man who already has the weight of the world on his shoulders? Not in this profession. Just recently he told me on a satellite phone call that he would prefer to hear less complaints and more positive things from my mouth. I was so hurt. Doesn't he GET how hard this has been for me? I didn't enlist. I don't wear dog tags. I don't carry a badge or concealed weapon. But I love a man who did, who does. So he goes, and I pick up the pieces, place our family and lives on those life rafts and try to keep a sense of security for the kids. I struggle every day to make life feel normal for my children. The whole time I'm smiling, taking them to museums, zoos, movies.... there's that nagging little voice that keeps saying, "He could be killed. He could be seriously injured. He may not come home. THEN what are you gonna do?" Keep smiling and fake it for the kids.
There are thousands of military spouses out there. I am a strange conglomeration of military/something else wife. It's a strange place. I am no longer 100% affiliated to the Army, and this is the east coast. This is Navy Country. So, military spouses all over the world face the tough questions. Planning your husbands funeral, the estate, every time he leaves. Have you ever sat down with your spouse and planned his funeral, when he is totally healthy and living? Yes, it's a total blast. I often wonder about my next steps if he doesn't come home. We are constantly anticipating the boat ride across the River Styx without buying the ticket first.
So, that's what I'm facing right now. My oldest has anger and eating issues thanks to his daddy's constant absences. Luckily the middle kids don't quite get it yet. My baby, well, she thinks the Dad is a face on a phone that talks.
I haven't had a spare second to think about myself or to take personal inventory. When I say this to the husband, he cuts me off with a "Then get a sitter and go DO something." Well, guess what... sitters aren't free, and they are never a sure thing. My baby is nursing constantly and will NOT stay with a sitter. So in the past year plus some, I have been alone maybe three times for an hour at a stretch. This doesn't bode well for a woman who is trying to get recentered. I hope to use this blog as a personal catharsis, and a record of who I am presently, where I want to go, what I want be. I've said it before, but not so bitterly as I do now. We chose this life, yes, but there are scores of families our there who don't have to ask the tough questions, to forge the warrior's path, because we do. I'm not asking for a pat on the back. I'm not wanting a handout, sympathy, or even scathing criticism of my current attitude. All I want is understanding. Personal understanding, self-actualization, perhaps for others to understand what it means to be married to the warrior class.
Time to start writing again. This journal is a record of my children, our experiences on the other side of the continent, and a way to return to my roots. I feel like I've been at sea, constantly adrift and trying to keep the rafts together while treading water. I know that sounds morose, but doesn't every mother feel that way sometimes? Not enough time or enough mom to go around?
My husband took this job in 2009. Since moving out here, I have struggled to feel a sense of belonging and really liking my community. I have since made great friends and loved volunteering here, but I still feel like I'm not at home. A lot of that would have to do with my house... this house has been a dissapointment. This is a house we live in, it is not our home. Our "home" is our family being together! Perhaps I will get petty and take pictures of my house and show you what I'm talking about. I mean, 24-inch doors to a 36 inch closet-- in ALL the rooms? No kitchen counter space? Seriously. Dur.
Only 1 of 2 showers work, 1 of 3 toilets function, A/C breaks down at the hottest point of summer (118 degrees with the heat index, 80% humidity? Who can like this?), and snow drifts through my front door in the winter. The cockroaches could pick up and carry my kids away at night they are so huge. And don't get me started on the mosquitoes the size of C-130 bombers. I have permanent scars on my legs thanks to an allergy to mosquitoes here. The pollen levels are so high that my middle son has chronic allergy issues, along with a severe case of atopic dermatitis. That makes is impossible for him to play in the grass in our backyard without breaking out in hundreds of red welts. Currently he has a rash IN HIS EYES thanks to the high pollen count. Oh, and flu season? Year round here. Whooping Cough is prevalent thanks to the dumbasses who listened to celebridiots like Jenny McCarthy and decided immunizations were "bad." Polio is back. So is measles, rubella, and whooping cough. Durrrrrr.
So, the first day we moved in, we drove toward our house in the sweltering heat and humidity in our rented van. Husband had bought the house two months prior to me and the kids arriving, so our first view of the neighborhood and the house was when we moved in. The whole way there, I was thinking, "No, NO, NO, NOOO! This isn't right. This won't work. I don't like this. I don't like this neighborhood." Then we rolled up to our salt box. We walked in, I immediately started to cry. "Whoa, this is SMALL!" said my oldest boy. Yes, Monkey, it was small. Even without furniture I could tell it was too small. My husband looked at me and said, "Oh, those aren't the good tears."
So began our life here on the East Coast.
Now here's the skinny. We are in a good neighborhood. We have sane neighbors who aren't gang bangers, drunkards, or overly red-necked. This whole region has an air of agression, and heaven forbid you drive into the wrong neighborhood. It was a banner year in 2010 when there was only one murder in our neighborhood. Back to the good parts. The elementary school is ranked high, we have been pleased with the teachers and the commuinty. The neighboring high school is also ranked high with little gang drama or issues with troubled teens of all varieties. So our location is good. Very blue collar, loaded with military, but good.
I know I sound ungrateful. I know I sound petty or covetous. But these past three years have been enormously challenging, and I can't communicate this fully to my husband without him becoming irritated or hurt. So what's a wife to do? Nag, whine, moan to a man who already has the weight of the world on his shoulders? Not in this profession. Just recently he told me on a satellite phone call that he would prefer to hear less complaints and more positive things from my mouth. I was so hurt. Doesn't he GET how hard this has been for me? I didn't enlist. I don't wear dog tags. I don't carry a badge or concealed weapon. But I love a man who did, who does. So he goes, and I pick up the pieces, place our family and lives on those life rafts and try to keep a sense of security for the kids. I struggle every day to make life feel normal for my children. The whole time I'm smiling, taking them to museums, zoos, movies.... there's that nagging little voice that keeps saying, "He could be killed. He could be seriously injured. He may not come home. THEN what are you gonna do?" Keep smiling and fake it for the kids.
There are thousands of military spouses out there. I am a strange conglomeration of military/something else wife. It's a strange place. I am no longer 100% affiliated to the Army, and this is the east coast. This is Navy Country. So, military spouses all over the world face the tough questions. Planning your husbands funeral, the estate, every time he leaves. Have you ever sat down with your spouse and planned his funeral, when he is totally healthy and living? Yes, it's a total blast. I often wonder about my next steps if he doesn't come home. We are constantly anticipating the boat ride across the River Styx without buying the ticket first.
So, that's what I'm facing right now. My oldest has anger and eating issues thanks to his daddy's constant absences. Luckily the middle kids don't quite get it yet. My baby, well, she thinks the Dad is a face on a phone that talks.
I haven't had a spare second to think about myself or to take personal inventory. When I say this to the husband, he cuts me off with a "Then get a sitter and go DO something." Well, guess what... sitters aren't free, and they are never a sure thing. My baby is nursing constantly and will NOT stay with a sitter. So in the past year plus some, I have been alone maybe three times for an hour at a stretch. This doesn't bode well for a woman who is trying to get recentered. I hope to use this blog as a personal catharsis, and a record of who I am presently, where I want to go, what I want be. I've said it before, but not so bitterly as I do now. We chose this life, yes, but there are scores of families our there who don't have to ask the tough questions, to forge the warrior's path, because we do. I'm not asking for a pat on the back. I'm not wanting a handout, sympathy, or even scathing criticism of my current attitude. All I want is understanding. Personal understanding, self-actualization, perhaps for others to understand what it means to be married to the warrior class.
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