Wednesday, December 28, 2011

After Christmas sales = poverty

Christmas 2011 came and went… and so did my next three pay checks. Heck, I am usually so thorough with Christmas shopping that I start at least three months in advance. I make lists about gifts, I watch the ads for the ultimate deals… and then I blow it the day after Christmas on all of the MASSIVE sales. Unfortunately though, this year was different.

You see, I was so swamped between school, work, and kid stuff this fall that I really didn’t have a chance to start Christmas shopping until the day after Thanksgiving. That morning, one of my best friends, Monica, and I hit the mall at opening--and shopped for seven hours. I was able to score just about every gift in one day… and one paycheck. Ouch. Multiply that by my day-after-Christmas-shopping-extravaganza, and I am officially broke, will be serving spam and scrambled eggs to my family for the month of January, and will be painting my own toes for the foreseeable future.

So in the name of saving money, I decided to cut corners…. And share the lessons that I learned with you:

1. Tito’s vodka is just as good as Grey Goose… is locally made in Texas (definitely increasing it’s awesome factor)…. And is half the cost. WIN!
Yes, this is true. The self-proclaimed Grey Goose fan club president is now drinking Tito’s Vodka. I may still order a martini with Grey Goose in public, but that’s only to protect my now poor-broke-wounded-pride. The truth of the matter is you can’t tell the difference.

2. Home wax kits are a great idea…. Until you decide to wax your own bikini line.
Yep, in an attempt to save $40 a month, I decided to spend $90 and buy my own kit. How hard could it be, right? Just apply burning hot wax to your girly areas and rip. Now I can honestly say that I got the first step down--but then the grab the cloth and rip took a whole lot of convincing. I tried… and stopped. I tried again… and stopped. I did a shot of vodka…. And yanked. OH. MY. GOD. I saw stars. I screamed profanity. And decided that I would never attempt THAT again. Want to get infidels to spill all of their terrorist secrets???? Just apply hot wax and rip.

3. The best Christmas gifts are gift cards… that include yourself. Now, this one may seem a little confusing, but let me explain the genius behind this gift. My second best friend, Loren, gave me a gift card for Christmas to a delicious little Mexican restaurant that supposedly had amazing food, margaritas, and ambience. The catch: the restaurant is in Austin (Loren’s city) and we have to go together! How perfect is that? Not only do we have a pre-paid girl’s night out, but we also have an excuse to get together and money for top end tequila while I pay off all the shoes that I purchased on December 26th.

Christmas 2011 may be over, but we will all be feeling it’s noose for a few more months. And believe it or not, as soon as we get the bills totally free and clear from Santa, we have to start shelling out money for summer camps **sigh**. It’s a brutal loop. It’s exhausting. It’s tough—especially on a military budget. But it’s doable. There is always a way to cut back on excessive spending (without following your husband’s maybe-you-should-start-coloring-your-own-hair-advice). Cheers to almost-top-shelf martinis, great friends, and the fact that bikini season is still a few more months off…

Thursday, December 22, 2011

The Ghost of Christmas Past

Christmas is three days away, and although the tree is up and most of the presents are wrapped, I still find myself struggling to find that elusive Christmas spirit. I figured that the Ghost of Christmas Past would help remind me of just how lucky I am, so I am going to spare him the journey and tell you the story myself. Now let’s flashback 12 months to Christmas 2010….

This time last year, Jim was deployed to Iraq, and the kids and I were seriously lacking in the holiday cheer department. I decided that a trip to The Great Wolf Lodge was exactly what the family needed… three days in a water park, three kids, one adult. Does anyone else see a problem with this equation?

Now don’t get me wrong… I am one tough mama, I know CPR, and nobody would dare judge an Army Wife for throwing back a martini after a 10 hour day of swimming, so I booked the reservation. Off we set for a relaxing dream filled trip to The Great Wolf Lodge in Dallas… heck, I heard it even snowed inside the lodge during story hour (I could just envision my little angels all snuggled in their pajamas thanking Santa Clause for their amazing selfless mom). And then…REALITY CHECK!

The drive to Dallas takes about five hours, at exactly hour two (you know, the point where you are definitely committed to the trip) I started noticing this loud rumbling sound being emitted from the depths of my car. I couldn’t pinpoint it, but it was loud, vibrating, and my low oil indicator was flashing. Obviously, this set off the panic button in my mind, and I did what every stressed out Army Wife does when experiencing car problems… I called my dad. He listened to my grievances, tried to trouble shoot the problem, and explained that I better call a garage when I reached Dallas. I white-knuckled the steering wheel the rest of the drive, and did the happy dance when we pulled into the Great Wolf Lodge. Heck, I had no clue if we were going to make it home, but we were going to swim for three days—right after I found a cell phone charger (yep, like every good woman, I forgot to pack one). My phone was about to die, my kids were starving, there was already a pile of oil puddling underneath my car, but I grabbed our suitcases and we charged into the resort ready to forget our woes for 72 hours.

And THAT was the exact moment that the resort lost power.

Now, water resorts can’t operate if there is no power… and the same goes for elevators. And yes, you guessed it, we were on the top floor. No problem. The resort was passing out free Dipping-Dots to help prevent a mutiny, and my three little children greedily gobbled down the frozen sugar snacks. Maybe I should have been paying more attention to how much my four year old was eating, but I was seriously trying to recover from the drive and desperately hoping that my phone didn’t die before I found 1. A phone charger 2. A hotel room 3. Power.

And THAT was the exact moment that my four year old puked all over herself.

Waiting for an elevator suddenly wasn’t a priority, and I grabbed all the suitcases, the puke covered preschooler, and hoofed it up eight flights of steps. My older kids were so hyped up on sugar that they had enough energy to power the damn resort, and were just running around the hotel room at mock ten. I cleaned up Anna, assured her that everyone vomits on themselves at some point in their lives (usually the college years), and explained to my kids that I needed just a few moments to “gather my sanity”. I locked myself in the bathroom, lowered myself into the empty bathtub, and prayed that God would somehow hear my stressed out Army Wife prayers and send some much needed alcohol to my room.

And THAT was the exact moment that my phone decided it had enough battery power left to receive ONE more call… from my mother.

Now, I heard the phone ring, but I really was in no mental shape to answer it, and unless it was Publisher’s Clearing House calling to inform me that I was their new mega-million winner then I really didn’t care who was on the other end (and let’s be frank…. Luck wasn’t exactly on my side this trip). I hollered out to my son to answer it, closed my eyes in the pitch black bathroom (still no power), and leaned my head back against the cool tile. Working on my yoga breathing, I tried desperately to keep the panic attacks at bay, and just focused on my breathing.

And THAT was the exact moment I heard my son tell my mother, “Mom can’t come to the phone right now… she is having a nervous breakdown in the bathtub.”

I could only imagine the chaos that erupted at my parent’s house with THAT comment. They already envisioned me with one foot in the Crazy House, and I knew that they didn’t exactly think a three day trip to a water park was a mentally smart move on my part. And let’s be honest… I was an Army Wife on the edge. I needed three things: 1. Mary Poppins 2. A GIANT bottle of Grey Goose 3. World Peace.

Now let’s flash forward to this Christmas again: I may not have received a magical nanny, world peace, or the GIANT bottle of Grey Goose in 2010… but the war in Iraq is finally over, Jim is home for the holidays, and a new martini bar opened up just ten miles from my house. Last year’s crazy Christmas taught me that holiday magic takes more than just a credit card and a good intention, but requires teamwork, togetherness, family, and love. I may be stuck in years of therapy from the fall out of that trip, but I know that my kids and I left the resort smiling, exhausted, broke, and ready to face the holidays head on.



I guess it’s time to see what 2011 has in store for me… It can’t be any worse, right?...
***Note: Anna is recovering from a nasty eye infection and Jim is home sick with a stomach virus. Maybe I spoke too soon…”

Merry Christmas everyone!

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Buttons.

Yesterday started out the same as every other day… with a headache. My youngest had a meltdown that her toothpaste tasted weird, my son was complaining that his substitute was mean and that SHE had a beard, and my oldest daughter wanted to compete in a pageant. I switched toothpaste with Anna, told JD not to stare, and explained to Abby, “Sure you can compete in a pageant… when I am dead.” I shuffled them all out the door, totally ignoring the protests, and laced up my running shoes for my morning run. For the next hour, I planned to talk to no one, think about nothing other than songs playing on my iPod, and burn at least 700 calories. All was going well, until mile 1.7.

Problem numero uno: My phone rang, and like an obsessed-crackberry-idot, I answered it. The person on the other end of the line was a friend who had donated hotel rooms to soldiers’ families. I had a certificate of appreciation and a bunch of other thank you items that I needed to ship to him, and I had sent an email requesting his work address. Of course, at the exact same moment he called, a cute (possibly rabid) dog darted out from the brush and stood in the center of the country road. Now for those of you who are not from Texas, let me explain the definition of a country road. It is a place where few cars travel… but the ones that do tend to move faster than an F-18. I could hear a rumble of a car engine in the distance, and I desperately tried to beckon the dog towards safety (without making a sound on the phone).

Problem numero dos: Just my luck, the damn dog didn’t understand sign language.

A pickup truck was traveling at the speed of light towards the dog (which sat in the middle of the road just staring at me), and with an exasperated eye roll, I finally called the dog over. The truck barreled past, but slowed down just enough to yell out the window to me, “Put your damn dog on a leash!”

To which I yelled back (while I held the phone to my ear), “Not my dog, asshole!”

What can I say… professionalism at its best.

Problem numero tres: Once you save a dog’s life, he decides to adopt you, and will follow you…. For at least six more miles.

Yep, fuzzy dog (which I called Buttons by the end) followed behind me the rest of the run. I couldn’t shake him. He usually ran smack-dab in the center of the road, but seemed adept enough at playing frogger that I stopped freaking out every time a car came near. He tripped me twice (I am positive it was a complete accident both times), and crazy enough, I found myself talking to him. I told Buttons everything. All the pain, hurting, worrying, and yes, all the joy that was bottle up inside me. But unlike some of our human counterparts, Buttons never judged me. He didn’t pretend that he could relate to my situation. He didn’t offer me pointless advice, and he didn’t assume that the events I decided to share publically were the only events in my life. Instead, Buttons just listened and ran beside me.

At mile seven, a cop waved me over to ticket me for running with my dog off a leash. I explained (in a much more pleasant manner, this time) that Buttons wasn’t MY dog! The cop raised an eyebrow at me, took down my information, and carted Buttons off to animal control. As I turned to run the remaining half mile home, I slowly realized that we all could learn a lot from a dog like Buttons: to listen more, to judge less, to love unconditionally, and to just enjoy the run—wherever it may be taking you.

So that’s what I plan to do this week. … To just enjoy the run. Find peace in my journey. Forgive myself for mistakes made. Learn to love unconditionally, even if that notion terrifies me, and to never be afraid to get dirty. Everyone on this planet is guilty of being human, but that doesn’t mean we have to be guilty of living a meaningless life.



…But fist, I plan to find out when Buttons will be available for adoption.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Running for a reason

Just last night I was sitting at school completely rejoicing about the fact that I had survived the first semester. I was exhausted, in need of a facial, and wistfully wishing that Mary Poppins would somehow pop down my chimney for the spring semester when I got a phone call. Now, the call was a friend named Edgardo, a local runner and trainer who worked for the American Cancer Society, and he wanted to know if I would consider mentoring or coaching a marathon team for an upcoming race in Austin. Now, my first thought was, “Ummm….. no way.” (I barely have time to shower on a daily basis AND I have to somehow add an internship into the equation next semester)”…. but somehow (yet more proof that I was dropped on my head at birth) I momentarily lost all control and heard myself responding, “Ok…. I think so… Yes..?” Maybe it was the fact that the planets were aligned up just perfectly to give me that extra boost of confidence. Maybe it was because I had just gotten my hair highlighted that morning, and I was having an extra amazing I-got-red-highlights-and-I-don’t-look-like-an-American-Idol-wanna-be kind of hair day. Maybe it was the fact that I had just turned in my last paper and my brain was so taxed that I was still working on answering a question from two hours ago. All reasonable possibilities…. But the true reason, and the ONLY reason, I said yes was because my mother-in-law, Deb—one of the most amazing women and mentors a woman could ever know-- is currently fighting Stage Four colon-rectal cancer.

Now, I share a lot of personal information on this blog…. but I have yet to talk about Deb. Deb is amazing, selfless, and hilarious—the kind of woman who wears a smile in her sleep and sings Disney songs in the shower. In fact, I can remember driving with her, right after I moved to Texas, when the temperature outside had to be at least 5000K (even I was losing brain cells in the car and that was WITH the air condition on). Anyway, we were sitting in traffic, eyeballing a smoothie place, and just hoping that the air condition would find a way to pump more than a whisper of cool air in our faces. Across the street from us (and the source of the ridiculous traffic congestion) was a road crew working on something-or-other on the side of the road. They were hot and sweaty, and to be honest, I was more annoyed than sympathetic due to the fact that it was taking us an additional fifteen minutes to get to my son’s preschool. Deb looked at those sweaty workers, turned to me, and said, “I would like eight peach smoothies please.” One for her…and seven for the workers. THAT’S the kind of person Deb is. THAT’S the kind of heart that Deb has.

To this day, I will never understand why people like Deb get cancer. Why is it that someone who brings so much joy and light into the world should ever have her body betray her? How could the cancer be growing inside her for so long that it somehow found the path to metastasize to her liver, and nobody knew? How could we hear a diagnosis in August that reveals Stage Four? And the scariest of all…. How will we ever cope if Deb leaves us before we are ready? Because I am not ready for her to go. She’s not ready to go. And although she fights it with everything she has got (and this woman has more spunk than an Irish sailor), I can still hear the pain in her voice. And I am helpless.

For the past 60-ish years, Deb has been taking care of the world. Raising kids that weren’t her own. Loving soldiers like they were family. Listening to my long-winded rants and assuring me that I am NOT crazy. But for once, I wanted to show her what she means to me—to let her know that I am thinking about her, always—even when my life has me going around in circles? That although I haven’t talked about her disease publically, its not because I am ignoring it, but rather just desperately trying to contain the grief.

So this year I will train and run Zooma, a brutish hilly course in South Texas, in honor of Deb and ALL patients fighting cancer… but this time, I am taking a team with me. What can I give to a woman who has been an inspiration to me for the last ten years? What can WE give? The answer is simple: give of yourself.
'
Deb: this race is for you.
Everyone else: From here on out, I will only answer to coach.
See you on the track.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

But who's counting?

There are exactly 10,080 minutes left in this semester, and these final two weeks of mayhem have been a killer. Let me share my schedule: wake up, work out (mainly running because I don’t have time to hit a gym), drop the kids off at school, work, pick kids up from school, go to school, work, bed (at which time I usually dream that I forgot to do something at work). It’s crazy. It’s hectic. It’s definitely not a life for the weak of heart. And thank God….it’s almost over.

What have I learned? You know, besides the obvious ‘how to be an effective social worker and counselor' (blah, blah, blah). Well, let me share a few lessons. Firstly, the sky does not fall, gravity does not cease to exist, and the universe will not teeter out of balance if you get a C on a paper. Yes, it’s true… after graduating summa cum laude at Penn State, I managed to get a C on a paper in grad school. To say I was pissed would be an understatement. I received my unmerited grade, stormed out of the classroom screaming about the injustices of being the “skinny bitch” in class, and threw on my running shoes for a 5 mile save-my-sanity run. AND after that, I drank a martini…. we are talking a BIG martini that was pieced together with little travel size bottles of Grey Goose (and before you inbox me, I am fully aware of just how damn desperate that sounds). Now I will be honest, it wasn’t the grade that threw me for a loop (even though I would still strongly encourage people NOT to mention that paper in front of me if you value your life, nose, or front teeth), but rather the subtle reminder that even I—the supercharged Army Wife who has more energy than the sun--couldn’t juggle it all perfectly. Something had to give.

Which leads me to lesson number two: you can only run in fifty different directions for so long before you need to change your running shoes. For those who don’t speak running metaphors, let me explain it like this: sometimes, you just have to rely on plan “B” when plan “A” just isn’t cutting it. The past four months I have tried to fit 30 hours of activities into a 24 hour day… now, I was not a math major nor did I ever go to Hogwarts, but I AM 100% certain that it just isn’t possible. Prioritizing, cutting back (even on that elusive “me time”), and learning how to say ‘no’ become essential for survival. I learned (and Congress now agrees) that pizza is a vegetable, eyelash extensions are smoking hot but take way to much upkeep for a geographical single mom, and finding time to eat lunch with my kiddos once a week at school is infinitely more important than earning a pay raise. Life is all about choices—and I guarantee that we will make some good ones and some bad. Embrace the results, and use those consequences to challenge you in the future. You may be tired. You may start equating an extra ten minutes in the shower to nirvana. You may discover that you are wearing your slippers at work…. But that’s ok. As of right now, I am two weeks away from completing my first semester of grad school. Only 10, 042 minutes to go….

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Obligatory Thankgiving post

Brace yourself….. because today I did the unthinkable. It is exactly one day until Thanksgiving, I have three papers and two presentations all due within ten days, have yet to run/workout/or walk any farther than the refrigerator since Monday, I am behind on my workload (crossing my fingers my boss isn’t reading this), and I haven’t slept for more than five hours in weeks. I am seriously beginning to feel the pressure of EVERYTHING, and although I would love to demand (in my best diva voice) for the earth to stop spinning, I seem to be helpless when it comes to stopping time—even for a nano second.

So what did I do??? (Drum roll please….) . I shut my laptop, put a ball cap on my head, and took my three amazing (and totally bored with Thanksgiving break) kids to the zoo. To say it was a restful experience would be like comparing Mt. St. Helens to a party popper. The kids were loud. The zoo was hot. The traffic was insane, and at least 15 slug bugs drove by causing World War Three to erupt in the backseat.

All that considered, I wouldn’t change a thing about today. You see a year ago, Thanksgiving was a MUCH different story. Jim was overseas in Iraq, Anna had such a bad case of separation anxiety that they had to pry her off me at preschool drop off, and JD couldn’t stand to be alone—even for a second. All of us were struggling to find that elusive holiday magic, and Thanksgiving seemed like just another blip on the calendar that only served to remind us of all we were missing.

But that is thing about being thankful… sometimes you can’t see how truly blessed your life is until you realize just how meaningless it would be without the crazy madness of family. Kids add mayhem, fingerprints, and stretch marks to your life, but they also add bedtime stories, belly laughs, and a valid excuse to make rice krispee treats at two in the morning. Thanksgiving IS a time to be thankful, and I honestly believe that ALL of us can find something amazing to be grateful for.

I know I am. This year I am thankful for the soldiers who are finally home, and for the soldiers that still fight overseas. I am grateful for the chance to go back to school, and for the fact that I am not the only thirty-something trying to make a career change. I am thankful for the way my 5-year-old looks at me like I am the most important person in the world, and the fact that my son wholeheartedly believes that moms are more valuable than Bill Gates stock portfolio. I am thankful for friends and family, and the fact that a turkey is a damn ugly bird (so I have absolutely no guilt eating it). And believe it or not, I am thankful for the experiences—the good and the bad—of being a questionable sane Army Wife. The deployments, coffees, promotions, foxtrots with the senior grades, and the throw-backs with the junior grades—they have all helped shape the woman you see today.

(But I would really love the chance to be thankful for University of Texas destroying (or at least not losing by more than 8) Texas A&M on Thanksgiving Day too… and so would my tuituion)

(If only all days were THIS perfect....)

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Break time

This morning I was sitting in traffic cursing the existence of I-35. You see, some vehicle, about five cars up from me, decided to do only 45 in the fast lane during rush hour, and the consequent back up extended for miles . I came to two conclusions as I sat there going nowhere fast: 1. People who drive under the speed limit are probably the very same people that never get invited to parties. 2. I have a bit of a temper.

The good thing about sitting in traffic for over 45 minutes is this: you are forced to think about things you may have been putting off for a while—even if you are suffering from an acute case of road rage. Yes, traffic would have been a hell of a lot easier to deal with if I had a cup of Starbucks sitting next to me in the cup holder… but then again caffeine would have only served to fuel my already soaring blood pressure (not to mention this weird throbbing vein that had suddenly appeared on my forehead).

Anyway, as I sat there, I decided that this morning would be a good time to reflect on all of the changes that had blown up my world over the past four months. For those that follow my blog, you are all aware that I finally decided to go back to school. It was a hard choice—one that impacted my family in every possible way. I am no longer home during the evenings, and I seem to spend every waking moment writing papers (and then bitching about them to friends). I am dependant on neighbors to carpool to my kiddo’s sporting events, and brace yourself for this one…. I am only able to catch a happy hour about once a month (**gasp**).

The crazy part of this journey is that life seemed to go from a rollercoaster to a tilt-a-whirl. Yes, I am still struggling to get everything done, but I am also trying desperately to find some sort of balance. Running has become more of a chore then a release. Work has become all about a pay check, and life has suddenly become measurable in hours, not experiences. Somehow, the race of the purpose-driven life has left me exhausted, cranky, and in need of a maid.

So, as I sat there breathing in the recycled fumes from the dirty diesel truck parked in front of me, I made a mental list of all I wanted to accomplish this Christmas break. Things like, take my kids to Sea World, actually bake (sugar-free, non-butter) Christmas cookies for Santa, finish up that manuscript I have been working on for the past two years, and finally have time to take the inner city “high risk for obesity” youth for a run. I promised myself that I would sleep in at least twice over the two week break, send three care packages to soldiers in Afghanistan, watch at least one movie that does not involve cartoons, wizards, or sparkly vampires, and hop on the back of a horse -close my eyes and just let it run.

You see, life has a way of manipulating our souls—even when we are desperately driven to reach our dreams. The world can become mundane, our priorities can get lost in the rat race, and we can take the people we love for granted--only because we are so caught up in crossing items off our to-do list. But I am here today to encourage you to remember that living is more than just existing. Reaching your goals is fantastic. Completing marathons is motivating. Looking better than a 22 year old in a bikini is freaking awesome. But, so is spending a night curled up in bed with your family watching Elf for the 900th time. Remember to breathe. Remember to live. Remember that a “break” does not mean you have to stop accomplishing things….. but rather that you finally find time to start accomplishing things that feed your soul.
(Note: Martinis may not be soul food.... but I am a 100% positive they are soul appetizers.)

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Feeding time

Last Friday I attended the 3rd ACR’s dining out. It was the first night that the officers and supportive staff got together for a night of revelry since the unit redeployed back to the US last September. I got all dressed up (in a fifteen minute window), put on my highest heels, and drove the two hours to Salado to celebrate with the families. I was excited to finally meet some of the men that I had heard stories about throughout the year long deployment: the Mormon lawyer, the lego master, the guy who had finally discovered the importance of PT and managed to lose 50 lbs. Up to this point, all of these people were only stories in emails-- Jim’s mystery support crew who had provided him with laughs along the journey.

What I wasn’t prepared for though, was the feeling of being lost once I walked into that ballroom. There I stood, underneath the thousands of twinkling lights trying to figure out what the hell we were supposed to be celebrating. After all, not all of the soldiers of the 3rd ACR returned home—and some that did will forever be wounded. Some marriages collapsed ; some are still struggling to survive. Military children on the home front were forced to learn how to live with anxiety and depression. And then there are wives like me—the one’s with the outward thousand-watt- smile who have no clue how to find the path back to that pre-deployment home. The home that was once familiar and safe and strong.

You see, I spent the last two years learning to pave a new path for myself. A freeing journey of self discovery where I allowed myself to go back to school, authorized myself money for eyelash extensions and coach bags (I figured I could collect gifts for Father’s Day too), and learned how to take the kids on vacations without a husband around. I grew accustomed to going to sleep alone—and waking up with three kids in my bed. I found strength in my potential to succeed. And I found peace in the knowledge that I could carry my family on only one set of shoulders. All positive…. Right?

Wrong. What the world fails to notice in a redeployment, is that an entire year creeped by. Sure, we can celebrate the fact that we are finally home together, but we can’t ignore the fact that the home we have returned to may be completely different than the one we had left. The soldiers are different. The spouses are tired. The children have grown.

As I stood beneath those lights and toasted the brave soldiers for their victory on the battlefield, I couldn’t help but raise a glass to my family. It took a two year journey to teach me that home is a place inside you—where family and friends are admitted upon invitation only and share your deepest secrets and most horrifying fears. Where the only limitations in this life are the obstacles that we fear can’t be cleared. And the pain of loneliness and the fear of the unthinkable carve out scars in our soul. The past two years have taught me that I can change the smoke detector batteries—if I stand on a telephone book, on top of a stool, on top of a chair. Frozen pizza and a gummy vitamin do cover practically every nutritional need of a growing child. And that a bubblebath, glass of chardonnay, and a total-smut book can serve as a two hour vacation when the thought of waking up and doing it all over again seems damn near impossible.

Yes, victory can be defined in many ways. To some, it is merely returning home—strong, motivated, successful. But to me, it’s only about finding home. Learning how to let people back in to my life even with the knowledge that the war will call them away again. Learning how to love and let go when every molecule in my body screams it’s too risky. And learning that the only way to conquer your fear is to face it.

Heck, sometimes the only option left open in this life is to swim up to that Moby Dick of your time—whatever that crippling fear may be-- look him straight in the eye, smile out of the corner of your mouth, cock an eyebrow in his direction…. and then pull out the tartar sauce. Are you hungry enough for the challenge?
(World's most awkward formal photo)

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Trick-or-treat? (Somehow, I unwillingly chose trick)

Today I am giving a salute to all the single moms out there-- those who are geographically promoted to the main caregiver and those who have no relief in sight. Don’t let anybody fool you—there is no harder job than serving as a mom AND a dad. Add in a job, soccer practice, parent teacher conferences, and a much needed workout… and you have exactly 15 seconds to enjoy for yourself. Heck, I now order my shoes online (from my phone as I am parked in traffic), buy groceries when the only remaining option left is to cook the dog, and console myself with the belief that folding clothes is “me time” IF I listen to my iPod while I tackle the mountain of laundry. Throw in a holiday (such as Halloween) on a Monday, and you have all the necessary criteria to fall off the productivity ladder flat onto your butt.

That’s how my week started. This year, trick-or-treat fell on a very inconvenient Monday night. The same night that I had mandatory class, AND my youngest daughter fell onto the couch in a heap of tears proclaiming that she wanted to be a princess NOT a cat. The same night that my end of month reports were due by 5:00, AND I felt compelled to run six miles due to the fact that I ate enough candy corn to throw myself into a sugar coma. Yep, my inner witch had been released, and I mounted my broomstick to fight the traffic towards school while my kids dressed up in all of their various costumes and 20lbs of makeup and fake blood. I felt guilty for having to ask my parents to take my kids trick-or- treating. I felt guilty about eating my weight in candy. And I felt pissed that I had to juggle a thousand roles when all I wanted to do was watch Ghost Hunters Live (Don’t judge…) while I curled up in bed with a cup of chamomile tea.

Depressing, right? Feeling compelled to hire me a cleaning lady now? Well, fear not. You see, in every situation there is ALWAYS a little bit of magic, and being a single mom is no exception. Miraculously, class ended an hour early, traffic was insanely light that night, and I made it home just in time to watch my kids trick-or-treat at one last house before calling it a night. They walked in the door, attacked the candy, and ALL curled up in my bed to watch “Catching Bigfoot”. Nope, it wasn’t “Ghost Hunters”. Nope, I didn’t get to take any of the usual pre-Halloween photos. Nope, I didn’t finish my end of month reports until November 1st. But that’s ok-- For eight blissful hours I slept with all my little goblins (and one feline-princess) as I thanked God that they were all a part of my life. Life can be hectic and out-of-your-control situations may threaten to bring you down, but all it takes is one enchanting moment to balance the universe once again. And the real magic is this... I have yet to meet a single mom that EVER takes a moment with their kids for granted. Time is precious, single mothers understand this universal truth.

And for those that are still exhausted from the Monday night holiday that tossed us under the productivity bus try this: wait until the kids are sleeping, sneak downstairs into the kids’ loot bags, and steal a Take-5 candy bar. Trust me…. It’s like a little bit of heaven.
(The Halloween cat/princess/track star... Most dilemmas have multipe possible solutions)

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Some hero's are under 5'2"

Today I received a disgruntled call from a close friend. Her name is Chaunte, and beside the fact that her awesome factor is off the charts, she is also a female veteran and works super hard to improve the quality of life for female veterans, spouses, and military children. If THAT fact doesn’t convince you of her coolness, consider the fact that she is a crossfit bad ass and is probably the only chic I know to whom I could call and say, “Want to run 10 miles, share a protein shake, and buy some shoes?” and she would drop everything to meet me at the closest park (credit cards in hand). Yes Chaunte is exceedingly fit. Yep, she has over forty pairs of jeans in her closet AND is in a high functioning committed relationship. And most amazingly, she has dedicated her life to working towards a cause that is way bigger than just her immediate life. What can I say…. Chaunte is pretty damn special.

Anyway—back to the story-- Chaunte sent me a text today that very bluntly read, “Need to talk.”, and after my first thought that the boyfriend FINALLY put his foot down about the jeans I replied, “Will call in 15”. You see, I was in the middle of writing a paper for grad school, waiting on a call from work, and had exactly ten minutes to tame the wild curls that were circling my head (I opted not to blowdry today) because I still needed to run to Old Navy to pick up a pair of “mandatory or I am going to fail orchestra” black pants before my daughter’s cello concert (which is tomorrow night…) sometime before her 2:45 orthodontist appointment. So like every good female, I doused my hair in a gallon of curl enhancer, and headed to the car to drive to the store. Chaunte’s call had exactly a ten minute window to go down.

What I didn’t expect though was the exhausted voice on the other end of the phone line mirroring my thoughts so precisely and emphatically, “Aim, there are not enough service to help females. Since when are drugs the best solution for everything” Where is the support? Where do the kids fit in? Why doesn’t anyone else see the problem like we do?”

I listened to her, put my car in park, and kicked off my heels under the steering wheel—this call was suddenly upgraded to a twenty minute slot.

You see, this knowledge is nothing new to Chaunte and I. The military is overwhelmed with war casualties-- the physical and emotional-- and has little time to devote to its female and military family populations. Sure support groups exist within units—BUT you had better act according to your rank, or you will be gossiped, labeled, and thrown under the bus every time you step out of line. And once the spouse returns home, problems should just disappear, right? A second honeymoon! Time to get to know each other again! Hot sex with a virtual stranger! Sure. Right. A second honeymoon with a man that pops Ambien in order to get four hours of sleep, is so strung out from being in a war zone that guns shot sounds from the downstairs TV throw him into a hyper-vigilant panic, and is so completely baffled as to why the hell you are so pissed off at him when he was the one who was away fighting for the past twelve months. Sound familiar? Sound like a second honeymoon to you?

Military families all over this nation are in crisis. Issues such as depression, anxiety, obesity, failed marriages, suicide, and alcohol abuse are on the rise. Female veterans, spouses, and children are crying out saying:
“I have had enough.”
“ I am different then the male soldier.”,
“I need help now.”
“Someone please hear me.”

Thank God people like Chaunte are listening. Thank God people like Chaunte care. There ARE solutions out there. There IS so much more that can be done for military families and female veterans, but someone has to be brave enough to speak up. Stop pretending that deployments are just one happy homecoming. Life is not like the lifetime show Army Wives. It is real. And difficult. And painful. And beautiful. Happiness should never have to be the battle.
(Some military supporters wear camo bootie shorts...)

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Some sacrifices just count more than others....

Today I ran into the Soldiers’ Angels support center to talk with the Executive Director (and one of my best friends) Toby. I had a quick question about a grant that I was working on, and needed to hog- tie him down before he started vacation. Toby is a busy guy, and he had his dad and daughter (who happened to be dressed in lederhosen—and no, I didn’t ask) with him in tow. I cornered him, threw the questions at him, and placed all the info he gave me into the “to be done ALMOST immediately pile” (translation: whatever night next week that I deemed myself “clean enough” and could forgo a shower). I was just about to head out for the day, and start the trek to school when I ran into an old friend Charles.

Now, I have written about Charles before, but for those who don’t remember, Charles is a musical genius who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time during a deployment to Afghanistan. He was blown up last year, forced to have reconstructive surgery on his knee, and hobbled into Soldier’s Angels last January where I started working with him in the Soldiers’ Angels music program, Operation Harmony. (And yes, for those who aren’t aware, I teach music too… ). It was obvious that Charles was WAY more skilled than the average Joe, and I swear he could charm the feathers off a songbird. Charles had a gift— and I was humbled by the opportunity to work with him. He eventually learned everything from me that I could offer, took over the music program once I had to step down due to grad school, and continues to work with other vets and our nation’s wounded to promote healing through music. What can I say… Charles is a rock star in every shape and form.

So, what’s the point of this blog? Yes, it was great running into an old friend (with the bonus information that my best friend dresses his daughter in lederhosen). Yes, Charles played for me a new song that he was working on, and it absolutely took my breath away. But what I wasn’t prepared for was the news…
My dear friend Charles is deploying back to Afghanistan this April.

To say that my heart sunk into my toes would be an understatement. I was pissed. I was heartbroken. And the fearful realization that this war is still causing pain to those I care about started creeping back into my soul. Charles is going back. Men and women all over this country are going back. The war is STILL going on. So what can we do? The answer is simple: Remember them. Respect them. Honor them. Care for them. And Charles, if you are reading this, I PROMISE to finish that song I have been working on… you have just provided me with all the inspiration that a girl could ever need.
(Stud.)

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Tough Mutha'

Last Saturday I did something crazy. I jumped into a muddy pool full of ice water, dragged myself over 15 ft walls, swam through a swamp , dove through live wires connected to 10,000 volts of electricity, ran 12 miles… And then drank a beer. Why??? Because it was the Tough Mudder, and apparently running endurance races just aren’t good enough anymore. I craved broken bones, dysentery, and strongly worded text messages from my parents questioning my sanity. (And let me tell you, there is nothing more liberating then receiving a text message from your father reading, “Your mother and I had hoped you would eventually grow out of this phase. We are planning on buying you a rocking chair for your next birthday. Please consider using it.”)

Yes the race was fun and tiring. Yes I was so covered in dirt that it took me FIVE hair washings in order to drag a brush through the tangles. Yes I probably upped the inevitable hip replacement surgery by five years. But what I didn’t expect (other than the ridiculous speckled tan lines all over my back) was that I learned a few lessons along the way too.

First off: enemies can’t stay enemies for very long if you are on the same team at a Tough Mudder. How do I know this? My sworn nemesis, and unexpected teammate, Joe, and I had to work together. He is stronger than I am. Faster than I am. And can swear in more languages than I can. This gave Joe the advantage in an obstacle race—especially one where you are required to work as a team. Unfortunately, Joe and I had stopped speaking to each other last June when I decided he was a “cocky asshole” and he declared me “a stuck up biatch” (fyi: these are both pretty truthful observations.)

Now, I am pretty sure I grunted a non-committal hello to Joe at the starting line, but I aligned myself with the other members of the team—perfectly content to ignore his existence for the remaining twelve miles. Of course, I forgot all about ignoring him at obstacle number 3 of 29… when he kicked mud in my face while low crawling under some barbwire. I responded the way every pissed off questionably sane Army Wife does… I forgot about the barbwire and mud, propelled myself forward, grabbed his shoe, and yanked it off. Hah! Nobody puts Baby in the Corner! I finished my crawl, stood up smiling, and thought to myself, “The only thing that would have made that moment more beautiful would be a conveniently placed cactus patch for me to launch that shoe into”

Of course, a good five minutes went by as Joe struggled to get his muddy shoe untied and back on his foot, and I realized we would never finish this race unless we somehow buried the hatchet. The asshole and the bitch were going to have to sign a peace treaty.
(Looking for Joe? He made it across. Looking for Amy? Check the water.)

And we did. No words were exchanged. No witty comments were shared poking fun of the other (well, not out loud, at least…). And the next obstacle we encountered—a twelve foot wall—Joe’s hand was the one that helped haul me over. And that’s when it dawned on me. The Tough Mudder is just an extreme dirty version of life. It is going to hurt. You are going to have to face your fears. And sometimes the people you need to rely on, are the ones you swore you never would. That’s life. That’s the Tough Mudder. And for those who are wondering: we finished strong, bleeding, starving, and smiling!

Best race EVER!!!!!
(Ok, I smiled AFTER I got some non-dysentery-causing water)
(And since I know my inbox will be flooded with requests. This is Team Soldiers' Angels. No comment as to who is the "bitch" and who is the "asshole"

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Loan Info that all vets can use...

Moving is a pain in the keester. PCS’ing every two to three years can make you want to pull your hair out. One thing that I have learned through this whole maze of military life is to utilize the resources around you. Sign your kids up for hourly care on base, DITY move as much as you possibly can
(and preferably the heaviest objects in your possession), and utilize your VA loan benefits. Moving doesn’t have to make you bald. Check out:

http://www.militaryvaloan.com
(Now, as for the fact that kids always seem to catch a stomach virus at the exact moment the moving truck pulls out of the driveway…. I can’t exactly help you with that one yet!)

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Hair today. Gone tomorrow

Stress can do crazy things to our mind and body. Some people claim it makes them eat copious amounts of chocolate, others claim it leads to insomnia, still others blame stress for the fact that they just dropped two hundred bones on a pair of sunglasses (when they happen to have about thirty pairs in a drawer by the bed). Although, I tend to agree with all of these issues (especially, the sunglasses), I came to the conclusion that stress MAY be causing my hair to fall out (and the thought that I may be bald long before I possess cellulite on my upper thighs only stresses me out more). So, I did what every good female does when presented with a horrifying problem of disastrous proportions: I blamed my thyroid.

Yes, I went to the doctor Monday morning and saw my new (and insanely good looking) practioner, and waited for him while I nervously glanced at my watch every thirty seconds (let’s be honest, I REALLY didn’t have time for a doctor’s visit this week). He came in, and did the normal interview routine. He asked me how much caffeine I drank in a normal day. I lied and responded only four cups. He asked me how many alcoholic drinks I consume in a week. I lied and told him only four drinks. He asked me how much sleep I get in an average night. I told him the truth and responded four hours. The doc looked at me, patted me on the head, and said. “Any history of thyroid disease in your family?” To which I replied, “I don’t really know… I found out I might be adopted four weeks ago.”

As I sat there chewing on my bottom lip and wishing that I hadn’t used redbull instead of water in the coffee pot that morning, I waited for him to tell me his prognosis. Was I going to die? Was I going to go bald? Oh my God… was I going to get fat? Hot doc smiled warmly at me, and gently said, “Amy, I think you may be burning the candle at both ends. I will do the blood test, but I think we both know that the issue isn’t your thyroid.”

WHAT? If I couldn’t blame my thyroid what exactly was I supposed to blame? President Bush? And that’s when it dawned on me—life can only go so fast for so long, before you need to put your hands on your knees and just catch your breath for a second. Yes, I can work two different jobs while I juggle mommy-ing and school. Yes, I can write a paper while I brush my teeth. Yes, I can go four months in between a haircut using the excuse (with the punctuated eye roll for effect), “Growing your hair out is such a bitch.” But the truth of the matter is, the stress of life ALWAYS has a way of catching up to you, and when it does it has the power to run you over like a steam engine.

So, my million dollar advice is to find an outlet— AND learn to find peace from within, if only for a moment or two. Whether it‘s running, shopping, spending time with friends, or a weekly gathering at Houlihans for a much needed martini. Life is too short to waste worrying—so don’t. Learn to laugh more. Spend a little extra for Aveda shampoo. And find time for the things in life that make YOU smile from within. And for those who are wondering: my hair stopped shedding the morning after I went to the doctor. Silly hair!
(And fyi: The sunglasses were DEFINITELY worth it!)

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

What do I want for Christmas? Answ: A nap.

It’s 10:00 AM on a Wednesday, and I already feel like I have done more work than any one human being should ever have to accomplish before lunch. So far, I have dropped three kids off to school (amongst a verbal assault of complaints that they had to buy lunch today), ran seven miles, finished up a paper for school, wrote a letter of inquiry for a grant, saved my dog from being eaten by the neighbor’s demon hound from Hell… and consequently fixed the fence so demon dog doesn’t decide to pay another visit (yes, I am fairly certain demon dog has rabies), and had a lengthy conference call with one of my bosses (yes, I am fairly certain he has rabies too).

I would love to curl up in a ball and take a forty-five minute nap, but the truth is there are about twenty five pages of paperwork sitting next to my scanner, a midterm on Monday that I have yet to study for (or even read the chapters), and there is so little food in the house I am eating peanut butter with a spoon for lunch. Ever have one of those days? Ever have one of those lives?

The crazy aspect of this whirlwind of life is that I am still smiling—even though life is busier than ever before. Yes, I am averaging about fourteen hours to return a call. Yes, I am in great need of a haircut, a new pair of running shoes, and a flu shot—none of which will happen before Christmas. Yes, I ran out of eyeliner last weekend and actually contemplated using a sharpie. But that’s ok. Being an Army Wife has taught me several life lessons, but the one I hold dearly (and wrote across my bathroom mirror with my eyeliner/sharpie) is that I would rather have my plate full than empty. I have experienced what life is like when your spouse heads to a war zone, and I can attest that feeling empty inside is infinitely worse than cramming for any midterm or dodging your boss’s phone calls. So count your blessings, seek out your dreams, and start reaching those goals—even if it means your may be averaging only 4 hours a sleep a night. You only get one chance at life. Make it count.

And besides... true friends dont mind if you fall asleep hanging out with them.
(Here I am sleeping during a Happy Hour)

(And here I am sleeping in between heats during a race. You get the point now don't you....)

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Flying monkeys

Life has a way of throwing you a flying monkey just when you think you are strictly following the yellow brick road. Yes, you may be happily advancing toward your own personal Oz, but the path can be riddled with gigantic obstacles and detours-- and it is up to you to determine how much you are going to let them slow you down. Now, I know you are wondering, what the hell happened to Amy this week? So let me start at the beginning…. You know, before I was left scratching my head in confusion and wondering if 0700 is too early for a drink (I’ll be honest…. It’s not 5’oclock anywhere when it’s 7 AM in Texas. Damn.)

It all started last Thursday, when I applied for a needed passport. Yes, I had one years earlier when my parents paid for elaborate vacations, but THAT passport got lost over the years, and I never really needed a new one (mainly due to the fact that all “elaborate” vacations in my life have revolved around Mickey Mouse for the past decade). It wasn’t until my best friend and I decided to plan a vacation to Cabo over the summer, that I realized that a new passport was essential to attend the next Pretend Wedding. So I decided it was time to grab the bull by the horns--I had my photo taken (worst picture ever—and I am NOT exaggerating), called my parents for my birth certificate (which is now yellowing with age), and headed to the county court house totally excited to check something off my to-do list.

Now, the clerk working there was a young guy, fairly attractive, and we made the usual idle small talk as I filled out all of the paperwork. I was over-the-top excited to finally be getting my passport, and did my usual talk-until-his-ears-start-to-bleed thing.

Clerk: “Is is still sunny out there?”
Me: “Does it ever rain in Texas?”
Clerk: “So Cabo, huh? Why did you choose Cabo?”
Me: (fearing that this is some test of national security) “Because I have a hankering for a nice tan AND some high-end tequila …. And all the Mexican cartel members seem to be vacationing in Acapulco.”

And so it went for the five minutes that I filled out every form and attempted to document that my passport was “lost” somewhere in the middle of my parent’s attic. It wasn’t until I handed over the paperwork and documents that I received the now anticipated, and totally normal, “Ohhhhh…. There may be a problem.”

As I glanced up from my check writing, I noticed that he was holding my birth certificate, and looking at me with a curious glance. “It says here you are 35?”

Exasperated with the fact that my age was just publically announced I replied, “Ummm, yes. Did you expect the form to be printed on an animal hide for those born in the seventies?”

He chuckled nervously, squished his eyebrows together and asked the totally UNANTICPATED question…. the kind of question that throws your universe off balance… the kind of question that causes your mouth to fall open wide enough for an elephant to wander into your throat:

“Any chance you were adopted????..... because there are no parents listed on your birth certificate.”

Now, being a questionably-sane-Army-Wife, I have learned to expect the unexpected… but this one came from left field. There I stood in the middle of the county courthouse staring bug eyed at an almost-good-looking clerk trying to decipher the exact meaning of his words. And that’s when it hit me….like a ton of bricks…. It wouldn’t matter.

I learned long ago that there is the family you are born with and the family you choose, and it wouldn’t matter if I was adopted, plucked off the Nile, or born naturally from my mother’s womb (although the thought of the ladder definitely makes me cringe). The people that I surround myself with—Loren, Allison, Chuante, Monica, Craig, Toby, my parents, (and about a dozen others that I haven’t mentioned)—are all the family that I need. They are the ones that have held me upright through the past year, and they are the ones who I am first to call when something catastrophic threatens to throw my world off kilter. Yes, life may like to send some flying monkeys at you. But as Dorothy learned, it’s a heck of a lot easier to navigate the yellow brick road with friends. So don’t go it alone. Lean on others when you are too weak to stand on your own two feet. And when marginally-hot guys ask you if you are adopted…. Reply with a smile, “Family is more than just blood.”

(And THEN call your parents and announce, “Well, I FINALLY understand why I am so much smarter and better looking than my brother.”).

(And besides.... isn't it obvious??? I already knew that I had a twin)

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

The 9-11 Run for Remembrance

Last Saturday night, I ran the Soldiers’ Angels Run for Remembrance. It was a 9hr 11 minute race around a mile loop at Olmos Park in San Antonio. We ran on teams of 9-ish people, and passed a baton from one runner to the next for the entire evening. I am not sure how many miles we ran…. but I know that our team did will over 75 miles that night—everyone pushing themselves for an awesome (or in some people’s cases a non-humiliating) mile time. To say it was an amazing experience would be an understatement— about 3 hours into the endure-athon, the entire atmosphere of the park changed. Teams became friends. Stories of 9-11 were shared. Soldiers raced around the track wearing body armor and carrying rucksacks. And everyone took turns destroying the porta-johns as miles of sprinting started taking a toll on weary bodies (Especially those who ate Chipolte an hour before the start).

(Team Chaos/ Team Never eat Chipolte before running for 9 hours. (Some lessons in life need to be learned the hard way)


Words like camaraderie, patriotism, and sacrifice were reintroduced into my vocabulary, and for the first time in over a year, I was able to think past what this war has ungraciously cost me… and hear what this war has stolen from others. Deployments, wounds, broken families, shattered lives, and fallen soldiers—all of us there had a story to tell. All of us, had been to more funerals then any 30-something ever should have to attend. All of us shared the fear that the war is still raging, like the uncontained fires in Central Texas, and can consume us at any time.

But what amazed me most—and humbled my soul-- was that the runners at the 9-11 race refused to give up. Quitting was not an option—even when the exhaustion was visibly apparent and they struggled to keep upright and to keep moving. One foot in front of another became another metaphor of survival. Never stop. Never quit. Run the race of life for those you love.

Yes, the tragedy of the 9-11 catastrophe has touched us all. We can cower in our fear, lose ourselves in our grief, or find ways to accept—and hopefully someday embrace-- all of the changes that have circled around us for the past ten years. Yes, life has never been the same. Yes, 9-11 ripped away our innocence. Yes, our armed services have been asked to deliver a virtual miracle. But what we need to remember is that hate and fear only lead down one path, and no journey based on anger has ever led to self enlightenment or peace.

As I stood on the finish line at 7:11 AM, the message was suddenly as clear as day. We all are asked to share our gifts-- and it is up to each of us to carry our weight, but life is more than just service to others. It is also about resilience, perseverance, strength, courage, forgiveness, and love. Do your duty—however you may be called to serve-- but remember we are all in this together. A good friend of mine reminded me today that, “Life is to short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who treat you right, and forget the ones who don’t. Believe that everything happens for a reason. If you get a chance—take it; if it changes your life—let it. Nobody said it would be easy. They just promised it would be worth it.”

(Ok... so this next photo doesn't exactly fit in anywhere... but a soldier is wearing the shirt, so I say it is totally appropiate to add it.)

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

The equation for happiness (well, the version that doesn't involve a new pair of shoes)

Last weekend, a friend told me a story about his life that absolutely floored me. It was a story about ethical obligations, responsibilities, burdens, and the situations in life that leave you feeling trapped (yes, I felt the need for a stiff drink after listening to this one). At first, I couldn’t relate to his situation at all, his story was centered in another culture, an arranged marriage, and probably the heaviest load of family pressure that I had ever heard. It took a few moments for all of this information to penetrate my Irish-you-can-get-married-to-whomever-you-want-as-long-as-he-pays-his-taxes brain, and I was about to hang up the phone with a shrug of the shoulders and the mumbled statement, "That only the strong can pave their way to happiness."… but as usual, the situation was far more complex than one simple Amyism could reflect.

That night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind wandered again in his direction. I didn’t understand how someone so full of energy and life could actually be drowning in it. I felt sorry for him, angry for him, and to be honest, annoyed by him – people who are strong should be able to figure out their own crap, right? Wrong.

It took me a few moments before the light bulb went on inside my over-analyzing brain, and I realized that I had heard this story before—in fact, probably hundreds of times before. No, the version I had heard did not involve any romantic arranged marriages or over bearing mothers (well, no more imperious then an Irish mother after you candidly admit to practicing birth control), but rather the situation where a military spouse is exhausted, out of options, barely employable after a decade of globe hopping, and the mother of a small platoon. How many times have I answered the phone to a crying girlfriend where they shouted, “I love him so much, but this life is killing me.”? How many times have I heard the phrase, “I am tired of coming in second. When did this life become so complicated?”

It used to be so simple for me just to respond, “Happiness is a choice.”…. but what I failed to notice—and what my friend reminded me of-- is that happiness is also a journey. All of us have experienced that emotional weight on our shoulders that attempts to push us to our knees. All of us—whether fat, thin, rich, poor, military, or civilian—have felt trapped, alone, and out of options-- the fear of change to daunting; the fear of disappointing those we love to overwhelming. But what we missed—is that happiness does not have to be a simple black and white equation. Sometimes you need to walk in the gray to see the blessings that surround you—find joy in your children, seek out advance degrees, plan pretend weddings every summer (even if you have to tell your boss, “Dude… I am Irish. We reproduce like rabbits. Not my fault that I have 87 cousins”), and accept the fact that we would never notice or appreciate true joy if we never experienced adversity.

Happiness IS a voyage, not a destination. So today I am reminding all my friends—military or civilian-- to sit back and enjoy the ride. Dig in for the up hills, coast along the down hills, change the things you are willing and able to, and accept those that you can not. And always remember… there is only one person ultimately responsible for your happiness…. And that is you. Don’t waste it being afraid of the meaningful journey.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

The starting line

It was a thousand degrees last Thursday—well more like the 500th day of over 100 degree temps (I have a tendency to exaggerate)—and I found myself doing the geographical single mom dance all over San Antonio. I started grad school the night before, and as usual I was “one of five thousand” whose blackboard accounts was “having technical difficulties”. I needed to be downtown to get the IT issue fixed (problems with technology require me to physically hand over my laptop and admit that I am clueless), take my daughter to swim lessons, pick up my other daughter from volleyball tryouts, drop my son off at soccer, and somewhere find the time to feed them all dinner (apparently, telling kids to go forage for food is not an appropriate response in this century). I was seriously starting to feel the pressure of life—and it was only week one of the back-to-school insanity. I still needed to work, write, do my homework, make sure that someone fed the dog, run, and get the kids to all their bajillion activities. Piece of cake, right? Wrong.

Somewhere in the middle of all of this self-inflicted chaos I forgot to take time and breathe. My youngest had just started kindergarten, and I did the usual snap-a-photo-for-the-scrapbook-that-I-will-never-have-time-to-get-to and sprinted home to start my work. Life was starting to revolve at an alarming rate, and it became clear to me—that although hopping off the wild ride was not an option continuing at the breakneck pace would probably eventually kill me. Heck, I learned early on in my running days that life was more like a marathon than a sprint, and you had better pace yourself accordingly.

Glancing at my kids (through the rearview mirror as I sped down I-35), I realized that all moments—even the ones that pass by in the rush of a tornado need to be treasured. Sometimes it is when life is at its busiest—when we don’t have the time to take three kids to the SeaWorld on a moment’s notice—that we really appreciate how lucky we are. Yes, it would be nice to turn on the TV and figure out if ER is still on the air, but it has to be more amazing knowing that my family has dreams—including me!—and we are all doing everything possible to make those goals a reality. I may not have time to cook elaborate meals or guarantee that we have hit every food group in every meal… but heck, that’s what V8 juice is all about. Life is a wild ride, and sometimes it takes stepping out of your comfort zone to realize that every breath we take is a gift from heaven. And to those who dare questioned the mad skills of an Army Wife, I can only say this…. Army Wives don’t stop when they are tired. They stop when they are done.
(It may not be Nora Roberts... but I can't wait to get started!)

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Together we stand

For those who follow my blog, you may recall me mentioning a dear friend, Alison. Ali has been an inspiration to me, as she is a seasoned Army Wife with FOUR deployments under her belt, and is probably the only truly honest Army Wife friend that I have. Picture a librarian/stripper, and you have a visual of Ali. She is sassy, smart, loveable, and as of Friday…. Alone again. Deployment number five is looming in the foreground, and I wish I could say that Ali is handling it with all of the grace and poise of the ‘suffer-in-silence’ Army Wife, but the truth is, Ali is devastated.

Families like Alison’s have been put through the ringer, and although the Army has made great strides to improve the services available to families in crisis, there is still so much work to be done. Services need to be made more readily available to children, Military Wives need to have access to better counseling—not just medication--, and deployments NEED to be shortened to under a year. Military families across this great nation are broken and hurting, and this isn’t something that can be quickly fixed by some hot welcome-home-sex and a trip to Disney World. The hurt, bitterness, and isolation cuts deep, and my heart breaks for all that Ali will have to once again endure.

People are always asking me, “What’s the secret to success? How have you, the woman who has more red flags tagging her sanity than an after-Christmas sale at Walmart, managed to beat the odds?” And the answer is this: I haven’t beaten anything yet—I just continuously fight. A war can threaten to take your humanity—but it will never break your soul. So stand resolute.

Today, I want to shout out to Ali, my broken-hearted-friend , who is once again asked to walk through the fire of a deployment. Take time for yourself, never apologize for feeling pain, try not to blame your husband for this arduous journey you navigate, and know that I am here for you. Always. America owes more to you than it will ever fully realize, and I have to believe with all of my heart that in the end, these sacrifices you have made will be worth it. And remember, I am just an airplane ride away, and can be there in a heartbeat. Today, I am making a promise to Ali, and to all the military wives who are spending this weekend alone, that I have an ear to listen and a heart to bleed-- so contact me if you need to. Someday I hope to plop down in the sand next to you, give you a hug, hand you a glass, uncork a bottle and announce, “Friend--I am here for you. Dinner is poured.”
(The face of strength)

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Perspective

Today I did two pull-ups on my kid’s overpriced Rainbow swing set. I dangled from the bright yellow bars, pulled up with all my strength—and miraculously, I lifted my chin (amongst my screams of, “Witnesses…. I NEED A WITNESS HERE!”) over my hands. I was thrilled, and immediately dropped to do the victory booty dance with my 5 yr old (she will do the booty dance for just about anything, and I am positive that she wasn’t the least bit interested in my new found bicep-super-power). I, on the other hand, was over-the-top excited. You see, in 1998, during one spring-break-gone-bad, I had a bit of a skiing accident and shattered my shoulder into about a bajillion pieces. Obviously, it has never been the same since, and it seemed that no matter how strong I became, or how much I lifted… I could never manage to do a pull up. Over the years, I kind of accepted that I would never be able to do THAT one aspect of physical fitness…. and frankly, never really cared… until 6 months ago, when I hired a personal trainer. I told him that I wanted to be able to do a pull up (AND out-plank any man who dared challenge me), and we started seriously working on it. Over the past 6 months, I flipped tires, lifted weights, probably did AT LEAST ten thousand pushups, and lifted more heavy objects then I thought was humanly possible. Six months later--amongst much popping and creaking noises in my damaged shoulder—I hoisted my chin above that bar. Success!

Was my arm suddenly healed? Nope. Does it still give me pain if I bump it against the refrigerator door (which seems to happen EVERY Monday morning)? Yes. Will it ever be like the pre-ski-jump shoulder of 1998? Nope. But that’s ok—sometimes being victorious has nothing to do with trying to surpass your all-time-best. The past is the past—and until Michael J. Fox shows up with his Delorian on my driveway, there is no hope that I could ever erase that accident. But what I can do—what we all should do—is realize that success is all about perspective. Yes, I could have had the ability to lift Volvos if I hadn’t gone off that ski jump in Killington, Vermont, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t celebrate the fact that I just displayed epic strength with a shoulder that is held together with pins and screws. Heck, if I have learned anything from being an Army Wife it is this: Sometimes you have to win a few battles before you can the win war. And I refuse to lose the war. Failure just isn’t in my vocabulary.

Two weeks ago, my husband returned home from that war. My inbox, facebook, and phone were filled with well wishes, and everyone was waiting for the romantic story of the reunion of the century. The Lifetime Channel (which frankly, should be banned from all female viewers) loves to display homecomings as this honeymoon where the soldier walks into the kitchen , everyone squeals in surprise (but ironically has hair and makeup perfect), and they hop right back into their pre-deployment life. But that’s the point I am trying to make here- you can never go backwards in life— you can’t pretend that a deployment never happened and you can’t bottle up all the emotions that a year of separation, worry, war, and a foreign country has left swimming around your soul. But what you can do is face them head on. Tackle those issues, find strength in your weaknesses, and celebrate the small victories of life. All it takes, is a little change of perspective, a deep breath, and a never-going-to-quit attitude. And I have that. Piece of cake. Heck, by next week I will be doing three pull ups--- the only difference is Jim will be swinging from the bar next to me. (And for those who are wondering…. I am 100% positive I could out plank him in a heart beat).
(Total bad ass, right??)

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Lost and Found

Last Friday night, I did a fundraiser at San Antonio’s monthly pub run. I drove downtown, threw on a red text-to-donate- t-shirt, grabbed an empty beer pitcher, and hit up the drunken crowd for cash donations for Soldiers’ Angels. There were five of us working the crowd, and we definitely had a great time ‘working’… and sipping a Hurricane… but mainly working… (you know, when we weren’t sipping the Hurricane). My friends were amazing, and it was my first time seeing any of them since Jim had arrived home from Iraq. I could tell instantly that they were a little uncomfortable around me— the husband who had only been in photos for the past two years had suddenly appeared and no one was sure where exactly this left them. Would I still go out with the pack? Would I start inviting everyone over for movie night and greet them at the door wearing slippers and a sweater vest? Would I be pregnant by September and trade in my new kick-ass Jetta for a minivan?

I tried to act normal—you know, questionably-sane-Army-Wife normal-- gave everyone hugs and made my usual smart ass comments. I passed out fliers for our upcoming races, sprinted against people from bar to bar, and smiled from ear to ear. You see, being with my friends felt normal. I was comfortable around them—they were safe—and I could be myself (without worrying that they would throw me into jail for ‘borrowing’ some Mardi Gras beads from Pat O’Brians.). I knew exactly where I stood with them (heck, they were wearing ‘borrowed’ Mardi Gras beads too). For two years, my friends had supported and loved me unconditionally—even when my husband could not— and I knew that I could never repay them in a million years. What they gave me was priceless, and I considered them my family.

Later that night—after the traditional post-pub-run- Mexican-meal- of-heartburn—my friends and I walked to my car. Monica, Craig, and I strolled to the River Center Parking garage where we had dropped off our vehicles earlier that evening. It was getting late, and I was ready to crash (and more importantly, shower—it was still over 100 degrees outside), and I didn’t want to be out late knowing that Jim was waiting at home. I walked in to the steamy garage, trekked up to the third level, and searched for my car…. Only it wasn’t there. At first it was funny, Craig declared that my new car, affectingly named Vespa Whilfflebottom (VW for short), was playing hide and seek (she was a baby after all), and we all laughed and looked for the ‘baby’… checking levels two and four just to be on the safe side. It took about fifteen minutes until we realized that Vespa, my new barely paid-for-Jetta, was MIA…. And I started to go all questionably-sane-Army-Wife-Crazy.

After much discussion, gazing over the concrete slab, taking note of landmarks, and pretending that we had the ability to navigate via the stars we FINALLY came to the conclusion that THIS River Center Parking Garage was the WRONG River Center Parking Garage. And like the true family that my friends had become, they escorted me to the OTHER River Center Parking Garage to where Vespa sat patiently , just waiting to take me home.
(River Center Parking Garage #2 is just like River Center Parking Garage #1.... only different. And down the street. And now missing a few $20 to park signs)


And that’s the lesson here. True friends point you home—even when you are scared, out of your comfort zone, and a little lost. The Monica’s, Craigs’s, Loren’s, and Toby’s of our lives are God’s way of taking care of us, and I know for a fact, that the friends I have encountered on this journey were placed there to help guide me in the direction that I needed to be going. Last Friday, my friends stayed with me until my lost car was found, and one by one they all hugged me and whispered that everything was going to be ok. Jim would heal, he would adapt to life again in the US, and we would learn to navigate a new life together. It may be different, but how could it not be—war changes us all—but it also teaches us to appreciate-- and to love with all of our hearts--the true blessings that are placed in front of us. And I am blessed.

There is the family you are born with, and the family you choose… and I choose all of my red-shirt-co-conspirators.
(The Red Shirt Family)

Monday, August 1, 2011

The End- The Beginning

Today was the day that I had been anticipating for the past twelve months. The call came through to my cell, land line, text message, and email (the Army really didn’t want me to miss THIS one) that “my soldier’s flight is tentatively scheduled to arrive within 72 hours to Ft Hood.” The message took my breath away.

When the call came through, I was just playing a board game with the kids at my parent’s ranch, all four of us sprawled out on the bedroom carpet like cats basking in the sun. It was a Sunday afternoon, and the sky was crystal clear—not a cloud marred the Texas horizon, and I suddenly remembered noticing the very same sky twelve months ago when he hoisted that duffle bag onto his shoulder and walked out of our lives. Twelve months. Seven thousand miles. Heartaches. Life lessons. Growth. Pain. So much had changed-- heck, there are days when I barely recognize the reflection in the mirror—but the view of life, whether it is through a bedroom window in South Texas or through the window to my soul, remained unchanged. We had survived—maybe broken and bleeding, but we were both still standing.

I wish I could say I hung up the phone and did cartwheels around the room while whooping it up, but that’s not how it happened. I quietly hung up the phone, walked silently to the bathroom, turned the faucet on high, lowered myself to the edge of the tub, and cried. A year of heartache was finally over, and with it came tears of joy, relief, gratitude, and grief over all we had lost and all we were forced to gain.

I am not the same woman that he left. I no longer believe in ‘Happily Ever After’, my heart bleeds for the wounded soldiers, and I no longer bring a casserole to the grieving widows home (I come armed with vodka). I say things as I see them, I refuse to kiss anyone’s ass—regardless if there is a clover leaf pinned on their shoulder or not—and I no longer ever apologize for being me.

Twelve months ago, I was forced to learn how to stand on my own two feet again—like a baby learning to walk, I had to learn how to carry my family through this war. And I did. I went back to school, I learned how to be two places at once, I held my children close during their nightmares, and I allowed my friends to hold me upright when the fear threatened to drown me. I learned that true strength has nothing to do with how many burdens you can shoulder, but rather how you can still live a life of purpose and joy while juggling the weight of the world. Sometimes, the secret to strength is looking fear straight into the eye, smiling like a bad ass, and faking bravery really well.

Jim returns to us in 72 short hours, but it will be a new life that we will have to navigate together. The journey of a deployment does not end with the homecoming—that’s only the beginning. And thank God, I am blessed enough to have my soldier return home unharmed. In 72 hours, I will be standing on the tarmac waiting for the troops to arrive, just watching the other spouses of the 3rd ACR. I may not know many by name, but I will be able to pick them out instantly in the crowd. THEY are the ones stronger then steel. THEY are the ones tougher than a hungry street fighter. THEY are the ones braver than a condemned saint. THEY are the ones who can break a Reeses Peanut butter Cup into three pieces, and eat only one. And I am not surprised one bit—after all, it takes ALL of that to be an Army Wife… and more.
("Between the wish and the thing called life, lies waiting.")

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Fear Not.

Pathological fears are best defined as those fears that fall out of the normal and ‘healthy’ realm of anxiety. Frankly, I never really understood how any anxiety could be defined as beneficial—but my army-appointed- shrink explained it this way to me, “Amy without healthy anxiety you would be even MORE prone to do stupid stuff… and I would be forced to start seeing you at least twice a week.” And let’s face it…. Only the REALLY crazy Army Wives are seen twice a week.

As far as I know, I only have two concernable pathological fears: heights and mice. Now, the fear of heights is a pretty common phobia, and one that tragically resulted when my parents placed me on a questionably-safe rollercoaster at a travelling carnival (OSHA who?). The rollercoaster broke down with me at the tippy top as my ‘concerned’ family looked on and giggled (definite proof that my parents loved my brother more). I was probably between the ages of 4-7, and I can remember having to hold the hand of a complete stranger as I climbed the rickety stairs/ladder contraption to safety. It shook and rattled in the wind, and scared the living daylights out of me. From that day on, I tend to struggle with all things elevated—airplanes, ladders, glass elevators --even piggy back rides on really tall people.

The second fear, rodents, I have absolutely no explanation for. Nothing traumatic happened to me during my childhood that rodent-scarred me for life—no foggy memories of cute fuzzy mice barring their fangs or leaping on to my face to eat me. In fact, I read Beatrix Potter, Ralph S. Mouse, and Stuart Little as young girl, and even had the typical rite-of-passage-gerbil (which I forgot to feed like every good American child and held a full blown military style funeral when it passed (it’s name was Sir Lancelot).) Even with this normal rodent-exposed upbringing…. I still (and for no reason, whatsoever) go into an absolute panic at the site of a mouse-- one that usually involves me climbing the curtains and fearing that I somehow contracted the bubonic plague just by looking into their little beady mouse eyes. (And yes, pink eyes freak me out the MOST!).

The only thing worse than catching a visual, is the thought of setting a trap. THAT really sets me into a tail spin, where I sweat, get nauseated, and in extreme situation (such as when a creepy attic is involved) break out into hives. Now, I know what you are thinking: What in the Sam-Hell does this have to do with being an Army Wife?? And the answer is simple: it is at those moments in life when you are at your absolute weakest—like when your husband has been on a business trip to the desert for the past 11 months and you discover that a demon mouse is living rent-free in the attic-- that life likes to throw the irrational-fear-monkey-wrench straight at your heart. My mama always said, “Amy, there are snakes in paradise just waiting for you to show fear.” And she is right. Deployments force us to reach out of our comfort zone, and tackle the projects that we would be more than willing to let our ‘other half’ tackle—but they can’t. They are 7000 miles away. And you are on your own. Heck, a deployment may cause only one person to be missing from your life, but it doesn’t stop the feeling that everyone in the world has suddenly left you.

Deployments—during time of demon mouse invasions or whatever your pathological fear entails-- leaves you with only one option. Rely on yourself, and tackle those horrors—whether mice, heights, or the anxiety ridden thoughts of ‘what if’ before they consume you. After all, you can’t be brave unless you are first afraid, and I have yet to find anything more frightening then the thought of having to do EVERYTHING in this life alone. And let’s be honest, sometimes the mere act of living takes more courage, strength, and will power than we ever believed we possessed.

So what am I doing tonight? The answer should be obvious: I am crawling up into the attic in my little J Crew dress, black heels, and one intimidating-bad-ass headlamp, and setting 500 snap traps ALL OVER my attic. I know that this will require a shot of vodka to complete, and I will probably have my best friend on hold (just so someone will be aware if don’t make it back… and will call the cops before I am carried off by starving coyotes). Yes, I have a mouse in my attic. Yes, I am totally freaking out by the thought of this. Yes, I am on my own to deal with this little blood-thirsty-beast. And yes, this biatch has messed with the wrong Army Wife. It’s time to pretend that I can handle ANYTHING on the homefront. And I can.
It’s time to kick some serious mouse ass. Hasta La Vista Baby.