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)